Pride and Prejudice

Pride and Prejudice
By Jane Austen
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Chapter 1
I t is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in

possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
However little known the feelings or views of such a man
may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is
so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that
he is considered the rightful property of some one or other
of their daughters.
‘My dear Mr. Bennet,’ said his lady to him one day, ‘have
you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?’
Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.
‘But it is,’ returned she; ‘for Mrs. Long has just been here,
and she told me all about it.’
Mr. Bennet made no answer.
‘Do you not want to know who has taken it?’ cried his
wife impatiently.
‘YOU want to tell me, and I have no objection to hear-
ing it.’
This was invitation enough.
‘Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that
Netherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune from
the north of England; that he came down on Monday in a
chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted
with it, that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that
he is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his
Pride and Prejudice

servants are to be in the house by the end of next week.’
‘What is his name?’
‘Bingley.’
‘Is he married or single?’
‘Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large
fortune; four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for
our girls!’
‘How so? How can it affect them?’
‘My dear Mr. Bennet,’ replied his wife, ‘how can you be
so tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his mar-
rying one of them.’
‘Is that his design in settling here?’
‘Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very
likely that he MAY fall in love with one of them, and there-
fore you must visit him as soon as he comes.’
‘I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or
you may send them by themselves, which perhaps will be
still better, for as you are as handsome as any of them, Mr.
Bingley may like you the best of the party.’
‘My dear, you flatter me. I certainly HAVE had my share
of beauty, but I do not pretend to be anything extraordi-
nary now. When a woman has five grown-up daughters, she
ought to give over thinking of her own beauty.’
‘In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to
think of.’
‘But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley
when he comes into the neighbourhood.’
‘It is more than I engage for, I assure you.’
‘But consider your daughters. Only think what an estab-
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lishment it would be for one of them. Sir William and Lady
Lucas are determined to go, merely on that account, for in
general, you know, they visit no newcomers. Indeed you
must go, for it will be impossible for US to visit him if you
do not.’
‘You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bing-
ley will be very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines
by you to assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying
whichever he chooses of the girls; though I must throw in a
good word for my little Lizzy.’
‘I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better
than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome
as Jane, nor half so good-humoured as Lydia. But you are
always giving HER the preference.’
‘They have none of them much to recommend them,’ re-
plied he; ‘they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but
Lizzy has something more of quickness than her sisters.’
‘Mr. Bennet, how CAN you abuse your own children in
such a way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no
compassion for my poor nerves.’
‘You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your
nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention
them with consideration these last twenty years at least.’
Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sar-
castic humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of
three-and-twenty years had been insufficient to make his
wife understand his character. HER mind was less difficult
to develop. She was a woman of mean understanding, little
information, and uncertain temper. When she was discon-
Pride and Prejudice

tented, she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life
was to get her daughters married; its solace was visiting and
news.

Chapter 2
M r. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited

on Mr. Bingley. He had always intended to visit him,
though to the last always assuring his wife that he should
not go; and till the evening after the visit was paid she had
no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following
manner. Observing his second daughter employed in trim-
ming a hat, he suddenly addressed her with:
‘I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.’
‘We are not in a way to know WHAT Mr. Bingley likes,’
said her mother resentfully, ‘since we are not to visit.’
‘But you forget, mamma,’ said Elizabeth, ‘that we shall
meet him at the assemblies, and that Mrs. Long promised
to introduce him.’
‘I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She
has two nieces of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical
woman, and I have no opinion of her.’
‘No more have I,’ said Mr. Bennet; ‘and I am glad to find
that you do not depend on her serving you.’
Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply, but, unable
to contain herself, began scolding one of her daughters.
‘Don’t keep coughing so, Kitty, for Heaven’s sake! Have a
little compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.’
‘Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,’ said her father;
‘she times them ill.’
Pride and Prejudice

‘I do not cough for my own amusement,’ replied Kitty
fretfully. ‘When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?’
‘To-morrow fortnight.’
‘Aye, so it is,’ cried her mother, ‘and Mrs. Long does not
come back till the day before; so it will be impossible for her
to introduce him, for she will not know him herself.’
‘Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your
friend, and introduce Mr. Bingley to HER.’
‘Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not ac-
quainted with him myself; how can you be so teasing?’
‘I honour your circumspection. A fortnight’s acquain-
tance is certainly very little. One cannot know what a man
really is by the end of a fortnight. But if WE do not ven-
ture somebody else will; and after all, Mrs. Long and her
daughters must stand their chance; and, therefore, as she
will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I
will take it on myself.’
The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only,
‘Nonsense, nonsense!’
‘What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?’
cried he. ‘Do you consider the forms of introduction, and
the stress that is laid on them, as nonsense? I cannot quite
agree with you THERE. What say you, Mary? For you are a
young lady of deep reflection, I know, and read great books
and make extracts.’
Mary wished to say something sensible, but knew not
how.
‘While Mary is adjusting her ideas,’ he continued, ‘let us
return to Mr. Bingley.’

‘I am sick of Mr. Bingley,’ cried his wife.
‘I am sorry to hear THAT; but why did not you tell me
that before? If I had known as much this morning I certain-
ly would not have called on him. It is very unlucky; but as I
have actually paid the visit, we cannot escape the acquain-
tance now.’
The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished;
that of Mrs. Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though,
when the first tumult of joy was over, she began to declare
that it was what she had expected all the while.
‘How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew
I should persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls
too well to neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased
I am! and it is such a good joke, too, that you should have
gone this morning and never said a word about it till now.’
‘Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,’ said
Mr. Bennet; and, as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with
the raptures of his wife.
‘What an excellent father you have, girls!’ said she, when
the door was shut. ‘I do not know how you will ever make
him amends for his kindness; or me, either, for that matter.
At our time of life it is not so pleasant, I can tell you, to be
making new acquaintances every day; but for your sakes,
we would do anything. Lydia, my love, though you ARE the
youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the
next ball.’
‘Oh!’ said Lydia stoutly, ‘I am not afraid; for though I AM
the youngest, I’m the tallest.’
The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how
Pride and Prejudice

soon he would return Mr. Bennet’s visit, and determining
when they should ask him to dinner.

Chapter 3
N ot all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of

her five daughters, could ask on the subject, was suffi-
cient to draw from her husband any satisfactory description
of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him in various ways—with
barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and distant
surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all, and they were
at last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of
their neighbour, Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favour-
able. Sir William had been delighted with him. He was quite
young, wonderfully handsome, extremely agreeable, and, to
crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly with a
large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of
dancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very
lively hopes of Mr. Bingley’s heart were entertained.
‘If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at
Netherfield,’ said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, ‘and all the
others equally well married, I shall have nothing to wish
for.’
In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet’s visit,
and sat about ten minutes with him in his library. He had
entertained hopes of being admitted to a sight of the young
ladies, of whose beauty he had heard much; but he saw only
the father. The ladies were somewhat more fortunate, for
they had the advantage of ascertaining from an upper win-
10 Pride and Prejudice

dow that he wore a blue coat, and rode a black horse.
An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched;
and already had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were
to do credit to her housekeeping, when an answer arrived
which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley was obliged to be in town
the following day, and, consequently, unable to accept the
honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite dis-
concerted. She could not imagine what business he could
have in town so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and
she began to fear that he might be always flying about from
one place to another, and never settled at Netherfield as he
ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a little by starting
the idea of his being gone to London only to get a large par-
ty for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley
was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him
to the assembly. The girls grieved over such a number of la-
dies, but were comforted the day before the ball by hearing,
that instead of twelve he brought only six with him from
London—his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party
entered the assembly room it consisted of only five altogeth-
er—Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest,
and another young man.
Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he
had a pleasant countenance, and easy, unaffected man-
ners. His sisters were fine women, with an air of decided
fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely looked the
gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the atten-
tion of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features,
noble mien, and the report which was in general circula-
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tion within five minutes after his entrance, of his having
ten thousand a year. The gentlemen pronounced him to
be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he was much
handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with
great admiration for about half the evening, till his man-
ners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his popularity;
for he was discovered to be proud; to be above his company,
and above being pleased; and not all his large estate in Der-
byshire could then save him from having a most forbidding,
disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be com-
pared with his friend.
Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all
the principal people in the room; he was lively and unre-
served, danced every dance, was angry that the ball closed
so early, and talked of giving one himself at Netherfield.
Such amiable qualities must speak for themselves. What
a contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced
only once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, de-
clined being introduced to any other lady, and spent the rest
of the evening in walking about the room, speaking occa-
sionally to one of his own party. His character was decided.
He was the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world,
and everybody hoped that he would never come there
again. Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Ben-
net, whose dislike of his general behaviour was sharpened
into particular resentment by his having slighted one of her
daughters.
Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of
gentlemen, to sit down for two dances; and during part of

that time, Mr. Darcy had been standing near enough for her
to hear a conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who
came from the dance for a few minutes, to press his friend
to join it.
‘Come, Darcy,’ said he, ‘I must have you dance. I hate to
see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner.
You had much better dance.’
‘I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless
I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an
assembly as this it would be insupportable. Your sisters are
engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom
it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.’
‘I would not be so fastidious as you are,’ cried Mr. Bingley,
‘for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many
pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are
several of them you see uncommonly pretty.’
‘YOU are dancing with the only handsome girl in the
room,’ said Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.
‘Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But
there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who
is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask
my partner to introduce you.’
‘Which do you mean?’ and turning round he looked for
a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew
his own and coldly said: ‘She is tolerable, but not handsome
enough to tempt ME; I am in no humour at present to give
consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.
You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles,
for you are wasting your time with me.’

Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off;
and Elizabeth remained with no very cordial feelings to-
ward him. She told the story, however, with great spirit
among her friends; for she had a lively, playful disposition,
which delighted in anything ridiculous.
The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole
family. Mrs. Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much ad-
mired by the Netherfield party. Mr. Bingley had danced
with her twice, and she had been distinguished by his sis-
ters. Jane was as much gratified by this as her mother could
be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane’s pleasure.
Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the
most accomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Cath-
erine and Lydia had been fortunate enough never to be
without partners, which was all that they had yet learnt to
care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good spirits to
Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they
were the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still
up. With a book he was regardless of time; and on the pres-
ent occasion he had a good deal of curiosity as to the events
of an evening which had raised such splendid expectations.
He had rather hoped that his wife’s views on the stranger
would be disappointed; but he soon found out that he had a
different story to hear.
‘Oh! my dear Mr. Bennet,’ as she entered the room, ‘we
have had a most delightful evening, a most excellent ball.
I wish you had been there. Jane was so admired, noth-
ing could be like it. Everybody said how well she looked;
and Mr. Bingley thought her quite beautiful, and danced

with her twice! Only think of THAT, my dear; he actually
danced with her twice! and she was the only creature in the
room that he asked a second time. First of all, he asked Miss
Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand up with her! But,
however, he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody can,
you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was
going down the dance. So he inquired who she was, and got
introduced, and asked her for the two next. Then the two
third he danced with Miss King, and the two fourth with
Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane again, and the two
sixth with Lizzy, and the BOULANGER—‘
‘If he had had any compassion for ME,’ cried her hus-
band impatiently, ‘he would not have danced half so much!
For God’s sake, say no more of his partners. O that he had
sprained his ankle in the first place!’
‘Oh! my dear, I am quite delighted with him. He is so
excessively handsome! And his sisters are charming wom-
en. I never in my life saw anything more elegant than their
dresses. I dare say the lace upon Mrs. Hurst’s gown—‘
Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested
against any description of finery. She was therefore obliged
to seek another branch of the subject, and related, with
much bitterness of spirit and some exaggeration, the shock-
ing rudeness of Mr. Darcy.
‘But I can assure you,’ she added, ‘that Lizzy does not lose
much by not suiting HIS fancy; for he is a most disagree-
able, horrid man, not at all worth pleasing. So high and so
conceited that there was no enduring him! He walked here,
and he walked there, fancying himself so very great! Not

handsome enough to dance with! I wish you had been there,
my dear, to have given him one of your set-downs. I quite
detest the man.’

Chapter 4
W hen Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who

had been cautious in her praise of Mr. Bingley before,
expressed to her sister just how very much she admired
him.
‘He is just what a young man ought to be,’ said she, ‘sen-
sible, good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy
manners!—so much ease, with such perfect good breed-
ing!’
‘He is also handsome,’ replied Elizabeth, ‘which a young
man ought likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character
is thereby complete.’
‘I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a
second time. I did not expect such a compliment.’
‘Did not you? I did for you. But that is one great difference
between us. Compliments always take YOU by surprise,
and ME never. What could be more natural than his ask-
ing you again? He could not help seeing that you were about
five times as pretty as every other woman in the room. No
thanks to his gallantry for that. Well, he certainly is very
agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You have liked
many a stupider person.’
‘Dear Lizzy!’
‘Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people
in general. You never see a fault in anybody. All the world

are good and agreeable in your eyes. I never heard you speak
ill of a human being in your life.’
‘I would not wish to be hasty in censuring anyone; but I
always speak what I think.’
‘I know you do; and it is THAT which makes the wonder.
With YOUR good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies
and nonsense of others! Affectation of candour is common
enough—one meets with it everywhere. But to be candid
without ostentation or design—to take the good of every-
body’s character and make it still better, and say nothing of
the bad—belongs to you alone. And so you like this man’s
sisters, too, do you? Their manners are not equal to his.’
‘Certainly not—at first. But they are very pleasing women
when you converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with
her brother, and keep his house; and I am much mistaken if
we shall not find a very charming neighbour in her.’
Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced;
their behaviour at the assembly had not been calculated
to please in general; and with more quickness of observa-
tion and less pliancy of temper than her sister, and with a
judgement too unassailed by any attention to herself, she
was very little disposed to approve them. They were in fact
very fine ladies; not deficient in good humour when they
were pleased, nor in the power of making themselves agree-
able when they chose it, but proud and conceited. They were
rather handsome, had been educated in one of the first pri-
vate seminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand
pounds, were in the habit of spending more than they ought,
and of associating with people of rank, and were therefore

in every respect entitled to think well of themselves, and
meanly of others. They were of a respectable family in the
north of England; a circumstance more deeply impressed
on their memories than that their brother’s fortune and
their own had been acquired by trade.
Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly
a hundred thousand pounds from his father, who had in-
tended to purchase an estate, but did not live to do it. Mr.
Bingley intended it likewise, and sometimes made choice of
his county; but as he was now provided with a good house
and the liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of those
who best knew the easiness of his temper, whether he might
not spend the remainder of his days at Netherfield, and
leave the next generation to purchase.
His sisters were anxious for his having an estate of his
own; but, though he was now only established as a tenant,
Miss Bingley was by no means unwilling to preside at his
table—nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had married a man of more
fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider his house as
her home when it suited her. Mr. Bingley had not been of
age two years, when he was tempted by an accidental rec-
ommendation to look at Netherfield House. He did look at
it, and into it for half-an-hour—was pleased with the situa-
tion and the principal rooms, satisfied with what the owner
said in its praise, and took it immediately.
Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friend-
ship, in spite of great opposition of character. Bingley was
endeared to Darcy by the easiness, openness, and ductility
of his temper, though no disposition could offer a great-

er contrast to his own, and though with his own he never
appeared dissatisfied. On the strength of Darcy’s regard,
Bingley had the firmest reliance, and of his judgement the
highest opinion. In understanding, Darcy was the superior.
Bingley was by no means deficient, but Darcy was clever. He
was at the same time haughty, reserved, and fastidious, and
his manners, though well-bred, were not inviting. In that
respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley was
sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was con-
tinually giving offense.
The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assem-
bly was sufficiently characteristic. Bingley had never met
with more pleasant people or prettier girls in his life; every-
body had been most kind and attentive to him; there had
been no formality, no stiffness; he had soon felt acquainted
with all the room; and, as to Miss Bennet, he could not con-
ceive an angel more beautiful. Darcy, on the contrary, had
seen a collection of people in whom there was little beauty
and no fashion, for none of whom he had felt the smallest
interest, and from none received either attention or plea-
sure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty, but she
smiled too much.
Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so—but still
they admired her and liked her, and pronounced her to be
a sweet girl, and one whom they would not object to know
more of. Miss Bennet was therefore established as a sweet
girl, and their brother felt authorized by such commenda-
tion to think of her as he chose.

Chapter 5
W ithin a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with

whom the Bennets were particularly intimate. Sir Wil-
liam Lucas had been formerly in trade in Meryton, where
he had made a tolerable fortune, and risen to the honour of
knighthood by an address to the king during his mayoralty.
The distinction had perhaps been felt too strongly. It had
given him a disgust to his business, and to his residence in
a small market town; and, in quitting them both, he had
removed with his family to a house about a mile from Mery-
ton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge, where he
could think with pleasure of his own importance, and, un-
shackled by business, occupy himself solely in being civil to
all the world. For, though elated by his rank, it did not ren-
der him supercilious; on the contrary, he was all attention
to everybody. By nature inoffensive, friendly, and obliging,
his presentation at St. James’s had made him courteous.
Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too
clever to be a valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had
several children. The eldest of them, a sensible, intelligent
young woman, about twenty-seven, was Elizabeth’s inti-
mate friend.
That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet
to talk over a ball was absolutely necessary; and the morn-
ing after the assembly brought the former to Longbourn to

hear and to communicate.
‘YOU began the evening well, Charlotte,’ said Mrs. Ben-
net with civil self-command to Miss Lucas. ‘YOU were Mr.
Bingley’s first choice.’
‘Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.’
‘Oh! you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with
her twice. To be sure that DID seem as if he admired her—
indeed I rather believe he DID—I heard something about
it—but I hardly know what—something about Mr. Robin-
son.’
‘Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr.
Robinson; did not I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson’s ask-
ing him how he liked our Meryton assemblies, and whether
he did not think there were a great many pretty women in
the room, and WHICH he thought the prettiest? and his
answering immediately to the last question: ‘Oh! the eldest
Miss Bennet, beyond a doubt; there cannot be two opinions
on that point.’’
‘Upon my word! Well, that is very decided indeed—that
does seem as if—but, however, it may all come to nothing,
you know.’
‘MY overhearings were more to the purpose than YOURS,
Eliza,’ said Charlotte. ‘Mr. Darcy is not so well worth lis-
tening to as his friend, is he?—poor Eliza!—to be only just
TOLERABLE.’
‘I beg you would not put it into Lizzy’s head to be vexed
by his ill-treatment, for he is such a disagreeable man, that
it would be quite a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long
told me last night that he sat close to her for half-an-hour

without once opening his lips.’
‘Are you quite sure, ma’am?—is not there a little mistake?’
said Jane. ‘I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her.’
‘Aye—because she asked him at last how he liked Nether-
field, and he could not help answering her; but she said he
seemed quite angry at being spoke to.’
‘Miss Bingley told me,’ said Jane, ‘that he never speaks
much, unless among his intimate acquaintances. With
THEM he is remarkably agreeable.’
‘I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so
very agreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I
can guess how it was; everybody says that he is eat up with
pride, and I dare say he had heard somehow that Mrs. Long
does not keep a carriage, and had come to the ball in a hack
chaise.’
‘I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,’ said Miss
Lucas, ‘but I wish he had danced with Eliza.’
‘Another time, Lizzy,’ said her mother, ‘I would not dance
with HIM, if I were you.’
‘I believe, ma’am, I may safely promise you NEVER to
dance with him.’
‘His pride,’ said Miss Lucas, ‘does not offend ME so much
as pride often does, because there is an excuse for it. One
cannot wonder that so very fine a young man, with fam-
ily, fortune, everything in his favour, should think highly
of himself. If I may so express it, he has a RIGHT to be
proud.’
‘That is very true,’ replied Elizabeth, ‘and I could easily
forgive HIS pride, if he had not mortified MINE.’

‘Pride,’ observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the so-
lidity of her reflections, ‘is a very common failing, I believe.
By all that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very
common indeed; that human nature is particularly prone
to it, and that there are very few of us who do not cherish
a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some quality
or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different
things, though the words are often used synonymously. A
person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more
to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have
others think of us.’
‘If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,’ cried a young Lucas, who
came with his sisters, ‘I should not care how proud I was. I
would keep a pack of foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine
a day.’
‘Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,’
said Mrs. Bennet; ‘and if I were to see you at it, I should take
away your bottle directly.’
The boy protested that she should not; she continued to
declare that she would, and the argument ended only with
the visit.

Chapter 6
T he ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Neth-

erfield. The visit was soon returned in due form. Miss
Bennet’s pleasing manners grew on the goodwill of Mrs.
Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was found
to be intolerable, and the younger sisters not worth speak-
ing to, a wish of being better acquainted with THEM was
expressed towards the two eldest. By Jane, this attention
was received with the greatest pleasure, but Elizabeth still
saw superciliousness in their treatment of everybody, hard-
ly excepting even her sister, and could not like them; though
their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value as arising
in all probability from the influence of their brother’s ad-
miration. It was generally evident whenever they met, that
he DID admire her and to HER it was equally evident that
Jane was yielding to the preference which she had begun to
entertain for him from the first, and was in a way to be very
much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it was
not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since
Jane united, with great strength of feeling, a composure of
temper and a uniform cheerfulness of manner which would
guard her from the suspicions of the impertinent. She men-
tioned this to her friend Miss Lucas.
‘It may perhaps be pleasant,’ replied Charlotte, ‘to be able
to impose on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes

a disadvantage to be so very guarded. If a woman conceals
her affection with the same skill from the object of it, she
may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and it will then be
but poor consolation to believe the world equally in the
dark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost ev-
ery attachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We
can all BEGIN freely—a slight preference is natural enough;
but there are very few of us who have heart enough to be re-
ally in love without encouragement. In nine cases out of ten
a women had better show MORE affection than she feels.
Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may never do
more than like her, if she does not help him on.’
‘But she does help him on, as much as her nature will
allow. If I can perceive her regard for him, he must be a sim-
pleton, indeed, not to discover it too.’
‘Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane’s disposi-
tion as you do.’
‘But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeav-
our to conceal it, he must find it out.’
‘Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But, though
Bingley and Jane meet tolerably often, it is never for many
hours together; and, as they always see each other in large
mixed parties, it is impossible that every moment should
be employed in conversing together. Jane should therefore
make the most of every half-hour in which she can com-
mand his attention. When she is secure of him, there will be
more leisure for falling in love as much as she chooses.’
‘Your plan is a good one,’ replied Elizabeth, ‘where noth-
ing is in question but the desire of being well married, and

if I were determined to get a rich husband, or any husband,
I dare say I should adopt it. But these are not Jane’s feel-
ings; she is not acting by design. As yet, she cannot even be
certain of the degree of her own regard nor of its reason-
ableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced
four dances with him at Meryton; she saw him one morn-
ing at his own house, and has since dined with him in
company four times. This is not quite enough to make her
understand his character.’
‘Not as you represent it. Had she merely DINED with
him, she might only have discovered whether he had a good
appetite; but you must remember that four evenings have
also been spent together—and four evenings may do a great
deal.’
‘Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain
that they both like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but
with respect to any other leading characteristic, I do not
imagine that much has been unfolded.’
‘Well,’ said Charlotte, ‘I wish Jane success with all my
heart; and if she were married to him to-morrow, I should
think she had as good a chance of happiness as if she were to
be studying his character for a twelvemonth. Happiness in
marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If the dispositions
of the parties are ever so well known to each other or ever
so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in
the least. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike
afterwards to have their share of vexation; and it is better to
know as little as possible of the defects of the person with
whom you are to pass your life.’

‘You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You
know it is not sound, and that you would never act in this
way yourself.’
Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley’s attentions to her
sister, Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was her-
self becoming an object of some interest in the eyes of
his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely allowed her to
be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the
ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criti-
cise. But no sooner had he made it clear to himself and his
friends that she hardly had a good feature in her face, than
he began to find it was rendered uncommonly intelligent
by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To this dis-
covery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though
he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure of
perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowl-
edge her figure to be light and pleasing; and in spite of his
asserting that her manners were not those of the fashion-
able world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of this
she was perfectly unaware; to her he was only the man who
made himself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought
her handsome enough to dance with.
He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step
towards conversing with her himself, attended to her con-
versation with others. His doing so drew her notice. It was
at Sir William Lucas’s, where a large party were assembled.
‘What does Mr. Darcy mean,’ said she to Charlotte, ‘by
listening to my conversation with Colonel Forster?’
‘That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.’

‘But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know
that I see what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and
if I do not begin by being impertinent myself, I shall soon
grow afraid of him.’
On his approaching them soon afterwards, though with-
out seeming to have any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas
defied her friend to mention such a subject to him; which
immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she turned to
him and said:
‘Did you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself
uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel
Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?’
‘With great energy; but it is always a subject which makes
a lady energetic.’
‘You are severe on us.’
‘It will be HER turn soon to be teased,’ said Miss Lucas.
‘I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know
what follows.’
‘You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!—al-
ways wanting me to play and sing before anybody and
everybody! If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you
would have been invaluable; but as it is, I would really rather
not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hear-
ing the very best performers.’ On Miss Lucas’s persevering,
however, she added, ‘Very well, if it must be so, it must.’ And
gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy, ‘There is a fine old saying,
which everybody here is of course familiar with: ‘Keep your
breath to cool your porridge’; and I shall keep mine to swell
my song.’

Her performance was pleasing, though by no means cap-
ital. After a song or two, and before she could reply to the
entreaties of several that she would sing again, she was ea-
gerly succeeded at the instrument by her sister Mary, who
having, in consequence of being the only plain one in the
family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments,
was always impatient for display.
Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity
had given her application, it had given her likewise a pe-
dantic air and conceited manner, which would have injured
a higher degree of excellence than she had reached. Eliza-
beth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with much
more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary,
at the end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise
and gratitude by Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of her
younger sisters, who, with some of the Lucases, and two or
three officers, joined eagerly in dancing at one end of the
room.
Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such
a mode of passing the evening, to the exclusion of all con-
versation, and was too much engrossed by his thoughts to
perceive that Sir William Lucas was his neighbour, till Sir
William thus began:
‘What a charming amusement for young people this is,
Mr. Darcy! There is nothing like dancing after all. I consider
it as one of the first refinements of polished society.’
‘Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in
vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world. Ev-
ery savage can dance.’

Sir William only smiled. ‘Your friend performs delight-
fully,’ he continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the
group; ‘and I doubt not that you are an adept in the science
yourself, Mr. Darcy.’
‘You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir.’
‘Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure
from the sight. Do you often dance at St. James’s?’
‘Never, sir.’
‘Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to
the place?’
‘It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can
avoid it.’
‘You have a house in town, I conclude?’
Mr. Darcy bowed.
‘I had once had some thought of fixing in town myself—
for I am fond of superior society; but I did not feel quite
certain that the air of London would agree with Lady Lu-
cas.’
He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion
was not disposed to make any; and Elizabeth at that instant
moving towards them, he was struck with the action of do-
ing a very gallant thing, and called out to her:
‘My dear Miss Eliza, why are you not dancing? Mr. Dar-
cy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as
a very desirable partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am
sure when so much beauty is before you.’ And, taking her
hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy who, though ex-
tremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she
instantly drew back, and said with some discomposure to

Sir William:
‘Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I
entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to
beg for a partner.’
Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed
the honour of her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was deter-
mined; nor did Sir William at all shake her purpose by his
attempt at persuasion.
‘You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cru-
el to deny me the happiness of seeing you; and though this
gentleman dislikes the amusement in general, he can have
no objection, I am sure, to oblige us for one half-hour.’
‘Mr. Darcy is all politeness,’ said Elizabeth, smiling.
‘He is, indeed; but, considering the inducement, my dear
Miss Eliza, we cannot wonder at his complaisance—for who
would object to such a partner?’
Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance
had not injured her with the gentleman, and he was think-
ing of her with some complacency, when thus accosted by
Miss Bingley:
‘I can guess the subject of your reverie.’
‘I should imagine not.’
‘You are considering how insupportable it would be to
pass many evenings in this manner—in such society; and
indeed I am quite of your opinion. I was never more an-
noyed! The insipidity, and yet the noise—the nothingness,
and yet the self-importance of all those people! What would
I give to hear your strictures on them!’
‘You conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind

was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the
very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a
pretty woman can bestow.’
Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face,
and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of
inspiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy replied with great in-
trepidity:
‘Miss Elizabeth Bennet.’
‘Miss Elizabeth Bennet!’ repeated Miss Bingley. ‘I am all
astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite?—
and pray, when am I to wish you joy?’
‘That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask.
A lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration
to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you
would be wishing me joy.’
‘Nay, if you are serious about it, I shall consider the mat-
ter is absolutely settled. You will be having a charming
mother-in-law, indeed; and, of course, she will always be at
Pemberley with you.’
He listened to her with perfect indifference while she
chose to entertain herself in this manner; and as his com-
posure convinced her that all was safe, her wit flowed long.

Chapter 7
M r. Bennet’s property consisted almost entirely in an

estate of two thousand a year, which, unfortunately
for his daughters, was entailed, in default of heirs male, on
a distant relation; and their mother’s fortune, though ample
for her situation in life, could but ill supply the deficiency of
his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and had
left her four thousand pounds.
She had a sister married to a Mr. Phillips, who had been a
clerk to their father and succeeded him in the business, and
a brother settled in London in a respectable line of trade.
The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Mery-
ton; a most convenient distance for the young ladies, who
were usually tempted thither three or four times a week,
to pay their duty to their aunt and to a milliner’s shop just
over the way. The two youngest of the family, Catherine
and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions;
their minds were more vacant than their sisters’, and when
nothing better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to
amuse their morning hours and furnish conversation for
the evening; and however bare of news the country in gen-
eral might be, they always contrived to learn some from
their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both
with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia
regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole

winter, and Meryton was the headquarters.
Their visits to Mrs. Phillips were now productive of the
most interesting intelligence. Every day added something
to their knowledge of the officers’ names and connections.
Their lodgings were not long a secret, and at length they be-
gan to know the officers themselves. Mr. Phillips visited
them all, and this opened to his nieces a store of felicity un-
known before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and
Mr. Bingley’s large fortune, the mention of which gave ani-
mation to their mother, was worthless in their eyes when
opposed to the regimentals of an ensign.
After listening one morning to their effusions on this
subject, Mr. Bennet coolly observed:
‘From all that I can collect by your manner of talking,
you must be two of the silliest girls in the country. I have
suspected it some time, but I am now convinced.’
Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but
Lydia, with perfect indifference, continued to express her
admiration of Captain Carter, and her hope of seeing him
in the course of the day, as he was going the next morning
to London.
‘I am astonished, my dear,’ said Mrs. Bennet, ‘that you
should be so ready to think your own children silly. If I
wished to think slightingly of anybody’s children, it should
not be of my own, however.’
‘If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sen-
sible of it.’
‘Yes—but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.’
‘This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do

not agree. I had hoped that our sentiments coincided in ev-
ery particular, but I must so far differ from you as to think
our two youngest daughters uncommonly foolish.’
‘My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to
have the sense of their father and mother. When they get
to our age, I dare say they will not think about officers any
more than we do. I remember the time when I liked a red
coat myself very well—and, indeed, so I do still at my heart;
and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a
year, should want one of my girls I shall not say nay to him;
and I thought Colonel Forster looked very becoming the
other night at Sir William’s in his regimentals.’
‘Mamma,’ cried Lydia, ‘my aunt says that Colonel Forster
and Captain Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson’s as
they did when they first came; she sees them now very often
standing in Clarke’s library.’
Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance
of the footman with a note for Miss Bennet; it came from
Netherfield, and the servant waited for an answer. Mrs.
Bennet’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was eagerly
calling out, while her daughter read,
‘Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does
he say? Well, Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my
love.’
‘It is from Miss Bingley,’ said Jane, and then read it
aloud.
‘MY DEAR FRIEND,—
‘If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with
Louisa and me, we shall be in danger of hating each other

for the rest of our lives, for a whole day’s tete-a-tete between
two women can never end without a quarrel. Come as soon
as you can on receipt of this. My brother and the gentlemen
are to dine with the officers.—Yours ever,
‘CAROLINE BINGLEY.’
‘With the officers!’ cried Lydia. ‘I wonder my aunt did not
tell us of THAT.’
‘Dining out,’ said Mrs. Bennet, ‘that is very unlucky.’
‘Can I have the carriage?’ said Jane.
‘No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it
seems likely to rain; and then you must stay all night.’
‘That would be a good scheme,’ said Elizabeth, ‘if you
were sure that they would not offer to send her home.’
‘Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley’s chaise to
go to Meryton, and the Hursts have no horses to theirs.’
‘I had much rather go in the coach.’
‘But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am
sure. They are wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are they
not?’
‘They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can
get them.’
‘But if you have got them to-day,’ said Elizabeth, ‘my
mother’s purpose will be answered.’
She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment
that the horses were engaged. Jane was therefore obliged to
go on horseback, and her mother attended her to the door
with many cheerful prognostics of a bad day. Her hopes
were answered; Jane had not been gone long before it rained
hard. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was

delighted. The rain continued the whole evening without
intermission; Jane certainly could not come back.
‘This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!’ said Mrs. Bennet
more than once, as if the credit of making it rain were all
her own. Till the next morning, however, she was not aware
of all the felicity of her contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely
over when a servant from Netherfield brought the following
note for Elizabeth:
‘MY DEAREST LIZZY,—
‘I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is

to be imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind
friends will not hear of my returning till I am better. They
insist also on my seeing Mr. Jones—therefore do not be
alarmed if you should hear of his having been to me—and,
excepting a sore throat and headache, there is not much the
matter with me.—Yours, etc.’
‘Well, my dear,’ said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had

read the note aloud, ‘if your daughter should have a dan-
gerous fit of illness—if she should die, it would be a comfort
to know that it was all in pursuit of Mr. Bingley, and under
your orders.’
‘Oh! I am not afraid of her dying. People do not die of
little trifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long
as she stays there, it is all very well. I would go an see her if
I could have the carriage.’
Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go

to her, though the carriage was not to be had; and as she was
no horsewoman, walking was her only alternative. She de-
clared her resolution.
‘How can you be so silly,’ cried her mother, ‘as to think
of such a thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen
when you get there.’
‘I shall be very fit to see Jane—which is all I want.’
‘Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,’ said her father, ‘to send for
the horses?’
‘No, indeed, I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance
is nothing when one has a motive; only three miles. I shall
be back by dinner.’
‘I admire the activity of your benevolence,’ observed
Mary, ‘but every impulse of feeling should be guided by
reason; and, in my opinion, exertion should always be in
proportion to what is required.’
‘We will go as far as Meryton with you,’ said Catherine
and Lydia. Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three
young ladies set off together.
‘If we make haste,’ said Lydia, as they walked along, ‘per-
haps we may see something of Captain Carter before he
goes.’
In Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to
the lodgings of one of the officers’ wives, and Elizabeth con-
tinued her walk alone, crossing field after field at a quick
pace, jumping over stiles and springing over puddles with
impatient activity, and finding herself at last within view of
the house, with weary ankles, dirty stockings, and a face
glowing with the warmth of exercise.

She was shown into the breakfast-parlour, where all but
Jane were assembled, and where her appearance created a
great deal of surprise. That she should have walked three
miles so early in the day, in such dirty weather, and by her-
self, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley;
and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in contempt
for it. She was received, however, very politely by them; and
in their brother’s manners there was something better than
politeness; there was good humour and kindness. Mr. Dar-
cy said very little, and Mr. Hurst nothing at all. The former
was divided between admiration of the brilliancy which
exercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as to the
occasion’s justifying her coming so far alone. The latter was
thinking only of his breakfast.
Her inquiries after her sister were not very favourably
answered. Miss Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was
very feverish, and not well enough to leave her room. Eliz-
abeth was glad to be taken to her immediately; and Jane,
who had only been withheld by the fear of giving alarm or
inconvenience from expressing in her note how much she
longed for such a visit, was delighted at her entrance. She
was not equal, however, to much conversation, and when
Miss Bingley left them together, could attempt little besides
expressions of gratitude for the extraordinary kindness she
was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended her.
When breakfast was over they were joined by the sisters;
and Elizabeth began to like them herself, when she saw how
much affection and solicitude they showed for Jane. The
apothecary came, and having examined his patient, said,

as might be supposed, that she had caught a violent cold,
and that they must endeavour to get the better of it; advised
her to return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The
advice was followed readily, for the feverish symptoms in-
creased, and her head ached acutely. Elizabeth did not quit
her room for a moment; nor were the other ladies often ab-
sent; the gentlemen being out, they had, in fact, nothing to
do elsewhere.
When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must
go, and very unwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her
the carriage, and she only wanted a little pressing to accept
it, when Jane testified such concern in parting with her, that
Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer of the chaise
to an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the present.
Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was
dispatched to Longbourn to acquaint the family with her
stay and bring back a supply of clothes.

Chapter 8
A t five o’clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half-

past six Elizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the
civil inquiries which then poured in, and amongst which
she had the pleasure of distinguishing the much superior
solicitude of Mr. Bingley’s, she could not make a very fa-
vourable answer. Jane was by no means better. The sisters,
on hearing this, repeated three or four times how much
they were grieved, how shocking it was to have a bad cold,
and how excessively they disliked being ill themselves; and
then thought no more of the matter: and their indifference
towards Jane when not immediately before them restored
Elizabeth to the enjoyment of all her former dislike.
Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party
whom she could regard with any complacency. His anxi-
ety for Jane was evident, and his attentions to herself most
pleasing, and they prevented her feeling herself so much an
intruder as she believed she was considered by the others.
She had very little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley
was engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so; and
as for Mr. Hurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he was an indolent
man, who lived only to eat, drink, and play at cards; who,
when he found her to prefer a plain dish to a ragout, had
nothing to say to her.
When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and

Miss Bingley began abusing her as soon as she was out of
the room. Her manners were pronounced to be very bad
indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence; she had no
conversation, no style, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst thought the
same, and added:
‘She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being
an excellent walker. I shall never forget her appearance this
morning. She really looked almost wild.’
‘She did, indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my coun-
tenance. Very nonsensical to come at all! Why must SHE
be scampering about the country, because her sister had a
cold? Her hair, so untidy, so blowsy!’
‘Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six
inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown
which had been let down to hide it not doing its office.’
‘Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,’ said Bingley;
‘but this was all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Ben-
net looked remarkably well when she came into the room
this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice.’
‘YOU observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,’ said Miss Bing-
ley; ‘and I am inclined to think that you would not wish to
see YOUR sister make such an exhibition.’
‘Certainly not.’
‘To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or what-
ever it is, above her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone!
What could she mean by it? It seems to me to show an
abominable sort of conceited independence, a most coun-
try-town indifference to decorum.’
‘It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,’

said Bingley.
‘I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,’ observed Miss Bingley in a half
whisper, ‘that this adventure has rather affected your admi-
ration of her fine eyes.’
‘Not at all,’ he replied; ‘they were brightened by the ex-
ercise.’ A short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst
began again:
‘I have a excessive regard for Miss Jane Bennet, she is re-
ally a very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were
well settled. But with such a father and mother, and such
low connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it.’
‘I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attor-
ney on Meryton.’
‘Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near
Cheapside.’
‘That is capital,’ added her sister, and they both laughed
heartily.
‘If they had uncles enough to fill ALL Cheapside,’ cried
Bingley, ‘it would not make them one jot less agreeable.’
‘But it must very materially lessen their chance of marry-
ing men of any consideration in the world,’ replied Darcy.
To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters
gave it their hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for
some time at the expense of their dear friend’s vulgar rela-
tions.
With a renewal of tenderness, however, they returned to
her room on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her
till summoned to coffee. She was still very poorly, and Eliz-
abeth would not quit her at all, till late in the evening, when

she had the comfort of seeing her sleep, and when it seemed
to her rather right than pleasant that she should go down-
stairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found
the whole party at loo, and was immediately invited to join
them; but suspecting them to be playing high she declined
it, and making her sister the excuse, said she would amuse
herself for the short time she could stay below, with a book.
Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.
‘Do you prefer reading to cards?’ said he; ‘that is rather
singular.’
‘Miss Eliza Bennet,’ said Miss Bingley, ‘despises cards.
She is a great reader, and has no pleasure in anything else.’
‘I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,’ cried
Elizabeth; ‘I am NOT a great reader, and I have pleasure in
many things.’
‘In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,’ said
Bingley; ‘and I hope it will be soon increased by seeing her
quite well.’
Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked
towards the table where a few books were lying. He im-
mediately offered to fetch her others—all that his library
afforded.
‘And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and
my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have
not many, I have more than I ever looked into.’
Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfect-
ly with those in the room.
‘I am astonished,’ said Miss Bingley, ‘that my father
should have left so small a collection of books. What a de-

lightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!’
‘It ought to be good,’ he replied, ‘it has been the work of
many generations.’
‘And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are
always buying books.’
‘I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in
such days as these.’
‘Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to
the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build
YOUR house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pem-
berley.’
‘I wish it may.’
‘But I would really advise you to make your purchase in
that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of mod-
el. There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire.’
‘With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy
will sell it.’
‘I am talking of possibilities, Charles.’
‘Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible
to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation.’
Elizabeth was so much caught with what passed, as to
leave her very little attention for her book; and soon laying
it wholly aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed
herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe
the game.
‘Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?’ said Miss
Bingley; ‘will she be as tall as I am?’
‘I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Ben-
net’s height, or rather taller.’

‘How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody
who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such man-
ners! And so extremely accomplished for her age! Her
performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.’
‘It is amazing to me,’ said Bingley, ‘how young ladies can
have patience to be so very accomplished as they all are.’
‘All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what
do you mean?’
‘Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover
screens, and net purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot
do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken
of for the first time, without being informed that she was
very accomplished.’
‘Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,’ said
Darcy, ‘has too much truth. The word is applied to many
a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a
purse or covering a screen. But I am very far from agreeing
with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot
boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen, in the whole
range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished.’
‘Nor I, I am sure,’ said Miss Bingley.
‘Then,’ observed Elizabeth, ‘you must comprehend a
great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman.’
‘Yes, I do comprehend a great deal in it.’
‘Oh! certainly,’ cried his faithful assistant, ‘no one can be
really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass
what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough
knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the
modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this,

she must possess a certain something in her air and manner
of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expres-
sions, or the word will be but half-deserved.’
‘All this she must possess,’ added Darcy, ‘and to all this
she must yet add something more substantial, in the im-
provement of her mind by extensive reading.’
‘I am no longer surprised at your knowing ONLY six ac-
complished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing
ANY.’
‘Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the pos-
sibility of all this?’
‘I never saw such a woman. I never saw such capacity,
and taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe
united.’
Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the
injustice of her implied doubt, and were both protesting
that they knew many women who answered this descrip-
tion, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with bitter
complaints of their inattention to what was going forward.
As all conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon
afterwards left the room.
‘Elizabeth Bennet,’ said Miss Bingley, when the door was
closed on her, ‘is one of those young ladies who seek to rec-
ommend themselves to the other sex by undervaluing their
own; and with many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my
opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ replied Darcy, to whom this remark was
chiefly addressed, ‘there is a meanness in ALL the arts
which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captiva-

tion. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable.’
Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply
as to continue the subject.
Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister
was worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley urged
Mr. Jones being sent for immediately; while his sisters,
convinced that no country advice could be of any service,
recommended an express to town for one of the most emi-
nent physicians. This she would not hear of; but she was not
so unwilling to comply with their brother’s proposal; and
it was settled that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the
morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better. Bingley
was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they were
miserable. They solaced their wretchedness, however, by
duets after supper, while he could find no better relief to his
feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that ev-
ery attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister.

Chapter 9
E lizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister’s room,

and in the morning had the pleasure of being able to
send a tolerable answer to the inquiries which she very early
received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid, and some time
afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his
sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she request-
ed to have a note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother
to visit Jane, and form her own judgement of her situation.
The note was immediately dispatched, and its contents as
quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her
two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the fam-
ily breakfast.
Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Ben-
net would have been very miserable; but being satisfied on
seeing her that her illness was not alarming, she had no
wish of her recovering immediately, as her restoration to
health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She
would not listen, therefore, to her daughter’s proposal of be-
ing carried home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived
about the same time, think it at all advisable. After sitting
a little while with Jane, on Miss Bingley’s appearance and
invitation, the mother and three daughter all attended her
into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes
that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than

she expected.
‘Indeed I have, sir,’ was her answer. ‘She is a great deal too
ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving
her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness.’
‘Removed!’ cried Bingley. ‘It must not be thought of. My
sister, I am sure, will not hear of her removal.’
‘You may depend upon it, Madam,’ said Miss Bingley,
with cold civility, ‘that Miss Bennet will receive every pos-
sible attention while she remains with us.’
Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.
‘I am sure,’ she added, ‘if it was not for such good friends
I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill
indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest pa-
tience in the world, which is always the way with her, for she
has, without exception, the sweetest temper I have ever met
with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to HER.
You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming
prospect over the gravel walk. I do not know a place in the
country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of
quitting it in a hurry, I hope, though you have but a short
lease.’
‘Whatever I do is done in a hurry,’ replied he; ‘and there-
fore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably
be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself
as quite fixed here.’
‘That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,’ said
Elizabeth.
‘You begin to comprehend me, do you?’ cried he, turning
towards her.

‘Oh! yes—I understand you perfectly.’
‘I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so
easily seen through I am afraid is pitiful.’
‘That is as it happens. It does not follow that a deep, in-
tricate character is more or less estimable than such a one
as yours.’
‘Lizzy,’ cried her mother, ‘remember where you are, and
do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to
do at home.’
‘I did not know before,’ continued Bingley immediately,
‘that your were a studier of character. It must be an amus-
ing study.’
‘Yes, but intricate characters are the MOST amusing.
They have at least that advantage.’
‘The country,’ said Darcy, ‘can in general supply but a few
subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you
move in a very confined and unvarying society.’
‘But people themselves alter so much, that there is some-
thing new to be observed in them for ever.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his man-
ner of mentioning a country neighbourhood. ‘I assure you
there is quite as much of THAT going on in the country as
in town.’
Everybody was surprised, and Darcy, after looking at her
for a moment, turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fan-
cied she had gained a complete victory over him, continued
her triumph.
‘I cannot see that London has any great advantage over
the country, for my part, except the shops and public places.

The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is it not, Mr. Bingley?’
‘When I am in the country,’ he replied, ‘I never wish to
leave it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same.
They have each their advantages, and I can be equally happy
in either.’
‘Aye—that is because you have the right disposition. But
that gentleman,’ looking at Darcy, ‘seemed to think the
country was nothing at all.’
‘Indeed, Mamma, you are mistaken,’ said Elizabeth,
blushing for her mother. ‘You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He
only meant that there was not such a variety of people to be
met with in the country as in the town, which you must ac-
knowledge to be true.’
‘Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not
meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe
there are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with
four-and-twenty families.’
Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley
to keep his countenance. His sister was less delicate, and
directed her eyes towards Mr. Darcy with a very expressive
smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of saying something that might
turn her mother’s thoughts, now asked her if Charlotte Lu-
cas had been at Longbourn since HER coming away.
‘Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agree-
able man Sir William is, Mr. Bingley, is not he? So much
the man of fashion! So genteel and easy! He had always
something to say to everybody. THAT is my idea of good
breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very im-
portant, and never open their mouths, quite mistake the

matter.’
‘Did Charlotte dine with you?’
‘No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about
the mince-pies. For my part, Mr. Bingley, I always keep ser-
vants that can do their own work; MY daughters are brought
up very differently. But everybody is to judge for themselves,
and the Lucases are a very good sort of girls, I assure you. It
is a pity they are not handsome! Not that I think Charlotte
so VERY plain—but then she is our particular friend.’
‘She seems a very pleasant young woman.’
‘Oh! dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady
Lucas herself has often said so, and envied me Jane’s beauty.
I do not like to boast of my own child, but to be sure, Jane—
one does not often see anybody better looking. It is what
everybody says. I do not trust my own partiality. When she
was only fifteen, there was a man at my brother Gardin-
er’s in town so much in love with her that my sister-in-law
was sure he would make her an offer before we came away.
But, however, he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young.
However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they
were.’
‘And so ended his affection,’ said Elizabeth impatiently.
‘There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same
way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in
driving away love!’
‘I have been used to consider poetry as the FOOD of love,’
said Darcy.
‘Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourish-
es what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort

of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will
starve it entirely away.’
Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued
made Elizabeth tremble lest her mother should be expos-
ing herself again. She longed to speak, but could think of
nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs. Bennet be-
gan repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness
to Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy.
Mr. Bingley was unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced
his younger sister to be civil also, and say what the occa-
sion required. She performed her part indeed without much
graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and soon after-
wards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest
of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been
whispering to each other during the whole visit, and the
result of it was, that the youngest should tax Mr. Bingley
with having promised on his first coming into the country
to give a ball at Netherfield.
Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine
complexion and good-humoured countenance; a favourite
with her mother, whose affection had brought her into pub-
lic at an early age. She had high animal spirits, and a sort
of natural self-consequence, which the attention of the of-
ficers, to whom her uncle’s good dinners, and her own easy
manners recommended her, had increased into assurance.
She was very equal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the
subject of the ball, and abruptly reminded him of his prom-
ise; adding, that it would be the most shameful thing in the
world if he did not keep it. His answer to this sudden attack

was delightful to their mother’s ear:
‘I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engage-
ment; and when your sister is recovered, you shall, if you
please, name the very day of the ball. But you would not
wish to be dancing when she is ill.’
Lydia declared herself satisfied. ‘Oh! yes—it would be
much better to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most
likely Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when
you have given YOUR ball,’ she added, ‘I shall insist on their
giving one also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a
shame if he does not.’
Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Eliz-
abeth returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her
relations’ behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and
Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, could not be pre-
vailed on to join in their censure of HER, in spite of all Miss
Bingley’s witticisms on FINE EYES.

Chapter 10
T he day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs.

Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the
morning with the invalid, who continued, though slowly,
to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined their party in
the drawing-room. The loo-table, however, did not appear.
Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him,
was watching the progress of his letter and repeatedly call-
ing off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and
Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing
their game.
Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently
amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his
companion. The perpetual commendations of the lady, ei-
ther on his handwriting, or on the evenness of his lines, or
on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with
which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue,
and was exactly in union with her opinion of each.
‘How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a let-
ter!’
He made no answer.
‘You write uncommonly fast.’
‘You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.’
‘How many letters you must have occasion to write in
the course of a year! Letters of business, too! How odious I

should think them!’
‘It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of
yours.’
‘Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.’
‘I have already told her so once, by your desire.’
‘I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for
you. I mend pens remarkably well.’
‘Thank you—but I always mend my own.’
‘How can you contrive to write so even?’
He was silent.
‘Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improve-
ment on the harp; and pray let her know that I am quite in
raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I
think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley’s.’
‘Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write
again? At present I have not room to do them justice.’
‘Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January.
But do you always write such charming long letters to her,
Mr. Darcy?’
‘They are generally long; but whether always charming it
is not for me to determine.’
‘It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long
letter with ease, cannot write ill.’
‘That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,’
cried her brother, ‘because he does NOT write with ease.
He studies too much for words of four syllables. Do not you,
Darcy?’
‘My style of writing is very different from yours.’
‘Oh!’ cried Miss Bingley, ‘Charles writes in the most care-

less way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots
the rest.’
‘My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express
them—by which means my letters sometimes convey no
ideas at all to my correspondents.’
‘Your humility, Mr. Bingley,’ said Elizabeth, ‘must dis-
arm reproof.’
‘Nothing is more deceitful,’ said Darcy, ‘than the appear-
ance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion,
and sometimes an indirect boast.’
‘And which of the two do you call MY little recent piece
of modesty?’
‘The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your de-
fects in writing, because you consider them as proceeding
from a rapidity of thought and carelessness of execution,
which, if not estimable, you think at least highly interest-
ing. The power of doing anything with quickness is always
prized much by the possessor, and often without any atten-
tion to the imperfection of the performance. When you told
Mrs. Bennet this morning that if you ever resolved upon
quitting Netherfield you should be gone in five minutes,
you meant it to be a sort of panegyric, of compliment to
yourself—and yet what is there so very laudable in a pre-
cipitance which must leave very necessary business undone,
and can be of no real advantage to yourself or anyone else?’
‘Nay,’ cried Bingley, ‘this is too much, to remember at
night all the foolish things that were said in the morning.
And yet, upon my honour, I believe what I said of myself to
be true, and I believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I

did not assume the character of needless precipitance mere-
ly to show off before the ladies.’
‘I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means con-
vinced that you would be gone with such celerity. Your
conduct would be quite as dependent on chance as that of
any man I know; and if, as you were mounting your horse,
a friend were to say, ‘Bingley, you had better stay till next
week,’ you would probably do it, you would probably not
go—and at another word, might stay a month.’
‘You have only proved by this,’ cried Elizabeth, ‘that Mr.
Bingley did not do justice to his own disposition. You have
shown him off now much more than he did himself.’
‘I am exceedingly gratified,’ said Bingley, ‘by your con-
verting what my friend says into a compliment on the
sweetness of my temper. But I am afraid you are giving it
a turn which that gentleman did by no means intend; for
he would certainly think better of me, if under such a cir-
cumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as
I could.’
‘Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your
original intentions as atoned for by your obstinacy in ad-
hering to it?’
‘Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter;
Darcy must speak for himself.’
‘You expect me to account for opinions which you choose
to call mine, but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing
the case, however, to stand according to your representa-
tion, you must remember, Miss Bennet, that the friend who
is supposed to desire his return to the house, and the delay

of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering
one argument in favour of its propriety.’
‘To yield readily—easily—to the PERSUASION of a
friend is no merit with you.’
‘To yield without conviction is no compliment to the un-
derstanding of either.’
‘You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the
influence of friendship and affection. A regard for the re-
quester would often make one readily yield to a request,
without waiting for arguments to reason one into it. I am
not particularly speaking of such a case as you have sup-
posed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till
the circumstance occurs before we discuss the discretion of
his behaviour thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases
between friend and friend, where one of them is desired by
the other to change a resolution of no very great moment,
should you think ill of that person for complying with the
desire, without waiting to be argued into it?’
‘Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this sub-
ject, to arrange with rather more precision the degree of
importance which is to appertain to this request, as well as
the degree of intimacy subsisting between the parties?’
‘By all means,’ cried Bingley; ‘let us hear all the particu-
lars, not forgetting their comparative height and size; for
that will have more weight in the argument, Miss Bennet,
than you may be aware of. I assure you, that if Darcy were
not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with myself, I
should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do
not know a more awful object than Darcy, on particular

occasions, and in particular places; at his own house espe-
cially, and of a Sunday evening, when he has nothing to do.’
Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could per-
ceive that he was rather offended, and therefore checked her
laugh. Miss Bingley warmly resented the indignity he had
received, in an expostulation with her brother for talking
such nonsense.
‘I see your design, Bingley,’ said his friend. ‘You dislike
an argument, and want to silence this.’
‘Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If
you and Miss Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the
room, I shall be very thankful; and then you may say what-
ever you like of me.’
‘What you ask,’ said Elizabeth, ‘is no sacrifice on my side;
and Mr. Darcy had much better finish his letter.’
Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.
When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley
and Elizabeth for an indulgence of some music. Miss Bing-
ley moved with some alacrity to the pianoforte; and, after a
polite request that Elizabeth would lead the way which the
other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she seated
herself.
Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus
employed, Elizabeth could not help observing, as she turned
over some music-books that lay on the instrument, how fre-
quently Mr. Darcy’s eyes were fixed on her. She hardly knew
how to suppose that she could be an object of admiration to
so great a man; and yet that he should look at her because he
disliked her, was still more strange. She could only imagine,

however, at last that she drew his notice because there was
something more wrong and reprehensible, according to his
ideas of right, than in any other person present. The suppo-
sition did not pain her. She liked him too little to care for
his approbation.
After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the
charm by a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy,
drawing near Elizabeth, said to her:
‘Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize
such an opportunity of dancing a reel?’
She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the ques-
tion, with some surprise at her silence.
‘Oh!’ said she, ‘I heard you before, but I could not im-
mediately determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I
know, to say ‘Yes,’ that you might have the pleasure of de-
spising my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing those
kind of schemes, and cheating a person of their premedi-
tated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell
you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all—and now de-
spise me if you dare.’
‘Indeed I do not dare.’
Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was
amazed at his gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweet-
ness and archness in her manner which made it difficult for
her to affront anybody; and Darcy had never been so be-
witched by any woman as he was by her. He really believed,
that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he
should be in some danger.
Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and

her great anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane
received some assistance from her desire of getting rid of
Elizabeth.
She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest,
by talking of their supposed marriage, and planning his
happiness in such an alliance.
‘I hope,’ said she, as they were walking together in the
shrubbery the next day, ‘you will give your mother-in-law
a few hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the
advantage of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it,
do sure the younger girls of running after officers. And, if I
may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to check that
little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence,
which your lady possesses.’
‘Have you anything else to propose for my domestic fe-
licity?’
‘Oh! yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Phil-
lips be placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to
your great-uncle the judge. They are in the same profession,
you know, only in different lines. As for your Elizabeth’s
picture, you must not have it taken, for what painter could
do justice to those beautiful eyes?’
‘It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression,
but their colour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remark-
ably fine, might be copied.’
At that moment they were met from another walk by
Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth herself.
‘I did not know that you intended to walk,’ said Miss
Bingley, in some confusion, lest they had been overheard.

‘You used us abominably ill,’ answered Mrs. Hurst, ‘run-
ning away without telling us that you were coming out.’
Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left
Elizabeth to walk by herself. The path just admitted three.
Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness, and immediately said:
‘This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had bet-
ter go into the avenue.’
But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to re-
main with them, laughingly answered:
‘No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped,
and appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque
would be spoilt by admitting a fourth. Good-bye.’
She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in
the hope of being at home again in a day or two. Jane was
already so much recovered as to intend leaving her room for
a couple of hours that evening.

Chapter 11
W hen the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran

up to her sister, and seeing her well guarded from
cold, attended her into the drawing-room, where she was
welcomed by her two friends with many professions of plea-
sure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable as they
were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen
appeared. Their powers of conversation were considerable.
They could describe an entertainment with accuracy, relate
an anecdote with humour, and laugh at their acquaintance
with spirit.
But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the
first object; Miss Bingley’s eyes were instantly turned to-
ward Darcy, and she had something to say to him before
he had advanced many steps. He addressed himself to Miss
Bennet, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst also made
her a slight bow, and said he was ‘very glad;’ but diffuseness
and warmth remained for Bingley’s salutation. He was full
of joy and attention. The first half-hour was spent in piling
up the fire, lest she should suffer from the change of room;
and she removed at his desire to the other side of the fire-
place, that she might be further from the door. He then sat
down by her, and talked scarcely to anyone else. Elizabeth,
at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great delight.
When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law

of the card-table—but in vain. She had obtained private in-
telligence that Mr. Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr.
Hurst soon found even his open petition rejected. She as-
sured him that no one intended to play, and the silence of
the whole party on the subject seemed to justify her. Mr.
Hurst had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch himself
on one of the sofas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book;
Miss Bingley did the same; and Mrs. Hurst, principally oc-
cupied in playing with her bracelets and rings, joined now
and then in her brother’s conversation with Miss Bennet.
Miss Bingley’s attention was quite as much engaged in
watching Mr. Darcy’s progress through HIS book, as in
reading her own; and she was perpetually either making
some inquiry, or looking at his page. She could not win him,
however, to any conversation; he merely answered her ques-
tion, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt
to be amused with her own book, which she had only cho-
sen because it was the second volume of his, she gave a great
yawn and said, ‘How pleasant it is to spend an evening in
this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment like read-
ing! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book!
When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I
have not an excellent library.’
No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw
aside her book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest
for some amusement; when hearing her brother mention-
ing a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him
and said:
‘By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating

a dance at Netherfield? I would advise you, before you de-
termine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I
am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom
a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure.’
‘If you mean Darcy,’ cried her brother, ‘he may go to bed,
if he chooses, before it begins—but as for the ball, it is quite
a settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup
enough, I shall send round my cards.’
‘I should like balls infinitely better,’ she replied, ‘if they
were carried on in a different manner; but there is some-
thing insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a
meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversa-
tion instead of dancing were made the order of the day.’
‘Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it
would not be near so much like a ball.’
Miss Bingley made no answer, and soon afterwards
she got up and walked about the room. Her figure was el-
egant, and she walked well; but Darcy, at whom it was all
aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation of
her feelings, she resolved on one effort more, and, turning
to Elizabeth, said:
‘Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my ex-
ample, and take a turn about the room. I assure you it is
very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude.’
Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediate-
ly. Miss Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her
civility; Mr. Darcy looked up. He was as much awake to
the novelty of attention in that quarter as Elizabeth her-
self could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was

directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, ob-
serving that he could imagine but two motives for their
choosing to walk up and down the room together, with
either of which motives his joining them would interfere.
‘What could he mean? She was dying to know what could
be his meaning?’—and asked Elizabeth whether she could
at all understand him?
‘Not at all,’ was her answer; ‘but depend upon it, he means
to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him
will be to ask nothing about it.’
Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing
Mr. Darcy in anything, and persevered therefore in requir-
ing an explanation of his two motives.
‘I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,’
said he, as soon as she allowed him to speak. ‘You either
choose this method of passing the evening because you are
in each other’s confidence, and have secret affairs to dis-
cuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear
to the greatest advantage in walking; if the first, I would be
completely in your way, and if the second, I can admire you
much better as I sit by the fire.’
‘Oh! shocking!’ cried Miss Bingley. ‘I never heard any-
thing so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a
speech?’
‘Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,’ said
Elizabeth. ‘We can all plague and punish one another. Tease
him—laugh at him. Intimate as you are, you must know
how it is to be done.’
‘But upon my honour, I do NOT. I do assure you that my

intimacy has not yet taught me THAT. Tease calmness of
manner and presence of mind! No, no—feel he may defy
us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves,
if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr.
Darcy may hug himself.’
‘Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!’ cried Elizabeth. ‘That
is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will
continue, for it would be a great loss to ME to have many
such acquaintances. I dearly love a laugh.’
‘Miss Bingley,’ said he, ‘has given me more credit than
can be. The wisest and the best of men—nay, the wisest and
best of their actions—may be rendered ridiculous by a per-
son whose first object in life is a joke.’
‘Certainly,’ replied Elizabeth—‘there are such people,
but I hope I am not one of THEM. I hope I never ridicule
what is wise and good. Follies and nonsense, whims and
inconsistencies, DO divert me, I own, and I laugh at them
whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are precisely what you
are without.’
‘Perhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has been
the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often
expose a strong understanding to ridicule.’
‘Such as vanity and pride.’
‘Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride—where there
is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under
good regulation.’
Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.
‘Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,’ said
Miss Bingley; ‘and pray what is the result?’

‘I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no de-
fect. He owns it himself without disguise.’
‘No,’ said Darcy, ‘I have made no such pretension. I have
faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding.
My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little
yielding—certainly too little for the convenience of the
world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of other so soon
as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings
are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My
temper would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion
once lost, is lost forever.’
‘THAT is a failing indeed!’ cried Elizabeth. ‘Implacable
resentment IS a shade in a character. But you have chosen
your fault well. I really cannot LAUGH at it. You are safe
from me.’
‘There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to
some particular evil—a natural defect, which not even the
best education can overcome.’
‘And YOUR defect is to hate everybody.’
‘And yours,’ he replied with a smile, ‘is willfully to mis-
understand them.’
‘Do let us have a little music,’ cried Miss Bingley, tired of
a conversation in which she had no share. ‘Louisa, you will
not mind my waking Mr. Hurst?’
Her sister had not the smallest objection, and the pi-
anoforte was opened; and Darcy, after a few moments’
recollection, was not sorry for it. He began to feel the dan-
ger of paying Elizabeth too much attention.

Chapter 12
I n consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Eliza-

beth wrote the next morning to their mother, to beg that
the carriage might be sent for them in the course of the day.
But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on her daughters re-
maining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which
would exactly finish Jane’s week, could not bring herself to
receive them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore,
was not propitious, at least not to Elizabeth’s wishes, for
she was impatient to get home. Mrs. Bennet sent them word
that they could not possibly have the carriage before Tues-
day; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley
and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare
them very well. Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth
was positively resolved—nor did she much expect it would
be asked; and fearful, on the contrary, as being considered
as intruding themselves needlessly long, she urged Jane to
borrow Mr. Bingley’s carriage immediately, and at length it
was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield
that morning should be mentioned, and the request made.
The communication excited many professions of con-
cern; and enough was said of wishing them to stay at least
till the following day to work on Jane; and till the morrow
their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was then sorry that
she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike of

one sister much exceeded her affection for the other.
The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they
were to go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss
Bennet that it would not be safe for her—that she was not
enough recovered; but Jane was firm where she felt herself
to be right.
To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence—Elizabeth
had been at Netherfield long enough. She attracted him
more than he liked—and Miss Bingley was uncivil to HER,
and more teasing than usual to himself. He wisely resolved
to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration should
NOW escape him, nothing that could elevate her with the
hope of influencing his felicity; sensible that if such an idea
had been suggested, his behaviour during the last day must
have material weight in confirming or crushing it. Steady
to his purpose, he scarcely spoke ten words to her through
the whole of Saturday, and though they were at one time left
by themselves for half-an-hour, he adhered most conscien-
tiously to his book, and would not even look at her.
On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so
agreeable to almost all, took place. Miss Bingley’s civility to
Elizabeth increased at last very rapidly, as well as her affec-
tion for Jane; and when they parted, after assuring the latter
of the pleasure it would always give her to see her either
at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most ten-
derly, she even shook hands with the former. Elizabeth took
leave of the whole party in the liveliest of spirits.
They were not welcomed home very cordially by their
mother. Mrs. Bennet wondered at their coming, and thought

them very wrong to give so much trouble, and was sure Jane
would have caught cold again. But their father, though very
laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really glad to see
them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The
evening conversation, when they were all assembled, had
lost much of its animation, and almost all its sense by the
absence of Jane and Elizabeth.
They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough-
bass and human nature; and had some extracts to admire,
and some new observations of threadbare morality to listen
to. Catherine and Lydia had information for them of a dif-
ferent sort. Much had been done and much had been said in
the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the
officers had dined lately with their uncle, a private had been
flogged, and it had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster
was going to be married.

Chapter 13
‘I hope, my dear,’ said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were

at breakfast the next morning, ‘that you have ordered a
good dinner to-day, because I have reason to expect an ad-
dition to our family party.’
‘Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is
coming, I am sure, unless Charlotte Lucas should happen
to call in—and I hope MY dinners are good enough for her.
I do not believe she often sees such at home.’
‘The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a strang-
er.’
Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled. ‘A gentleman and a strang-
er! It is Mr. Bingley, I am sure! Well, I am sure I shall be
extremely glad to see Mr. Bingley. But—good Lord! how
unlucky! There is not a bit of fish to be got to-day. Lydia, my
love, ring the bell—I must speak to Hill this moment.’
‘It is NOT Mr. Bingley,’ said her husband; ‘it is a person
whom I never saw in the whole course of my life.’
This roused a general astonishment; and he had the plea-
sure of being eagerly questioned by his wife and his five
daughters at once.
After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he
thus explained:
‘About a month ago I received this letter; and about a
fortnight ago I answered it, for I thought it a case of some

delicacy, and requiring early attention. It is from my cousin,
Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of
this house as soon as he pleases.’
‘Oh! my dear,’ cried his wife, ‘I cannot bear to hear that
mentioned. Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think
it is the hardest thing in the world, that your estate should
be entailed away from your own children; and I am sure, if I
had been you, I should have tried long ago to do something
or other about it.’
Jane and Elizabeth tried to explain to her the nature of
an entail. They had often attempted to do it before, but it
was a subject on which Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of
reason, and she continued to rail bitterly against the cruelty
of settling an estate away from a family of five daughters, in
favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.
‘It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,’ said Mr. Bennet,
‘and nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inherit-
ing Longbourn. But if you will listen to his letter, you may
perhaps be a little softened by his manner of expressing
himself.’
‘No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think it is very im-
pertinent of him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical.
I hate such false friends. Why could he not keep on quarrel-
ing with you, as his father did before him?’
‘Why, indeed; he does seem to have had some filial scru-
ples on that head, as you will hear.’
‘Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, 15th October.
‘Dear Sir,—
‘The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my

late honoured father always gave me much uneasiness, and
since I have had the misfortune to lose him, I have frequent-
ly wished to heal the breach; but for some time I was kept
back by my own doubts, fearing lest it might seem disre-
spectful to his memory for me to be on good terms with
anyone with whom it had always pleased him to be at vari-
ance.—‘There, Mrs. Bennet.’—My mind, however, is now
made up on the subject, for having received ordination at
Easter, I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by
the patronage of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine
de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty
and beneficence has preferred me to the valuable rectory
of this parish, where it shall be my earnest endeavour to
demean myself with grateful respect towards her ladyship,
and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies
which are instituted by the Church of England. As a clergy-
man, moreover, I feel it my duty to promote and establish
the blessing of peace in all families within in the reach of
my influence; and on these grounds I flatter myself that my
present overtures are highly commendable, and that the
circumstance of my being next in the entail of Longbourn
estate will be kindly overlooked on your side, and not lead
you to reject the offered olive-branch. I cannot be other-
wise than concerned at being the means of injuring your
amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for it, as well
as to assure you of my readiness to make them every pos-
sible amends—but of this hereafter. If you should have no
objection to receive me into your house, I propose myself
the satisfaction of waiting on you and your family, Monday,

November 18th, by four o’clock, and shall probably trespass
on your hospitality till the Saturday se’ennight following,
which I can do without any inconvenience, as Lady Cath-
erine is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a
Sunday, provided that some other clergyman is engaged to
do the duty of the day.—I remain, dear sir, with respectful
compliments to your lady and daughters, your well-wisher
and friend,
‘WILLIAM COLLINS.’
‘At four o’clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-mak-
ing gentleman,’ said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter.
‘He seems to be a most conscientious and polite young
man, upon my word, and I doubt not will prove a valuable
acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so in-
dulgent as to let him come to us again.’
‘There is some sense in what he says about the girls, how-
ever, and if he is disposed to make them any amends, I shall
not be the person to discourage him.’
‘Though it is difficult,’ said Jane, ‘to guess in what way he
can mean to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the
wish is certainly to his credit.’
Elizabeth was chiefly struck by his extraordinary def-
erence for Lady Catherine, and his kind intention of
christening, marrying, and burying his parishioners when-
ever it were required.
‘He must be an oddity, I think,’ said she. ‘I cannot make
him out.—There is something very pompous in his style.—
And what can he mean by apologising for being next in the
entail?—We cannot suppose he would help it if he could.—

Could he be a sensible man, sir?’
‘No, my dear, I think not. I have great hopes of finding
him quite the reverse. There is a mixture of servility and
self-importance in his letter, which promises well. I am im-
patient to see him.’
‘In point of composition,’ said Mary, ‘the letter does not
seem defective. The idea of the olive-branch perhaps is not
wholly new, yet I think it is well expressed.’
To Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writ-
er were in any degree interesting. It was next to impossible
that their cousin should come in a scarlet coat, and it was
now some weeks since they had received pleasure from the
society of a man in any other colour. As for their mother,
Mr. Collins’s letter had done away much of her ill-will, and
she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure
which astonished her husband and daughters.
Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received
with great politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet in-
deed said little; but the ladies were ready enough to talk,
and Mr. Collins seemed neither in need of encouragement,
nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a tall, heavy-look-
ing young man of five-and-twenty. His air was grave and
stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been
long seated before he complimented Mrs. Bennet on hav-
ing so fine a family of daughters; said he had heard much of
their beauty, but that in this instance fame had fallen short
of the truth; and added, that he did not doubt her seeing
them all in due time disposed of in marriage. This gallantry
was not much to the taste of some of his hearers; but Mrs.

Bennet, who quarreled with no compliments, answered
most readily.
‘You are very kind, I am sure; and I wish with all my
heart it may prove so, for else they will be destitute enough.
Things are settled so oddly.’
‘You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.’
‘Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls,
you must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with YOU,
for such things I know are all chance in this world. There
is no knowing how estates will go when once they come to
be entailed.’
‘I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair
cousins, and could say much on the subject, but that I am
cautious of appearing forward and precipitate. But I can as-
sure the young ladies that I come prepared to admire them.
At present I will not say more; but, perhaps, when we are
better acquainted—‘
He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the
girls smiled on each other. They were not the only objects
of Mr. Collins’s admiration. The hall, the dining-room, and
all its furniture, were examined and praised; and his com-
mendation of everything would have touched Mrs. Bennet’s
heart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it
all as his own future property. The dinner too in its turn was
highly admired; and he begged to know to which of his fair
cousins the excellency of its cooking was owing. But he was
set right there by Mrs. Bennet, who assured him with some
asperity that they were very well able to keep a good cook,
and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He

begged pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone
she declared herself not at all offended; but he continued to
apologise for about a quarter of an hour.

Chapter 14
D uring dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but

when the servants were withdrawn, he thought it time
to have some conversation with his guest, and therefore
started a subject in which he expected him to shine, by ob-
serving that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady
Catherine de Bourgh’s attention to his wishes, and con-
sideration for his comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr.
Bennet could not have chosen better. Mr. Collins was elo-
quent in her praise. The subject elevated him to more than
usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important as-
pect he protested that ‘he had never in his life witnessed
such behaviour in a person of rank—such affability and
condescension, as he had himself experienced from Lady
Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to approve of
both of the discourses which he had already had the honour
of preaching before her. She had also asked him twice to
dine at Rosings, and had sent for him only the Saturday be-
fore, to make up her pool of quadrille in the evening. Lady
Catherine was reckoned proud by many people he knew,
but HE had never seen anything but affability in her. She
had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentle-
man; she made not the smallest objection to his joining in
the society of the neighbourhood nor to his leaving the par-
ish occasionally for a week or two, to visit his relations. She

had even condescended to advise him to marry as soon as
he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had once
paid him a visit in his humble parsonage, where she had
perfectly approved all the alterations he had been making,
and had even vouchsafed to suggest some herself—some
shelves in the closet upstairs.’
‘That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,’ said Mrs.
Bennet, ‘and I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a
pity that great ladies in general are not more like her. Does
she live near you, sir?’
‘The garden in which stands my humble abode is sep-
arated only by a lane from Rosings Park, her ladyship’s
residence.’
‘I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any fam-
ily?’
‘She has only one daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of
very extensive property.’
‘Ah!’ said Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, ‘then she is bet-
ter off than many girls. And what sort of young lady is she?
Is she handsome?’
‘She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Cath-
erine herself says that, in point of true beauty, Miss de
Bourgh is far superior to the handsomest of her sex, be-
cause there is that in her features which marks the young
lady of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sick-
ly constitution, which has prevented her from making that
progress in many accomplishments which she could not
have otherwise failed of, as I am informed by the lady who
superintended her education, and who still resides with

them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends
to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and po-
nies.’
‘Has she been presented? I do not remember her name
among the ladies at court.’
‘Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her
being in town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine
one day, has deprived the British court of its brightest or-
naments. Her ladyship seemed pleased with the idea; and
you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to
offer those little delicate compliments which are always ac-
ceptable to ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady
Catherine, that her charming daughter seemed born to be
a duchess, and that the most elevated rank, instead of giv-
ing her consequence, would be adorned by her. These are
the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it is a
sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound
to pay.’
‘You judge very properly,’ said Mr. Bennet, ‘and it is
happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with
delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions pro-
ceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of
previous study?’
‘They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and
though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and ar-
ranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted
to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as un-
studied an air as possible.’
Mr. Bennet’s expectations were fully answered. His cous-

in was as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him
with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time
the most resolute composure of countenance, and, except
in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner
in his pleasure.
By tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr.
Bennet was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room
again, and, when tea was over, glad to invite him to read
aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book
was produced; but, on beholding it (for everything an-
nounced it to be from a circulating library), he started back,
and begging pardon, protested that he never read novels.
Kitty stared at him, and Lydia exclaimed. Other books were
produced, and after some deliberation he chose Fordyce’s
Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and before
he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages,
she interrupted him with:
‘Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Phillips talks of
turning away Richard; and if he does, Colonel Forster will
hire him. My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall
walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about it, and to
ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town.’
Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue;
but Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and
said:
‘I have often observed how little young ladies are inter-
ested by books of a serious stamp, though written solely for
their benefit. It amazes me, I confess; for, certainly, there
can be nothing so advantageous to them as instruction. But

I will no longer importune my young cousin.’
Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his
antagonist at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the chal-
lenge, observing that he acted very wisely in leaving the
girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her
daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia’s interruption,
and promised that it should not occur again, if he would re-
sume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he
bore his young cousin no ill-will, and should never resent
her behaviour as any affront, seated himself at another table
with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for backgammon.

Chapter 15
M r. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency

of nature had been but little assisted by education or
society; the greatest part of his life having been spent under
the guidance of an illiterate and miserly father; and though
he belonged to one of the universities, he had merely kept the
necessary terms, without forming at it any useful acquain-
tance. The subjection in which his father had brought him
up had given him originally great humility of manner; but
it was now a good deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a
weak head, living in retirement, and the consequential feel-
ings of early and unexpected prosperity. A fortunate chance
had recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh when
the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which
he felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his
patroness, mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of
his authority as a clergyman, and his right as a rector, made
him altogether a mixture of pride and obsequiousness, self-
importance and humility.
Having now a good house and a very sufficient income,
he intended to marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with
the Longbourn family he had a wife in view, as he meant to
choose one of the daughters, if he found them as handsome
and amiable as they were represented by common report.
This was his plan of amends—of atonement—for inheriting

their father’s estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full
of eligibility and suitableness, and excessively generous and
disinterested on his own part.
His plan did not vary on seeing them. Miss Bennet’s love-
ly face confirmed his views, and established all his strictest
notions of what was due to seniority; and for the first eve-
ning SHE was his settled choice. The next morning, however,
made an alteration; for in a quarter of an hour’s tete-a-tete
with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a conversation begin-
ning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally to the
avowal of his hopes, that a mistress might be found for it
at Longbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant
smiles and general encouragement, a caution against the
very Jane he had fixed on. ‘As to her YOUNGER daughters,
she could not take upon her to say—she could not positive-
ly answer—but she did not KNOW of any prepossession;
her ELDEST daughter, she must just mention—she felt it
incumbent on her to hint, was likely to be very soon en-
gaged.’
Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth—
and it was soon done—done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring
the fire. Elizabeth, equally next to Jane in birth and beauty,
succeeded her of course.
Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that
she might soon have two daughters married; and the man
whom she could not bear to speak of the day before was now
high in her good graces.
Lydia’s intention of walking to Meryton was not forgot-
ten; every sister except Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr.

Collins was to attend them, at the request of Mr. Bennet,
who was most anxious to get rid of him, and have his library
to himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed him after
breakfast; and there he would continue, nominally engaged
with one of the largest folios in the collection, but really
talking to Mr. Bennet, with little cessation, of his house and
garden at Hunsford. Such doings discomposed Mr. Bennet
exceedingly. In his library he had been always sure of leisure
and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told Elizabeth,
to meet with folly and conceit in every other room of the
house, he was used to be free from them there; his civility,
therefore, was most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to join
his daughters in their walk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact
much better fitted for a walker than a reader, was extremely
pleased to close his large book, and go.
In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on
that of his cousins, their time passed till they entered Mery-
ton. The attention of the younger ones was then no longer
to be gained by him. Their eyes were immediately wander-
ing up in the street in quest of the officers, and nothing less
than a very smart bonnet indeed, or a really new muslin in
a shop window, could recall them.
But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a
young man, whom they had never seen before, of most gen-
tlemanlike appearance, walking with another officer on the
other side of the way. The officer was the very Mr. Denny
concerning whose return from London Lydia came to in-
quire, and he bowed as they passed. All were struck with
the stranger’s air, all wondered who he could be; and Kitty

and Lydia, determined if possible to find out, led the way
across the street, under pretense of wanting something in
an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained the pave-
ment when the two gentlemen, turning back, had reached
the same spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and en-
treated permission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham,
who had returned with him the day before from town, and
he was happy to say had accepted a commission in their
corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the young man
wanted only regimentals to make him completely charm-
ing. His appearance was greatly in his favour; he had all the
best part of beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and
very pleasing address. The introduction was followed up on
his side by a happy readiness of conversation—a readiness
at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the
whole party were still standing and talking together very
agreeably, when the sound of horses drew their notice, and
Darcy and Bingley were seen riding down the street. On
distinguishing the ladies of the group, the two gentlemen
came directly towards them, and began the usual civili-
ties. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and Miss Bennet
the principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to
Longbourn on purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy cor-
roborated it with a bow, and was beginning to determine
not to fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they were suddenly
arrested by the sight of the stranger, and Elizabeth happen-
ing to see the countenance of both as they looked at each
other, was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting.
Both changed colour, one looked white, the other red. Mr.

Wickham, after a few moments, touched his hat—a saluta-
tion which Mr. Darcy just deigned to return. What could be
the meaning of it? It was impossible to imagine; it was im-
possible not to long to know.
In another minute, Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to
have noticed what passed, took leave and rode on with his
friend.
Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young
ladies to the door of Mr. Phillip’s house, and then made
their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia’s pressing entreaties that
they should come in, and even in spite of Mrs. Phillips’s
throwing up the parlour window and loudly seconding the
invitation.
Mrs. Phillips was always glad to see her nieces; and the
two eldest, from their recent absence, were particularly wel-
come, and she was eagerly expressing her surprise at their
sudden return home, which, as their own carriage had not
fetched them, she should have known nothing about, if
she had not happened to see Mr. Jones’s shop-boy in the
street, who had told her that they were not to send any more
draughts to Netherfield because the Miss Bennets were
come away, when her civility was claimed towards Mr. Col-
lins by Jane’s introduction of him. She received him with
her very best politeness, which he returned with as much
more, apologising for his intrusion, without any previous
acquaintance with her, which he could not help flattering
himself, however, might be justified by his relationship to
the young ladies who introduced him to her notice. Mrs.
Phillips was quite awed by such an excess of good breed-

ing; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon put to
an end by exclamations and inquiries about the other; of
whom, however, she could only tell her nieces what they
already knew, that Mr. Denny had brought him from Lon-
don, and that he was to have a lieutenant’s commission in
the ——shire. She had been watching him the last hour,
she said, as he walked up and down the street, and had Mr.
Wickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have
continued the occupation, but unluckily no one passed
windows now except a few of the officers, who, in compar-
ison with the stranger, were become ‘stupid, disagreeable
fellows.’ Some of them were to dine with the Phillipses the
next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call
on Mr. Wickham, and give him an invitation also, if the
family from Longbourn would come in the evening. This
was agreed to, and Mrs. Phillips protested that they would
have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery tickets, and a
little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such de-
lights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good
spirits. Mr. Collins repeated his apologies in quitting the
room, and was assured with unwearying civility that they
were perfectly needless.
As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she
had seen pass between the two gentlemen; but though Jane
would have defended either or both, had they appeared to
be in the wrong, she could no more explain such behaviour
than her sister.
Mr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet
by admiring Mrs. Phillips’s manners and politeness. He

protested that, except Lady Catherine and her daughter, he
had never seen a more elegant woman; for she had not only
received him with the utmost civility, but even pointedly in-
cluded him in her invitation for the next evening, although
utterly unknown to her before. Something, he supposed,
might be attributed to his connection with them, but yet he
had never met with so much attention in the whole course
of his life.

Chapter 16
A s no objection was made to the young people’s engage-

ment with their aunt, and all Mr. Collins’s scruples of
leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for a single evening during his
visit were most steadily resisted, the coach conveyed him
and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton; and the
girls had the pleasure of hearing, as they entered the draw-
ing-room, that Mr. Wickham had accepted their uncle’s
invitation, and was then in the house.
When this information was given, and they had all taken
their seats, Mr. Collins was at leisure to look around him
and admire, and he was so much struck with the size and
furniture of the apartment, that he declared he might al-
most have supposed himself in the small summer breakfast
parlour at Rosings; a comparison that did not at first con-
vey much gratification; but when Mrs. Phillips understood
from him what Rosings was, and who was its proprietor—
when she had listened to the description of only one of Lady
Catherine’s drawing-rooms, and found that the chimney-
piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all the
force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a
comparison with the housekeeper’s room.
In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine
and her mansion, with occasional digressions in praise of
his own humble abode, and the improvements it was receiv-

ing, he was happily employed until the gentlemen joined
them; and he found in Mrs. Phillips a very attentive listen-
er, whose opinion of his consequence increased with what
she heard, and who was resolving to retail it all among her
neighbours as soon as she could. To the girls, who could not
listen to their cousin, and who had nothing to do but to wish
for an instrument, and examine their own indifferent imi-
tations of china on the mantelpiece, the interval of waiting
appeared very long. It was over at last, however. The gentle-
men did approach, and when Mr. Wickham walked into the
room, Elizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing him
before, nor thinking of him since, with the smallest degree
of unreasonable admiration. The officers of the ——shire
were in general a very creditable, gentlemanlike set, and the
best of them were of the present party; but Mr. Wickham
was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and
walk, as THEY were superior to the broad-faced, stuffy un-
cle Phillips, breathing port wine, who followed them into
the room.
Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost
every female eye was turned, and Elizabeth was the happy
woman by whom he finally seated himself; and the agree-
able manner in which he immediately fell into conversation,
though it was only on its being a wet night, made her feel
that the commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic might
be rendered interesting by the skill of the speaker.
With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham
and the officers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignifi-
cance; to the young ladies he certainly was nothing; but he

had still at intervals a kind listener in Mrs. Phillips, and was
by her watchfulness, most abundantly supplied with cof-
fee and muffin. When the card-tables were placed, he had
the opportunity of obliging her in turn, by sitting down to
whist.
‘I know little of the game at present,’ said he, ‘but I shall
be glad to improve myself, for in my situation in life—‘ Mrs.
Phillips was very glad for his compliance, but could not wait
for his reason.
Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready de-
light was he received at the other table between Elizabeth
and Lydia. At first there seemed danger of Lydia’s engross-
ing him entirely, for she was a most determined talker; but
being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets, she soon
grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making
bets and exclaiming after prizes to have attention for any-
one in particular. Allowing for the common demands of the
game, Mr. Wickham was therefore at leisure to talk to Eliz-
abeth, and she was very willing to hear him, though what
she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told—
the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared
not even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity, however,
was unexpectedly relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject
himself. He inquired how far Netherfield was from Mery-
ton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in a hesitating
manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there.
‘About a month,’ said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to
let the subject drop, added, ‘He is a man of very large prop-
erty in Derbyshire, I understand.’

‘Yes,’ replied Mr. Wickham; ‘his estate there is a noble
one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have
met with a person more capable of giving you certain infor-
mation on that head than myself, for I have been connected
with his family in a particular manner from my infancy.’
Elizabeth could not but look surprised.
‘You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an as-
sertion, after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold
manner of our meeting yesterday. Are you much acquaint-
ed with Mr. Darcy?’
‘As much as I ever wish to be,’ cried Elizabeth very warm-
ly. ‘I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I
think him very disagreeable.’
‘I have no right to give MY opinion,’ said Wickham, ‘as to
his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form
one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair
judge. It is impossible for ME to be impartial. But I believe
your opinion of him would in general astonish—and per-
haps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere
else. Here you are in your own family.’
‘Upon my word, I say no more HERE than I might say
in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He
is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted
with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spo-
ken of by anyone.’
‘I cannot pretend to be sorry,’ said Wickham, after a short
interruption, ‘that he or that any man should not be esti-
mated beyond their deserts; but with HIM I believe it does
not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and

consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing man-
ners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen.’
‘I should take him, even on MY slight acquaintance, to
be an ill-tempered man.’ Wickham only shook his head.
‘I wonder,’ said he, at the next opportunity of speaking,
‘whether he is likely to be in this country much longer.’
‘I do not at all know; but I HEARD nothing of his go-
ing away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in
favour of the ——shire will not be affected by his being in
the neighbourhood.’
‘Oh! no—it is not for ME to be driven away by Mr. Darcy.
If HE wishes to avoid seeing ME, he must go. We are not
on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him,
but I have no reason for avoiding HIM but what I might
proclaim before all the world, a sense of very great ill-usage,
and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father,
Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men
that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I
can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without be-
ing grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections.
His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily
believe I could forgive him anything and everything, rather
than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the mem-
ory of his father.’
Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and
listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented
further inquiry.
Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics,
Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly

pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the
latter with gentle but very intelligible gallantry.
‘It was the prospect of constant society, and good soci-
ety,’ he added, ‘which was my chief inducement to enter the
——shire. I knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps,
and my friend Denny tempted me further by his account of
their present quarters, and the very great attentions and ex-
cellent acquaintances Meryton had procured them. Society,
I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man,
and my spirits will not bear solitude. I MUST have employ-
ment and society. A military life is not what I was intended
for, but circumstances have now made it eligible. The church
OUGHT to have been my profession—I was brought up for
the church, and I should at this time have been in posses-
sion of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman
we were speaking of just now.’
‘Indeed!’
‘Yes—the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presen-
tation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather,
and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his
kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought
he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given else-
where.’
‘Good heavens!’ cried Elizabeth; ‘but how could THAT
be? How could his will be disregarded? Why did you not
seek legal redress?’
‘There was just such an informality in the terms of the
bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour
could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose

to doubt it—or to treat it as a merely conditional recom-
mendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim to it
by extravagance, imprudence—in short anything or noth-
ing. Certain it is, that the living became vacant two years
ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it, and that it was
given to another man; and no less certain is it, that I cannot
accuse myself of having really done anything to deserve to
lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may have
spoken my opinion OF him, and TO him, too freely. I can
recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very differ-
ent sort of men, and that he hates me.’
‘This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly dis-
graced.’
‘Some time or other he WILL be—but it shall not be by
ME. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose
HIM.’
Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought
him handsomer than ever as he expressed them.
‘But what,’ said she, after a pause, ‘can have been his mo-
tive? What can have induced him to behave so cruelly?’
‘A thorough, determined dislike of me—a dislike which
I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the
late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with
me better; but his father’s uncommon attachment to me ir-
ritated him, I believe, very early in life. He had not a temper
to bear the sort of competition in which we stood—the sort
of preference which was often given me.’
‘I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this—though I
have never liked him. I had not thought so very ill of him.

I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in
general, but did not suspect him of descending to such ma-
licious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this.’
After a few minutes’ reflection, however, she continued,
‘I DO remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the
implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiv-
ing temper. His disposition must be dreadful.’
‘I will not trust myself on the subject,’ replied Wickham;
‘I can hardly be just to him.’
Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time ex-
claimed, ‘To treat in such a manner the godson, the friend,
the favourite of his father!’ She could have added, ‘A young
man, too, like YOU, whose very countenance may vouch
for your being amiable’—but she contented herself with,
‘and one, too, who had probably been his companion from
childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the
closest manner!’
‘We were born in the same parish, within the same park;
the greatest part of our youth was passed together; inmates
of the same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of
the same parental care. MY father began life in the profes-
sion which your uncle, Mr. Phillips, appears to do so much
credit to—but he gave up everything to be of use to the late
Mr. Darcy and devoted all his time to the care of the Pem-
berley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy,
a most intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often ac-
knowledged himself to be under the greatest obligations to
my father’s active superintendence, and when, immediately
before my father’s death, Mr. Darcy gave him a voluntary

promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it
to be as much a debt of gratitude to HIM, as of his affection
to myself.’
‘How strange!’ cried Elizabeth. ‘How abominable! I won-
der that the very pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him
just to you! If from no better motive, that he should not
have been too proud to be dishonest—for dishonesty I must
call it.’
‘It IS wonderful,’ replied Wickham, ‘for almost all his ac-
tions may be traced to pride; and pride had often been his
best friend. It has connected him nearer with virtue than
with any other feeling. But we are none of us consistent, and
in his behaviour to me there were stronger impulses even
than pride.’
‘Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him
good?’
‘Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to
give his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his
tenants, and relieve the poor. Family pride, and FILIAL
pride—for he is very proud of what his father was—have
done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to degen-
erate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of
the Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also
BROTHERLY pride, which, with SOME brotherly affection,
makes him a very kind and careful guardian of his sister,
and you will hear him generally cried up as the most atten-
tive and best of brothers.’
‘What sort of girl is Miss Darcy?’
He shook his head. ‘I wish I could call her amiable. It

gives me pain to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much
like her brother—very, very proud. As a child, she was af-
fectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I
have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she
is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen
or sixteen, and, I understand, highly accomplished. Since
her father’s death, her home has been London, where a lady
lives with her, and superintends her education.’
After many pauses and many trials of other subjects,
Elizabeth could not help reverting once more to the first,
and saying:
‘I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How
can Mr. Bingley, who seems good humour itself, and is, I
really believe, truly amiable, be in friendship with such
a man? How can they suit each other? Do you know Mr.
Bingley?’
‘Not at all.’
‘He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He
cannot know what Mr. Darcy is.’
‘Probably not; but Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses.
He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible com-
panion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who
are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very different
man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride nev-
er deserts him; but with the rich he is liberal-minded, just,
sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable—al-
lowing something for fortune and figure.’
The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the play-
ers gathered round the other table and Mr. Collins took his

station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Phillips. The
usual inquiries as to his success was made by the latter. It
had not been very great; he had lost every point; but when
Mrs. Phillips began to express her concern thereupon, he
assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the
least importance, that he considered the money as a mere
trifle, and begged that she would not make herself uneasy.
‘I know very well, madam,’ said he, ‘that when persons sit
down to a card-table, they must take their chances of these
things, and happily I am not in such circumstances as to
make five shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many
who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine
de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of re-
garding little matters.’
Mr. Wickham’s attention was caught; and after observ-
ing Mr. Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in
a low voice whether her relation was very intimately ac-
quainted with the family of de Bourgh.
‘Lady Catherine de Bourgh,’ she replied, ‘has very lately
given him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first
introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known
her long.’
‘You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and
Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt
to the present Mr. Darcy.’
‘No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Cath-
erine’s connections. I never heard of her existence till the
day before yesterday.’
‘Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large for-

tune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite
the two estates.’
This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought
of poor Miss Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions,
vain and useless her affection for his sister and her praise of
himself, if he were already self-destined for another.
‘Mr. Collins,’ said she, ‘speaks highly both of Lady Cath-
erine and her daughter; but from some particulars that he
has related of her ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads
him, and that in spite of her being his patroness, she is an
arrogant, conceited woman.’
‘I believe her to be both in a great degree,’ replied Wick-
ham; ‘I have not seen her for many years, but I very well
remember that I never liked her, and that her manners were
dictatorial and insolent. She has the reputation of being
remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe she de-
rives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part
from her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride
for her nephew, who chooses that everyone connected with
him should have an understanding of the first class.’
Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational ac-
count of it, and they continued talking together, with
mutual satisfaction till supper put an end to cards, and gave
the rest of the ladies their share of Mr. Wickham’s atten-
tions. There could be no conversation in the noise of Mrs.
Phillips’s supper party, but his manners recommended him
to everybody. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever
he did, done gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head
full of him. She could think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham,

and of what he had told her, all the way home; but there was
not time for her even to mention his name as they went, for
neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia talked
incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the
fish she had won; and Mr. Collins in describing the civility
of Mr. and Mrs. Phillips, protesting that he did not in the
least regard his losses at whist, enumerating all the dishes at
supper, and repeatedly fearing that he crowded his cousins,
had more to say than he could well manage before the car-
riage stopped at Longbourn House.

Chapter 17
E lizabeth related to Jane the next day what had passed

between Mr. Wickham and herself. Jane listened with
astonishment and concern; she knew not how to believe that
Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr. Bingley’s regard;
and yet, it was not in her nature to question the veracity
of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham.
The possibility of his having endured such unkindness, was
enough to interest all her tender feelings; and nothing re-
mained therefore to be done, but to think well of them both,
to defend the conduct of each, and throw into the account
of accident or mistake whatever could not be otherwise ex-
plained.
‘They have both,’ said she, ‘been deceived, I dare say, in
some way or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested
people have perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is,
in short, impossible for us to conjecture the causes or cir-
cumstances which may have alienated them, without actual
blame on either side.’
‘Very true, indeed; and now, my dear Jane, what have you
got to say on behalf of the interested people who have prob-
ably been concerned in the business? Do clear THEM too,
or we shall be obliged to think ill of somebody.’
‘Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh
me out of my opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in

what a disgraceful light it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating
his father’s favourite in such a manner, one whom his father
had promised to provide for. It is impossible. No man of
common humanity, no man who had any value for his char-
acter, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends
be so excessively deceived in him? Oh! no.’
‘I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley’s being im-
posed on, than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a
history of himself as he gave me last night; names, facts, ev-
erything mentioned without ceremony. If it be not so, let Mr.
Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks.’
‘It is difficult indeed—it is distressing. One does not
know what to think.’
‘I beg your pardon; one knows exactly what to think.’
But Jane could think with certainty on only one point—
that Mr. Bingley, if he HAD been imposed on, would have
much to suffer when the affair became public.
The two young ladies were summoned from the shrub-
bery, where this conversation passed, by the arrival of the
very persons of whom they had been speaking; Mr. Bing-
ley and his sisters came to give their personal invitation for
the long-expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed for
the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see
their dear friend again, called it an age since they had met,
and repeatedly asked what she had been doing with herself
since their separation. To the rest of the family they paid
little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as possible,
saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to the oth-
ers. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats with

an activity which took their brother by surprise, and hurry-
ing off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet’s civilities.
The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agree-
able to every female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to
consider it as given in compliment to her eldest daughter,
and was particularly flattered by receiving the invitation
from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a ceremonious card.
Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the society of her
two friends, and the attentions of her brother; and Eliza-
beth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr.
Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of everything in Mr.
Darcy’s look and behavior. The happiness anticipated by
Catherine and Lydia depended less on any single event, or
any particular person, for though they each, like Elizabeth,
meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham, he was
by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a
ball was, at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her
family that she had no disinclination for it.
‘While I can have my mornings to myself,’ said she, ‘it
is enough—I think it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in
evening engagements. Society has claims on us all; and I
profess myself one of those who consider intervals of recre-
ation and amusement as desirable for everybody.’
Elizabeth’s spirits were so high on this occasion, that
though she did not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Col-
lins, she could not help asking him whether he intended to
accept Mr. Bingley’s invitation, and if he did, whether he
would think it proper to join in the evening’s amusement;
and she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no

scruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dread-
ing a rebuke either from the Archbishop, or Lady Catherine
de Bourgh, by venturing to dance.
‘I am by no means of the opinion, I assure you,’ said he,
‘that a ball of this kind, given by a young man of character,
to respectable people, can have any evil tendency; and I am
so far from objecting to dancing myself, that I shall hope
to be honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins in the
course of the evening; and I take this opportunity of solicit-
ing yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially,
a preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to
the right cause, and not to any disrespect for her.’
Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had ful-
ly proposed being engaged by Mr. Wickham for those very
dances; and to have Mr. Collins instead! her liveliness had
never been worse timed. There was no help for it, however.
Mr. Wickham’s happiness and her own were perforce de-
layed a little longer, and Mr. Collins’s proposal accepted with
as good a grace as she could. She was not the better pleased
with his gallantry from the idea it suggested of something
more. It now first struck her, that SHE was selected from
among her sisters as worthy of being mistress of Hunsford
Parsonage, and of assisting to form a quadrille table at Ros-
ings, in the absence of more eligible visitors. The idea soon
reached to conviction, as she observed his increasing ci-
vilities toward herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a
compliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more as-
tonished than gratified herself by this effect of her charms, it
was not long before her mother gave her to understand that

the probability of their marriage was extremely agreeable
to HER. Elizabeth, however, did not choose to take the hint,
being well aware that a serious dispute must be the conse-
quence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer,
and till he did, it was useless to quarrel about him.
If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and
talk of, the younger Miss Bennets would have been in a very
pitiable state at this time, for from the day of the invitation,
to the day of the ball, there was such a succession of rain as
prevented their walking to Meryton once. No aunt, no offi-
cers, no news could be sought after—the very shoe-roses for
Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have
found some trial of her patience in weather which totally
suspended the improvement of her acquaintance with Mr.
Wickham; and nothing less than a dance on Tuesday, could
have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday
endurable to Kitty and Lydia.

Chapter 18
T ill Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield,

and looked in vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster
of red coats there assembled, a doubt of his being present had
never occurred to her. The certainty of meeting him had not
been checked by any of those recollections that might not
unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more
than usual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the
conquest of all that remained unsubdued of his heart, trust-
ing that it was not more than might be won in the course of
the evening. But in an instant arose the dreadful suspicion
of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy’s pleasure in
the Bingleys’ invitation to the officers; and though this was
not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was
pronounced by his friend Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly ap-
plied, and who told them that Wickham had been obliged
to go to town on business the day before, and was not yet
returned; adding, with a significant smile, ‘I do not imagine
his business would have called him away just now, if he had
not wanted to avoid a certain gentleman here.’
This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was
caught by Elizabeth, and, as it assured her that Darcy was
not less answerable for Wickham’s absence than if her first
surmise had been just, every feeling of displeasure against
the former was so sharpened by immediate disappointment,

that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to the po-
lite inquiries which he directly afterwards approached to
make. Attendance, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was
injury to Wickham. She was resolved against any sort of
conversation with him, and turned away with a degree of
ill-humour which she could not wholly surmount even in
speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality provoked
her.
But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though
every prospect of her own was destroyed for the evening, it
could not dwell long on her spirits; and having told all her
griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she had not seen for a week,
she was soon able to make a voluntary transition to the
oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her particu-
lar notice. The first two dances, however, brought a return
of distress; they were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins,
awkward and solemn, apologising instead of attending, and
often moving wrong without being aware of it, gave her all
the shame and misery which a disagreeable partner for a
couple of dances can give. The moment of her release from
him was ecstasy.
She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment
of talking of Wickham, and of hearing that he was univer-
sally liked. When those dances were over, she returned to
Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with her, when
she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy who
took her so much by surprise in his application for her hand,
that, without knowing what she did, she accepted him. He
walked away again immediately, and she was left to fret over

her own want of presence of mind; Charlotte tried to con-
sole her:
‘I dare say you will find him very agreeable.’
‘Heaven forbid! THAT would be the greatest misfortune
of all! To find a man agreeable whom on is determined to
hate! Do not wish me such an evil.’
When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy
approached to claim her hand, Charlotte could not help
cautioning her in a whisper, not to be a simpleton, and al-
low her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant
in the eyes of a man ten times his consequence. Elizabeth
made no answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the
dignity to which she was arrived in being allowed to stand
opposite to Mr. Darcy, and reading in her neighbours’ looks,
their equal amazement in beholding it. They stood for some
time without speaking a word; and she began to imagine
that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at
first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that
it would be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige
him to talk, she made some slight observation on the dance.
He replied, and was again silent. After a pause of some min-
utes, she addressed him a second time with:—‘It is YOUR
turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked about the
dance, and YOU ought to make some sort of remark on the
size of the room, or the number of couples.’
He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished
him to say should be said.
‘Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by
and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter

than public ones. But NOW we may be silent.’
‘Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?’
‘Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would
look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together; and
yet for the advantage of SOME, conversation ought to be
so arranged, as that they may have the trouble of saying as
little as possible.’
‘Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case,
or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?’
‘Both,’ replied Elizabeth archly; ‘for I have always seen
a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of
an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, un-
less we expect to say something that will amaze the whole
room, and be handed down to posterity with all the eclat of
a proverb.’
‘This is no very striking resemblance of your own char-
acter, I am sure,’ said he. ‘How near it may be to MINE, I
cannot pretend to say. YOU think it a faithful portrait un-
doubtedly.’
‘I must not decide on my own performance.’
He made no answer, and they were again silent till they
had gone down the dance, when he asked her if she and her
sisters did not very often walk to Meryton. She answered in
the affirmative, and, unable to resist the temptation, add-
ed, ‘When you met us there the other day, we had just been
forming a new acquaintance.’
The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of hauteur
overspread his features, but he said not a word, and Eliza-
beth, though blaming herself for her own weakness, could

not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a constrained
manner said, ‘Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy
manners as may ensure his MAKING friends—whether he
may be equally capable of RETAINING them, is less cer-
tain.’
‘He has been so unlucky as to lose YOUR friendship,’ re-
plied Elizabeth with emphasis, ‘and in a manner which he
is likely to suffer from all his life.’
Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing
the subject. At that moment, Sir William Lucas appeared
close to them, meaning to pass through the set to the other
side of the room; but on perceiving Mr. Darcy, he stopped
with a bow of superior courtesy to compliment him on his
dancing and his partner.
‘I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear sir.
Such very superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident
that you belong to the first circles. Allow me to say, however,
that your fair partner does not disgrace you, and that I must
hope to have this pleasure often repeated, especially when a
certain desirable event, my dear Eliza (glancing at her sis-
ter and Bingley) shall take place. What congratulations will
then flow in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy:—but let me not inter-
rupt you, sir. You will not thank me for detaining you from
the bewitching converse of that young lady, whose bright
eyes are also upbraiding me.’
The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Dar-
cy; but Sir William’s allusion to his friend seemed to strike
him forcibly, and his eyes were directed with a very serious
expression towards Bingley and Jane, who were dancing to-

gether. Recovering himself, however, shortly, he turned to
his partner, and said, ‘Sir William’s interruption has made
me forget what we were talking of.’
‘I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could
not have interrupted two people in the room who had less
to say for themselves. We have tried two or three subjects
already without success, and what we are to talk of next I
cannot imagine.’
‘What think you of books?’ said he, smiling.
‘Books—oh! no. I am sure we never read the same, or not
with the same feelings.’
‘I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can
at least be no want of subject. We may compare our differ-
ent opinions.’
‘No—I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is
always full of something else.’
‘The PRESENT always occupies you in such scenes—
does it?’ said he, with a look of doubt.
‘Yes, always,’ she replied, without knowing what she
said, for her thoughts had wandered far from the subject,
as soon afterwards appeared by her suddenly exclaiming, ‘I
remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly
ever forgave, that you resentment once created was unap-
peasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its BEING
CREATED.’
‘I am,’ said he, with a firm voice.
‘And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?’
‘I hope not.’
‘It is particularly incumbent on those who never change

their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.’
‘May I ask to what these questions tend?’
‘Merely to the illustration of YOUR character,’ said she,
endeavouring to shake off her gravity. ‘I am trying to make
it out.’
‘And what is your success?’
She shook her head. ‘I do not get on at all. I hear such dif-
ferent accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.’
‘I can readily believe,’ answered he gravely, ‘that reports
may vary greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss
Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the
present moment, as there is reason to fear that the perfor-
mance would reflect no credit on either.’
‘But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have
another opportunity.’
‘I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,’
he coldly replied. She said no more, and they went down
the other dance and parted in silence; and on each side
dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree, for in Darcy’s
breast there was a tolerable powerful feeling towards her,
which soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger
against another.
They had not long separated, when Miss Bingley came
towards her, and with an expression of civil disdain accost-
ed her:
‘So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with
George Wickham! Your sister has been talking to me about
him, and asking me a thousand questions; and I find that
the young man quite forgot to tell you, among his other

communication, that he was the son of old Wickham, the
late Mr. Darcy’s steward. Let me recommend you, however,
as a friend, not to give implicit confidence to all his asser-
tions; for as to Mr. Darcy’s using him ill, it is perfectly false;
for, on the contrary, he has always been remarkably kind to
him, though George Wickham has treated Mr. Darcy in a
most infamous manner. I do not know the particulars, but
I know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the least to blame,
that he cannot bear to hear George Wickham mentioned,
and that though my brother thought that he could not well
avoid including him in his invitation to the officers, he was
excessively glad to find that he had taken himself out of the
way. His coming into the country at all is a most insolent
thing, indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it.
I pity you, Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite’s
guilt; but really, considering his descent, one could not ex-
pect much better.’
‘His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be
the same,’ said Elizabeth angrily; ‘for I have heard you ac-
cuse him of nothing worse than of being the son of Mr.
Darcy’s steward, and of THAT, I can assure you, he in-
formed me himself.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ replied Miss Bingley, turning away
with a sneer. ‘Excuse my interference—it was kindly
meant.’
‘Insolent girl!’ said Elizabeth to herself. ‘You are much
mistaken if you expect to influence me by such a paltry at-
tack as this. I see nothing in it but your own wilful ignorance
and the malice of Mr. Darcy.’ She then sought her eldest

sister, who has undertaken to make inquiries on the same
subject of Bingley. Jane met her with a smile of such sweet
complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as sufficient-
ly marked how well she was satisfied with the occurrences
of the evening. Elizabeth instantly read her feelings, and at
that moment solicitude for Wickham, resentment against
his enemies, and everything else, gave way before the hope
of Jane’s being in the fairest way for happiness.
‘I want to know,’ said she, with a countenance no less
smiling than her sister’s, ‘what you have learnt about Mr.
Wickham. But perhaps you have been too pleasantly en-
gaged to think of any third person; in which case you may
be sure of my pardon.’
‘No,’ replied Jane, ‘I have not forgotten him; but I have
nothing satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know
the whole of his history, and is quite ignorant of the circum-
stances which have principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he
will vouch for the good conduct, the probity, and honour
of his friend, and is perfectly convinced that Mr. Wickham
has deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he
has received; and I am sorry to say by his account as well
as his sister’s, Mr. Wickham is by no means a respectable
young man. I am afraid he has been very imprudent, and
has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy’s regard.’
‘Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?’
‘No; he never saw him till the other morning at Mery-
ton.’
‘This account then is what he has received from Mr. Dar-
cy. I am satisfied. But what does he say of the living?’

‘He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though
he has heard them from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he
believes that it was left to him CONDITIONALLY only.’
‘I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley’s sincerity,’ said Eliza-
beth warmly; ‘but you must excuse my not being convinced
by assurances only. Mr. Bingley’s defense of his friend was a
very able one, I dare say; but since he is unacquainted with
several parts of the story, and has learnt the rest from that
friend himself, I shall venture to still think of both gentle-
men as I did before.’
She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying
to each, and on which there could be no difference of senti-
ment. Elizabeth listened with delight to the happy, though
modest hopes which Jane entertained of Mr. Bingley’s re-
gard, and said all in her power to heighten her confidence in
it. On their being joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth
withdrew to Miss Lucas; to whose inquiry after the pleas-
antness of her last partner she had scarcely replied, before
Mr. Collins came up to them, and told her with great exul-
tation that he had just been so fortunate as to make a most
important discovery.
‘I have found out,’ said he, ‘by a singular accident, that
there is now in the room a near relation of my patroness.
I happened to overhear the gentleman himself mention-
ing to the young lady who does the honours of the house
the names of his cousin Miss de Bourgh, and of her mother
Lady Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things oc-
cur! Who would have thought of my meeting with, perhaps,
a nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in this assembly! I

am most thankful that the discovery is made in time for me
to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to do, and
trust he will excuse my not having done it before. My total
ignorance of the connection must plead my apology.’
‘You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy!’
‘Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having
done it earlier. I believe him to be Lady Catherine’s NEPH-
EW. It will be in my power to assure him that her ladyship
was quite well yesterday se’nnight.’
Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme,
assuring him that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing
him without introduction as an impertinent freedom, rath-
er than a compliment to his aunt; that it was not in the least
necessary there should be any notice on either side; and that
if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in con-
sequence, to begin the acquaintance. Mr. Collins listened
to her with the determined air of following his own inclina-
tion, and, when she ceased speaking, replied thus:
‘My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in
the world in your excellent judgement in all matters with-
in the scope of your understanding; but permit me to
say, that there must be a wide difference between the es-
tablished forms of ceremony amongst the laity, and those
which regulate the clergy; for, give me leave to observe that
I consider the clerical office as equal in point of dignity with
the highest rank in the kingdom—provided that a proper
humility of behaviour is at the same time maintained. You
must therefore allow me to follow the dictates of my con-
science on this occasion, which leads me to perform what I

look on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to prof-
it by your advice, which on every other subject shall be my
constant guide, though in the case before us I consider my-
self more fitted by education and habitual study to decide
on what is right than a young lady like yourself.’ And with a
low bow he left her to attack Mr. Darcy, whose reception of
his advances she eagerly watched, and whose astonishment
at being so addressed was very evident. Her cousin pref-
aced his speech with a solemn bow and though she could
not hear a word of it, she felt as if hearing it all, and saw in
the motion of his lips the words ‘apology,’ ‘Hunsford,’ and
‘Lady Catherine de Bourgh.’ It vexed her to see him expose
himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him with un-
restrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed
him time to speak, replied with an air of distant civility. Mr.
Collins, however, was not discouraged from speaking again,
and Mr. Darcy’s contempt seemed abundantly increasing
with the length of his second speech, and at the end of it he
only made him a slight bow, and moved another way. Mr.
Collins then returned to Elizabeth.
‘I have no reason, I assure you,’ said he, ‘to be dissatisfied
with my reception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with
the attention. He answered me with the utmost civility, and
even paid me the compliment of saying that he was so well
convinced of Lady Catherine’s discernment as to be certain
she could never bestow a favour unworthily. It was real-
ly a very handsome thought. Upon the whole, I am much
pleased with him.’
As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to

pursue, she turned her attention almost entirely on her sis-
ter and Mr. Bingley; and the train of agreeable reflections
which her observations gave birth to, made her perhaps al-
most as happy as Jane. She saw her in idea settled in that very
house, in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection
could bestow; and she felt capable, under such circumstanc-
es, of endeavouring even to like Bingley’s two sisters. Her
mother’s thoughts she plainly saw were bent the same way,
and she determined not to venture near her, lest she might
hear too much. When they sat down to supper, therefore,
she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which placed
them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to
find that her mother was talking to that one person (Lady
Lucas) freely, openly, and of nothing else but her expecta-
tion that Jane would soon be married to Mr. Bingley. It was
an animating subject, and Mrs. Bennet seemed incapable of
fatigue while enumerating the advantages of the match. His
being such a charming young man, and so rich, and living
but three miles from them, were the first points of self-grat-
ulation; and then it was such a comfort to think how fond
the two sisters were of Jane, and to be certain that they
must desire the connection as much as she could do. It was,
moreover, such a promising thing for her younger daugh-
ters, as Jane’s marrying so greatly must throw them in the
way of other rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at her
time of life to be able to consign her single daughters to the
care of their sister, that she might not be obliged to go into
company more than she liked. It was necessary to make this
circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on such occa-

sions it is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs.
Bennet to find comfort in staying home at any period of her
life. She concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas
might soon be equally fortunate, though evidently and tri-
umphantly believing there was no chance of it.
In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of
her mother’s words, or persuade her to describe her felicity
in a less audible whisper; for, to her inexpressible vexation,
she could perceive that the chief of it was overheard by Mr.
Darcy, who sat opposite to them. Her mother only scolded
her for being nonsensical.
‘What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of
him? I am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to
be obliged to say nothing HE may not like to hear.’
‘For heaven’s sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage
can it be for you to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recom-
mend yourself to his friend by so doing!’
Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence.
Her mother would talk of her views in the same intelligible
tone. Elizabeth blushed and blushed again with shame and
vexation. She could not help frequently glancing her eye at
Mr. Darcy, though every glance convinced her of what she
dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her moth-
er, she was convinced that his attention was invariably fixed
by her. The expression of his face changed gradually from
indignant contempt to a composed and steady gravity.
At length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and
Lady Lucas, who had been long yawning at the repetition of
delights which she saw no likelihood of sharing, was left to

the comforts of cold ham and chicken. Elizabeth now began
to revive. But not long was the interval of tranquillity; for,
when supper was over, singing was talked of, and she had the
mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty, pre-
paring to oblige the company. By many significant looks and
silent entreaties, did she endeavour to prevent such a proof
of complaisance, but in vain; Mary would not understand
them; such an opportunity of exhibiting was delightful to
her, and she began her song. Elizabeth’s eyes were fixed on
her with most painful sensations, and she watched her prog-
ress through the several stanzas with an impatience which
was very ill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving,
amongst the thanks of the table, the hint of a hope that she
might be prevailed on to favour them again, after the pause
of half a minute began another. Mary’s powers were by no
means fitted for such a display; her voice was weak, and her
manner affected. Elizabeth was in agonies. She looked at
Jane, to see how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly
talking to Bingley. She looked at his two sisters, and saw
them making signs of derision at each other, and at Darcy,
who continued, however, imperturbably grave. She looked
at her father to entreat his interference, lest Mary should be
singing all night. He took the hint, and when Mary had fin-
ished her second song, said aloud, ‘That will do extremely
well, child. You have delighted us long enough. Let the other
young ladies have time to exhibit.’
Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat dis-
concerted; and Elizabeth, sorry for her, and sorry for her
father’s speech, was afraid her anxiety had done no good.

Others of the party were now applied to.
‘If I,’ said Mr. Collins, ‘were so fortunate as to be able to
sing, I should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the
company with an air; for I consider music as a very inno-
cent diversion, and perfectly compatible with the profession
of a clergyman. I do not mean, however, to assert that we
can be justified in devoting too much of our time to music,
for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The
rector of a parish has much to do. In the first place, he must
make such an agreement for tithes as a may be beneficial
to himself and not offensive to his patron. He must write
his own sermons; and the time that remains will not be too
much for his parish duties, and the care and improvement
of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making
as a comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light
importance that he should have attentive and conciliato-
ry manner towards everybody, especially towards those to
whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit him of that
duty; nor could I think well of the man who should omit
an occasion of testifying his respect towards anybody con-
nected with the family.’ And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he
concluded his speech, which had been spoken so loud as a
to be heard by half the room. Many stared—many smiled;
but no one looked more amused than Mr. Bennet himself,
while his wife seriously commended Mr. Collins for hav-
ing spoken so sensibly, and observed in a half-whisper to
Lady Lucas, that he was a remarkably clever, good kind of
young man.
To Elizabeth it appeared that, had her family made an

agreement to expose themselves as a much as a they could
during the evening, it would have been impossible for them
to play their parts with more spirit or finer success; and
happy did she think it for Bingley and her sister that some
of the exhibition had escaped his notice, and that his feel-
ings were not of a sort to be much distressed by the folly
which he must have witnessed. That his two sisters and Mr.
Darcy, however, should have such an opportunity of rid-
iculing her relations, was bad enough, and she could not
determine whether the silent contempt of the gentleman, or
the insolent smiles of the ladies, were more intolerable.
The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She
was teased by Mr. Collins, who continued most persever-
ingly by her side, and though he could not prevail on her to
dance with him again, put it out of her power to dance with
others. In vain did she entreat him to stand up with some-
body else, and offer to introduce him to any young lady in
the room. He assured her, that as to dancing, he was per-
fectly indifferent to it; that his chief object was by delicate
attentions to recommend himself to her and that he should
therefore make a point of remaining close to her the whole
evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. She
owed her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who of-
ten joined them, and good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins’s
conversation to herself.
She was at least free from the offense of Mr. Darcy’s
further notice; though often standing within a very short
distance of her, quite disengaged, he never came near
enough to speak. She felt it to be the probable consequence

of her allusions to Mr. Wickham, and rejoiced in it.
The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to
depart, and, by a manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet, had to wait
for their carriage a quarter of an hour after everybody else
was gone, which gave them time to see how heartily they
were wished away by some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and
her sister scarcely opened their mouths, except to complain
of fatigue, and were evidently impatient to have the house
to themselves. They repulsed every attempt of Mrs. Ben-
net at conversation, and by so doing threw a languor over
the whole party, which was very little relieved by the long
speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr. Bing-
ley and his sisters on the elegance of their entertainment,
and the hospitality and politeness which had marked their
behaviour to their guests. Darcy said nothing at all. Mr.
Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene. Mr. Bing-
ley and Jane were standing together, a little detached from
the rest, and talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved
as steady a silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and
even Lydia was too much fatigued to utter more than the
occasional exclamation of ‘Lord, how tired I am!’ accompa-
nied by a violent yawn.
When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was
most pressingly civil in her hope of seeing the whole fam-
ily soon at Longbourn, and addressed herself especially to
Mr. Bingley, to assure him how happy he would make them
by eating a family dinner with them at any time, without
the ceremony of a formal invitation. Bingley was all grateful
pleasure, and he readily engaged for taking the earliest op-

portunity of waiting on her, after his return from London,
whither he was obliged to go the next day for a short time.
Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied, and quitted the
house under the delightful persuasion that, allowing for the
necessary preparations of settlements, new carriages, and
wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly see her daughter
settled at Netherfield in the course of three or four months.
Of having another daughter married to Mr. Collins, she
thought with equal certainty, and with considerable, though
not equal, pleasure. Elizabeth was the least dear to her of all
her children; and though the man and the match were quite
good enough for HER, the worth of each was eclipsed by
Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.

Chapter 19
T he next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Col-

lins made his declaration in form. Having resolved to do
it without loss of time, as his leave of absence extended only
to the following Saturday, and having no feelings of diffi-
dence to make it distressing to himself even at the moment,
he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all the obser-
vances, which he supposed a regular part of the business.
On finding Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger
girls together, soon after breakfast, he addressed the mother
in these words:
‘May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair
daughter Elizabeth, when I solicit for the honour of a pri-
vate audience with her in the course of this morning?’
Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of
surprise, Mrs. Bennet answered instantly, ‘Oh dear!—yes—
certainly. I am sure Lizzy will be very happy—I am sure she
can have no objection. Come, Kitty, I want you upstairs.’
And, gathering her work together, she was hastening away,
when Elizabeth called out:
‘Dear madam, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Col-
lins must excuse me. He can have nothing to say to me that
anybody need not hear. I am going away myself.’
‘No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you to stay where you
are.’ And upon Elizabeth’s seeming really, with vexed and

embarrassed looks, about to escape, she added: ‘Lizzy, I IN-
SIST upon your staying and hearing Mr. Collins.’
Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction—and
a moment’s consideration making her also sensible that it
would be wisest to get it over as soon and as quietly as pos-
sible, she sat down again and tried to conceal, by incessant
employment the feelings which were divided between dis-
tress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and
as soon as they were gone, Mr. Collins began.
‘Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty,
so far from doing you any disservice, rather adds to your
other perfections. You would have been less amiable in my
eyes had there NOT been this little unwillingness; but allow
me to assure you, that I have your respected mother’s per-
mission for this address. You can hardly doubt the purport
of my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead
you to dissemble; my attentions have been too marked to
be mistaken. Almost as soon as I entered the house, I sin-
gled you out as the companion of my future life. But before
I am run away with by my feelings on this subject, perhaps
it would be advisable for me to state my reasons for mar-
rying—and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with
the design of selecting a wife, as I certainly did.’
The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure,
being run away with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near
laughing, that she could not use the short pause he allowed
in any attempt to stop him further, and he continued:
‘My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right
thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances (like

myself) to set the example of matrimony in his parish;
secondly, that I am convinced that it will add very great-
ly to my happiness; and thirdly—which perhaps I ought to
have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and
recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the
honour of calling patroness. Twice has she condescended
to give me her opinion (unasked too!) on this subject; and
it was but the very Saturday night before I left Hunsford—
between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was
arranging Miss de Bourgh’s footstool, that she said, ‘Mr.
Collins, you must marry. A clergyman like you must marry.
Choose properly, choose a gentlewoman for MY sake; and
for your OWN, let her be an active, useful sort of person,
not brought up high, but able to make a small income go
a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon
as you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.’ Al-
low me, by the way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do
not reckon the notice and kindness of Lady Catherine de
Bourgh as among the least of the advantages in my power
to offer. You will find her manners beyond anything I can
describe; and your wit and vivacity, I think, must be accept-
able to her, especially when tempered with the silence and
respect which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much
for my general intention in favour of matrimony; it remains
to be told why my views were directed towards Longbourn
instead of my own neighbourhood, where I can assure you
there are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that
being, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death of your
honoured father (who, however, may live many years lon-

ger), I could not satisfy myself without resolving to choose a
wife from among his daughters, that the loss to them might
be as little as possible, when the melancholy event takes
place—which, however, as I have already said, may not be
for several years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin,
and I flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And
now nothing remains but for me but to assure you in the
most animated language of the violence of my affection. To
fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and shall make no de-
mand of that nature on your father, since I am well aware
that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand
pounds in the four per cents, which will not be yours till
after your mother’s decease, is all that you may ever be en-
titled to. On that head, therefore, I shall be uniformly silent;
and you may assure yourself that no ungenerous reproach
shall ever pass my lips when we are married.’
It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.
‘You are too hasty, sir,’ she cried. ‘You forget that I have
made no answer. Let me do it without further loss of time.
Accept my thanks for the compliment you are paying me. I
am very sensible of the honour of your proposals, but it is
impossible for me to do otherwise than to decline them.’
‘I am not now to learn,’ replied Mr. Collins, with a for-
mal wave of the hand, ‘that it is usual with young ladies to
reject the addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to
accept, when he first applies for their favour; and that some-
times the refusal is repeated a second, or even a third time.
I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have
just said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.’

‘Upon my word, sir,’ cried Elizabeth, ‘your hope is a rath-
er extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you
that I am not one of those young ladies (if such young ladies
there are) who are so daring as to risk their happiness on
the chance of being asked a second time. I am perfectly seri-
ous in my refusal. You could not make ME happy, and I am
convinced that I am the last woman in the world who could
make you so. Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know
me, I am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill
qualified for the situation.’
‘Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,’ said
Mr. Collins very gravely—‘but I cannot imagine that her
ladyship would at all disapprove of you. And you may be
certain when I have the honour of seeing her again, I shall
speak in the very highest terms of your modesty, economy,
and other amiable qualification.’
‘Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unneces-
sary. You must give me leave to judge for myself, and pay
me the compliment of believing what I say. I wish you very
happy and very rich, and by refusing you hand, do all in my
power to prevent your being otherwise. In making me the
offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your feelings
with regard to my family, and may take possession of Long-
bourn estate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach.
This matter may be considered, therefore, as finally settled.’
And rising as she thus spoke, she would have quitted the
room, had Mr. Collins not thus addressed her:
‘When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on
the subject, I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer

than you have now given me; though I am far from accus-
ing you of cruelty at present, because I know it to be the
established custom of your sex to reject a man on the first
application, and perhaps you have even now said as much
to encourage my suit as would be consistent with the true
delicacy of the female character.’
‘Really, Mr. Collins,’ cried Elizabeth with some warmth,
‘you puzzle me exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can
appear to you in the form of encouragement, I know not
how to express my refusal in such a way as to convince you
of its being one.’
‘You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin,
that your refusal of my addresses is merely words of course.
My reasons for believing it are briefly these: It does not ap-
pear to me that my hand is unworthy your acceptance, or
that the establishment I can offer would be any other than
highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections with
the family of de Bourgh, and my relationship to your own,
are circumstances highly in my favour; and you should take
it into further consideration, that in spite of your manifold
attractions, it is by no means certain that another offer of
marriage may ever be made you. Your portion is unhappily
so small that it will in all likelihood undo the effects of your
loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must therefore
conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me,
I shall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my
love by suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant
females.’
‘I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever

to that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a re-
spectable man. I would rather be paid the compliment of
being believed sincere. I thank you again and again for the
honour you have done me in your proposals, but to accept
them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect
forbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as
an elegant female, intending to plague you, but as a rational
creature, speaking the truth from her heart.’
‘You are uniformly charming!’ cried he, with an air of
awkward gallantry; ‘and I am persuaded that when sanc-
tioned by the express authority of both your excellent
parents, my proposals will not fail of being acceptable.’
To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Eliza-
beth would make no reply, and immediately and in silence
withdrew; determined, if he persisted in considering her re-
peated refusals as flattering encouragement, to apply to her
father, whose negative might be uttered in such a manner as
to be decisive, and whose behavior at least could not be mis-
taken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.

Chapter 20
M r. Collins was not left long to the silent contempla-

tion of his successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having
dawdled about in the vestibule to watch for the end of the
conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open the door and
with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she en-
tered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and
herself in warm terms on the happy prospect or their nearer
connection. Mr. Collins received and returned these felici-
tations with equal pleasure, and then proceeded to relate
the particulars of their interview, with the result of which
he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the re-
fusal which his cousin had steadfastly given him would
naturally flow from her bashful modesty and the genuine
delicacy of her character.
This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet; she
would have been glad to be equally satisfied that her daugh-
ter had meant to encourage him by protesting against his
proposals, but she dared not believe it, and could not help
saying so.
‘But, depend upon it, Mr. Collins,’ she added, ‘that Lizzy
shall be brought to reason. I will speak to her about it di-
rectly. She is a very headstrong, foolish girl, and does not
know her own interest but I will MAKE her know it.’
‘Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,’ cried Mr. Col-

lins; ‘but if she is really headstrong and foolish, I know not
whether she would altogether be a very desirable wife to a
man in my situation, who naturally looks for happiness in
the marriage state. If therefore she actually persists in re-
jecting my suit, perhaps it were better not to force her into
accepting me, because if liable to such defects of temper, she
could not contribute much to my felicity.’
‘Sir, you quite misunderstand me,’ said Mrs. Bennet,
alarmed. ‘Lizzy is only headstrong in such matters as these.
In everything else she is as good-natured a girl as ever lived.
I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and we shall very soon set-
tle it with her, I am sure.’
She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying in-
stantly to her husband, called out as she entered the library,
‘Oh! Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in
an uproar. You must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Col-
lins, for she vows she will not have him, and if you do not
make haste he will change his mind and not have HER.’
Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered,
and fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern which
was not in the least altered by her communication.
‘I have not the pleasure of understanding you,’ said he,
when she had finished her speech. ‘Of what are you talk-
ing?’
‘Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not
have Mr. Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will
not have Lizzy.’
‘And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems an hope-
less business.’

‘Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist
upon her marrying him.’
‘Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion.’
Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was sum-
moned to the library.
‘Come here, child,’ cried her father as she appeared. ‘I
have sent for you on an affair of importance. I understand
that Mr. Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it
true?’ Elizabeth replied that it was. ‘Very well—and this of-
fer of marriage you have refused?’
‘I have, sir.’
‘Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother in-
sists upon your accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?’
‘Yes, or I will never see her again.’
‘An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From
this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your
mother will never see you again if you do NOT marry Mr.
Collins, and I will never see you again if you DO.’
Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of
such a beginning, but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded her-
self that her husband regarded the affair as she wished, was
excessively disappointed.
‘What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, in talking this way? You
promised me to INSIST upon her marrying him.’
‘My dear,’ replied her husband, ‘I have two small favours
to request. First, that you will allow me the free use of my
understanding on the present occasion; and secondly, of my
room. I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon
as may be.’

Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her
husband, did Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to
Elizabeth again and again; coaxed and threatened her by
turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane in her interest; but
Jane, with all possible mildness, declined interfering; and
Elizabeth, sometimes with real earnestness, and sometimes
with playful gaiety, replied to her attacks. Though her man-
ner varied, however, her determination never did.
Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on
what had passed. He thought too well of himself to com-
prehend on what motives his cousin could refuse him; and
though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other way. His
regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of
her deserving her mother’s reproach prevented his feeling
any regret.
While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas
came to spend the day with them. She was met in the ves-
tibule by Lydia, who, flying to her, cried in a half whisper,
‘I am glad you are come, for there is such fun here! What
do you think has happened this morning? Mr. Collins has
made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him.’
Charlotte hardly had time to answer, before they were
joined by Kitty, who came to tell the same news; and no
sooner had they entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs.
Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on the subject,
calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating
her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes
of all her family. ‘Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,’ she added
in a melancholy tone, ‘for nobody is on my side, nobody

takes part with me. I am cruelly used, nobody feels for my
poor nerves.’
Charlotte’s reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and
Elizabeth.
‘Aye, there she comes,’ continued Mrs. Bennet, ‘looking
as unconcerned as may be, and caring no more for us than
if we were at York, provided she can have her own way. But
I tell you, Miss Lizzy—if you take it into your head to go on
refusing every offer of marriage in this way, you will never
get a husband at all—and I am sure I do not know who is
to maintain you when your father is dead. I shall not be
able to keep you—and so I warn you. I have done with you
from this very day. I told you in the library, you know, that
I should never speak to you again, and you will find me as
good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking to undutiful
children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in talking
to anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous com-
plaints can have no great inclination for talking. Nobody
can tell what I suffer! But it is always so. Those who do not
complain are never pitied.’
Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensi-
ble that any attempt to reason with her or soothe her would
only increase the irritation. She talked on, therefore, with-
out interruption from any of them, till they were joined by
Mr. Collins, who entered the room with an air more stately
than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to the girls,
‘Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your
tongues, and let me and Mr. Collins have a little conversa-
tion together.’

Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty
followed, but Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear
all she could; and Charlotte, detained first by the civility of
Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after herself and all her fam-
ily were very minute, and then by a little curiosity, satisfied
herself with walking to the window and pretending not to
hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet began the projected
conversation: ‘Oh! Mr. Collins!’
‘My dear madam,’ replied he, ‘let us be for ever silent on
this point. Far be it from me,’ he presently continued, in
a voice that marked his displeasure, ‘to resent the behav-
iour of your daughter. Resignation to inevitable evils is the
evil duty of us all; the peculiar duty of a young man who
has been so fortunate as I have been in early preferment;
and I trust I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feel-
ing a doubt of my positive happiness had my fair cousin
honoured me with her hand; for I have often observed that
resignation is never so perfect as when the blessing denied
begins to lose somewhat of its value in our estimation. You
will not, I hope, consider me as showing any disrespect to
your family, my dear madam, by thus withdrawing my pre-
tensions to your daughter’s favour, without having paid
yourself and Mr. Bennet the compliment of requesting you
to interpose your authority in my behalf. My conduct may,
I fear, be objectionable in having accepted my dismission
from your daughter’s lips instead of your own. But we are
all liable to error. I have certainly meant well through the
whole affair. My object has been to secure an amiable com-
panion for myself, with due consideration for the advantage

of all your family, and if my MANNER has been at all rep-
rehensible, I here beg leave to apologise.’

Chapter 21
T he discussion of Mr. Collins’s offer was now nearly at an

end, and Elizabeth had only to suffer from the uncom-
fortable feelings necessarily attending it, and occasionally
from some peevish allusions of her mother. As for the gen-
tleman himself, HIS feelings were chiefly expressed, not by
embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid her, but
by stiffness of manner and resentful silence. He scarcely
ever spoke to her, and the assiduous attentions which he
had been so sensible of himself were transferred for the
rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose civility in listening to
him was a seasonable relief to them all, and especially to
her friend.
The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet’s ill-
humour or ill health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state
of angry pride. Elizabeth had hoped that his resentment
might shorten his visit, but his plan did not appear in the
least affected by it. He was always to have gone on Saturday,
and to Saturday he meant to stay.
After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to inquire
if Mr. Wickham were returned, and to lament over his ab-
sence from the Netherfield ball. He joined them on their
entering the town, and attended them to their aunt’s where
his regret and vexation, and the concern of everybody, was
well talked over. To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily ac-

knowledged that the necessity of his absence HAD been
self-imposed.
‘I found,’ said he, ‘as the time drew near that I had better
not meet Mr. Darcy; that to be in the same room, the same
party with him for so many hours together, might be more
than I could bear, and that scenes might arise unpleasant to
more than myself.’
She highly approved his forbearance, and they had lei-
sure for a full discussion of it, and for all the commendation
which they civilly bestowed on each other, as Wickham and
another officer walked back with them to Longbourn, and
during the walk he particularly attended to her. His ac-
companying them was a double advantage; she felt all the
compliment it offered to herself, and it was most accept-
able as an occasion of introducing him to her father and
mother.
Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss
Bennet; it came from Netherfield. The envelope contained a
sheet of elegant, little, hot-pressed paper, well covered with
a lady’s fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister’s
countenance change as she read it, and saw her dwelling in-
tently on some particular passages. Jane recollected herself
soon, and putting the letter away, tried to join with her usu-
al cheerfulness in the general conversation; but Elizabeth
felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention
even from Wickham; and no sooner had he and he com-
panion taken leave, than a glance from Jane invited her to
follow her upstairs. When they had gained their own room,
Jane, taking out the letter, said:

‘This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains has sur-
prised me a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield
by this time, and are on their way to town—and without
any intention of coming back again. You shall hear what
she says.’
She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised
the information of their having just resolved to follow their
brother to town directly, and of their meaning to dine in
Grosvenor Street, where Mr. Hurst had a house. The next
was in these words: ‘I do not pretend to regret anything I
shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my dear-
est friend; but we will hope, at some future period, to enjoy
many returns of that delightful intercourse we have known,
and in the meanwhile may lessen the pain of separation
by a very frequent and most unreserved correspondence.
I depend on you for that.’ To these highflown expressions
Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of distrust; and
though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she
saw nothing in it really to lament; it was not to be sup-
posed that their absence from Netherfield would prevent
Mr. Bingley’s being there; and as to the loss of their society,
she was persuaded that Jane must cease to regard it, in the
enjoyment of his.
‘It is unlucky,’ said she, after a short pause, ‘that you
should not be able to see your friends before they leave the
country. But may we not hope that the period of future
happiness to which Miss Bingley looks forward may arrive
earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful intercourse
you have known as friends will be renewed with yet greater

satisfaction as sisters? Mr. Bingley will not be detained in
London by them.’
‘Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will re-
turn into Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you:.’
‘When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the
business which took him to London might be concluded in
three or four days; but as we are certain it cannot be so, and
at the same time convinced that when Charles gets to town
he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have determined
on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to
spend his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my
acquaintances are already there for the winter; I wish that I
could hear that you, my dearest friend, had any intention of
making one of the crowd—but of that I despair. I sincerely
hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in the
gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your
beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the
loss of the three of whom we shall deprive you.’
‘It is evident by this,’ added Jane, ‘that he comes back no
more this winter.’
‘It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean that
he SHOULD.’
‘Why will you think so? It must be his own doing. He is
his own master. But you do not know ALL. I WILL read you
the passage which particularly hurts me. I will have no re-
serves from YOU.’
‘Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister; and, to confess
the truth, WE are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I re-
ally do not think Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty,

elegance, and accomplishments; and the affection she in-
spires in Louisa and myself is heightened into something
still more interesting, from the hope we dare entertain of
her being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever
before mentioned to you my feelings on this subject; but I
will not leave the country without confiding them, and I
trust you will not esteem them unreasonable. My brother
admires her greatly already; he will have frequent oppor-
tunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing; her
relations all wish the connection as much as his own; and a
sister’s partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call
Charles most capable of engaging any woman’s heart. With
all these circumstances to favour an attachment, and noth-
ing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Jane, in indulging
the hope of an event which will secure the happiness of so
many?’
‘What do you think of THIS sentence, my dear Lizzy?’
said Jane as she finished it. ‘Is it not clear enough? Does
it not expressly declare that Caroline neither expects nor
wishes me to be her sister; that she is perfectly convinced of
her brother’s indifference; and that if she suspects the na-
ture of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to put
me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the
subject?’
‘Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear
it?’
‘Most willingly.’
‘You shall have it in a few words. Miss Bingley sees that
her brother is in love with you, and wants him to marry

Miss Darcy. She follows him to town in hope of keeping
him there, and tries to persuade you that he does not care
about you.’
Jane shook her head.
‘Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. No one who has
ever seen you together can doubt his affection. Miss Bing-
ley, I am sure, cannot. She is not such a simpleton. Could
she have seen half as much love in Mr. Darcy for herself,
she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the case is
this: We are not rich enough or grand enough for them; and
she is the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother,
from the notion that when there has been ONE intermar-
riage, she may have less trouble in achieving a second; in
which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare say it
would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But,
my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because
Miss Bingley tells you her brother greatly admires Miss
Darcy, he is in the smallest degree less sensible of YOUR
merit than when he took leave of you on Tuesday, or that it
will be in her power to persuade him that, instead of being
in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend.’
‘If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,’ replied Jane, ‘your
representation of all this might make me quite easy. But I
know the foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wil-
fully deceiving anyone; and all that I can hope in this case
is that she is deceiving herself.’
‘That is right. You could not have started a more happy
idea, since you will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to
be deceived, by all means. You have now done your duty by

her, and must fret no longer.’
‘But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the
best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all
wishing him to marry elsewhere?’
‘You must decide for yourself,’ said Elizabeth; ‘and
if, upon mature deliberation, you find that the misery of
disobliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the
happiness of being his wife, I advise you by all means to
refuse him.’
‘How can you talk so?’ said Jane, faintly smiling. ‘You
must know that though I should be exceedingly grieved at
their disapprobation, I could not hesitate.’
‘I did not think you would; and that being the case, I can-
not consider your situation with much compassion.’
‘But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will nev-
er be required. A thousand things may arise in six months!’
The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with
the utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the sugges-
tion of Caroline’s interested wishes, and she could not for
a moment suppose that those wishes, however openly or
artfully spoken, could influence a young man so totally in-
dependent of everyone.
She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what
she felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing
its happy effect. Jane’s temper was not desponding, and she
was gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affection
sometimes overcame the hope, that Bingley would return
to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart.
They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the de-

parture of the family, without being alarmed on the score
of the gentleman’s conduct; but even this partial communi-
cation gave her a great deal of concern, and she bewailed it
as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen to go
away just as they were all getting so intimate together. After
lamenting it, however, at some length, she had the consola-
tion that Mr. Bingley would be soon down again and soon
dining at Longbourn, and the conclusion of all was the
comfortable declaration, that though he had been invited
only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two
full courses.

Chapter 22
T he Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases and

again during the chief of the day was Miss Lucas so kind
as to listen to Mr. Collins. Elizabeth took an opportunity of
thanking her. ‘It keeps him in good humour,’ said she, ‘and
I am more obliged to you than I can express.’ Charlotte as-
sured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and that
it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This
was very amiable, but Charlotte’s kindness extended farther
than Elizabeth had any conception of; its object was noth-
ing else than to secure her from any return of Mr. Collins’s
addresses, by engaging them towards herself. Such was
Miss Lucas’s scheme; and appearances were so favourable,
that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost
secure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire
so very soon. But here she did injustice to the fire and in-
dependence of his character, for it led him to escape out of
Longbourn House the next morning with admirable sly-
ness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw himself at her feet.
He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins, from a
conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail
to conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the
attempt known till its success might be known likewise; for
though feeling almost secure, and with reason, for Char-
lotte had been tolerably encouraging, he was comparatively

diffident since the adventure of Wednesday. His reception,
however, was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas per-
ceived him from an upper window as he walked towards
the house, and instantly set out to meet him accidentally in
the lane. But little had she dared to hope that so much love
and eloquence awaited her there.
In as short a time as Mr. Collins’s long speeches would al-
low, everything was settled between them to the satisfaction
of both; and as they entered the house he earnestly entreat-
ed her to name the day that was to make him the happiest of
men; and though such a solicitation must be waived for the
present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with his happi-
ness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature
must guard his courtship from any charm that could make
a woman wish for its continuance; and Miss Lucas, who ac-
cepted him solely from the pure and disinterested desire of
an establishment, cared not how soon that establishment
were gained.
Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for
their consent; and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity.
Mr. Collins’s present circumstances made it a most eligible
match for their daughter, to whom they could give little for-
tune; and his prospects of future wealth were exceedingly
fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate, with more in-
terest than the matter had ever excited before, how many
years longer Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William
gave it as his decided opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins
should be in possession of the Longbourn estate, it would
be highly expedient that both he and his wife should make

their appearance at St. James’s. The whole family, in short,
were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The younger girls
formed hopes of COMING OUT a year or two sooner than
they might otherwise have done; and the boys were relieved
from their apprehension of Charlotte’s dying an old maid.
Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had gained
her point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections
were in general satisfactory. Mr. Collins, to be sure, was
neither sensible nor agreeable; his society was irksome, and
his attachment to her must be imaginary. But still he would
be her husband. Without thinking highly either of men or
matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it was the
only provision for well-educated young women of small for-
tune, and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be
their pleasantest preservative from want. This preservative
she had now obtained; and at the age of twenty-seven, with-
out having ever been handsome, she felt all the good luck
of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business was
the surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose
friendship she valued beyond that of any other person. Eliz-
abeth would wonder, and probably would blame her; and
though her resolution was not to be shaken, her feelings
must be hurt by such a disapprobation. She resolved to give
her the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Col-
lins, when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no
hint of what had passed before any of the family. A promise
of secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could
not be kept without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by
his long absence burst forth in such very direct questions

on his return as required some ingenuity to evade, and he
was at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was
longing to publish his prosperous love.
As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow
to see any of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was
performed when the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs.
Bennet, with great politeness and cordiality, said how hap-
py they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever
his engagements might allow him to visit them.
‘My dear madam,’ he replied, ‘this invitation is particu-
larly gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to
receive; and you may be very certain that I shall avail myself
of it as soon as possible.’
They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by
no means wish for so speedy a return, immediately said:
‘But is there not danger of Lady Catherine’s disapproba-
tion here, my good sir? You had better neglect your relations
than run the risk of offending your patroness.’
‘My dear sir,’ replied Mr. Collins,’ I am particularly
obliged to you for this friendly caution, and you may de-
pend upon my not taking so material a step without her
ladyship’s concurrence.’
‘You cannot be too much upon your guard. Risk any-
thing rather than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to
be raised by your coming to us again, which I should think
exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied
that WE shall take no offence.’
‘Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited
by such affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will

speedily receive from me a letter of thanks for this, and for
every other mark of your regard during my stay in Hert-
fordshire. As for my fair cousins, though my absence may
not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now take
the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not ex-
cepting my cousin Elizabeth.’
With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of
them equally surprised that he meditated a quick return.
Mrs. Bennet wished to understand by it that he thought of
paying his addresses to one of her younger girls, and Mary
might have been prevailed on to accept him. She rated his
abilities much higher than any of the others; there was a so-
lidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though
by no means so clever as herself, she thought that if encour-
aged to read and improve himself by such an example as
hers, he might become a very agreeable companion. But on
the following morning, every hope of this kind was done
away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a pri-
vate conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day
before.
The possibility of Mr. Collins’s fancying herself in love
with her friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the
last day or two; but that Charlotte could encourage him
seemed almost as far from possibility as she could encour-
age him herself, and her astonishment was consequently so
great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and she
could not help crying out:
‘Engaged to Mr. Collins! My dear Charlotte—impossi-
ble!’

The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had com-
manded in telling her story, gave way to a momentary
confusion here on receiving so direct a reproach; though,
as it was no more than she expected, she soon regained her
composure, and calmly replied:
‘Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you
think it incredible that Mr. Collins should be able to pro-
cure any woman’s good opinion, because he was not so
happy as to succeed with you?’
But Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a
strong effort for it, was able to assure with tolerable firmness
that the prospect of their relationship was highly grateful to
her, and that she wished her all imaginable happiness.
‘I see what you are feeling,’ replied Charlotte. ‘You must
be surprised, very much surprised—so lately as Mr. Collins
was wishing to marry you. But when you have had time to
think it over, I hope you will be satisfied with what I have
done. I am not romantic, you know; I never was. I ask only a
comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins’s character,
connection, and situation in life, I am convinced that my
chance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can
boast on entering the marriage state.’
Elizabeth quietly answered ‘Undoubtedly;’ and after
an awkward pause, they returned to the rest of the family.
Charlotte did not stay much longer, and Elizabeth was then
left to reflect on what she had heard. It was a long time be-
fore she became at all reconciled to the idea of so unsuitable
a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins’s making two offers
of marriage within three days was nothing in comparison

of his being now accepted. She had always felt that Char-
lotte’s opinion of matrimony was not exactly like her own,
but she had not supposed it to be possible that, when called
into action, she would have sacrificed every better feeling
to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins was
a most humiliating picture! And to the pang of a friend
disgracing herself and sunk in her esteem, was added the
distressing conviction that it was impossible for that friend
to be tolerably happy in the lot she had chosen.

Chapter 23
E lizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, re-

flecting on what she had heard, and doubting whether
she was authorised to mention it, when Sir William Lu-
cas himself appeared, sent by his daughter, to announce
her engagement to the family. With many compliments to
them, and much self-gratulation on the prospect of a con-
nection between the houses, he unfolded the matter—to an
audience not merely wondering, but incredulous; for Mrs.
Bennet, with more perseverance than politeness, protested
he must be entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always unguarded
and often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed:
‘Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story?
Do not you know that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?’
Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could
have borne without anger such treatment; but Sir William’s
good breeding carried him through it all; and though he
begged leave to be positive as to the truth of his information,
he listened to all their impertinence with the most forbear-
ing courtesy.
Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him
from so unpleasant a situation, now put herself forward to
confirm his account, by mentioning her prior knowledge of
it from Charlotte herself; and endeavoured to put a stop to
the exclamations of her mother and sisters by the earnest-

ness of her congratulations to Sir William, in which she was
readily joined by Jane, and by making a variety of remarks
on the happiness that might be expected from the match,
the excellent character of Mr. Collins, and the convenient
distance of Hunsford from London.
Mrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a
great deal while Sir William remained; but no sooner had
he left them than her feelings found a rapid vent. In the first
place, she persisted in disbelieving the whole of the matter;
secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins had been taken
in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be happy to-
gether; and fourthly, that the match might be broken off.
Two inferences, however, were plainly deduced from the
whole: one, that Elizabeth was the real cause of the mis-
chief; and the other that she herself had been barbarously
misused by them all; and on these two points she principal-
ly dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could console
and nothing could appease her. Nor did that day wear out
her resentment. A week elapsed before she could see Eliza-
beth without scolding her, a month passed away before she
could speak to Sir William or Lady Lucas without being
rude, and many months were gone before she could at all
forgive their daughter.
Mr. Bennet’s emotions were much more tranquil on the
occasion, and such as he did experience he pronounced to
be of a most agreeable sort; for it gratified him, he said, to
discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had been used to
think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and more
foolish than his daughter!

Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match; but
she said less of her astonishment than of her earnest de-
sire for their happiness; nor could Elizabeth persuade her
to consider it as improbable. Kitty and Lydia were far from
envying Miss Lucas, for Mr. Collins was only a clergyman;
and it affected them in no other way than as a piece of news
to spread at Meryton.
Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on be-
ing able to retort on Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a
daughter well married; and she called at Longbourn rather
oftener than usual to say how happy she was, though Mrs.
Bennet’s sour looks and ill-natured remarks might have
been enough to drive happiness away.
Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint
which kept them mutually silent on the subject; and Eliz-
abeth felt persuaded that no real confidence could ever
subsist between them again. Her disappointment in Char-
lotte made her turn with fonder regard to her sister, of whose
rectitude and delicacy she was sure her opinion could never
be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew daily more
anxious, as Bingley had now been gone a week and nothing
more was heard of his return.
Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and
was counting the days till she might reasonably hope to
hear again. The promised letter of thanks from Mr. Collins
arrived on Tuesday, addressed to their father, and written
with all the solemnity of gratitude which a twelvemonth’s
abode in the family might have prompted. After discharg-
ing his conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform

them, with many rapturous expressions, of his happiness
in having obtained the affection of their amiable neighbour,
Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was merely with the
view of enjoying her society that he had been so ready to
close with their kind wish of seeing him again at Longbourn,
whither he hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight;
for Lady Catherine, he added, so heartily approved his mar-
riage, that she wished it to take place as soon as possible,
which he trusted would be an unanswerable argument with
his amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him
the happiest of men.
Mr. Collins’s return into Hertfordshire was no longer a
matter of pleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary, she was
as much disposed to complain of it as her husband. It was
very strange that he should come to Longbourn instead of
to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient and exceed-
ingly troublesome. She hated having visitors in the house
while her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all
people the most disagreeable. Such were the gentle mur-
murs of Mrs. Bennet, and they gave way only to the greater
distress of Mr. Bingley’s continued absence.
Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this sub-
ject. Day after day passed away without bringing any other
tidings of him than the report which shortly prevailed in
Meryton of his coming no more to Netherfield the whole
winter; a report which highly incensed Mrs. Bennet, and
which she never failed to contradict as a most scandalous
falsehood.
Even Elizabeth began to fear—not that Bingley was

indifferent—but that his sisters would be successful in
keeping him away. Unwilling as she was to admit an idea
so destructive of Jane’s happiness, and so dishonorable to
the stability of her lover, she could not prevent its frequent-
ly occurring. The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters
and of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions
of Miss Darcy and the amusements of London might be too
much, she feared, for the strength of his attachment.
As for Jane, HER anxiety under this suspense was, of
course, more painful than Elizabeth’s, but whatever she felt
she was desirous of concealing, and between herself and
Elizabeth, therefore, the subject was never alluded to. But
as no such delicacy restrained her mother, an hour seldom
passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her im-
patience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that
if he did not come back she would think herself very ill used.
It needed all Jane’s steady mildness to bear these attacks
with tolerable tranquillity.
Mr. Collins returned most punctually on Monday fort-
night, but his reception at Longbourn was not quite so
gracious as it had been on his first introduction. He was
too happy, however, to need much attention; and luckily
for the others, the business of love-making relieved them
from a great deal of his company. The chief of every day was
spent by him at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to
Longbourn only in time to make an apology for his absence
before the family went to bed.
Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very
mention of anything concerning the match threw her into

an agony of ill-humour, and wherever she went she was sure
of hearing it talked of. The sight of Miss Lucas was odious
to her. As her successor in that house, she regarded her with
jealous abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see them,
she concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession;
and whenever she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was
convinced that they were talking of the Longbourn estate,
and resolving to turn herself and her daughters out of the
house, as soon as Mr. Bennet were dead. She complained
bitterly of all this to her husband.
‘Indeed, Mr. Bennet,’ said she, ‘it is very hard to think
that Charlotte Lucas should ever be mistress of this house,
that I should be forced to make way for HER, and live to see
her take her place in it!’
‘My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let
us hope for better things. Let us flatter ourselves that I may
be the survivor.’
This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and there-
fore, instead of making any answer, she went on as before.
‘I cannot bear to think that they should have all this es-
tate. If it was not for the entail, I should not mind it.’
‘What should not you mind?’
‘I should not mind anything at all.’
‘Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of
such insensibility.’
‘I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for anything about
the entail. How anyone could have the conscience to entail
away an estate from one’s own daughters, I cannot under-
stand; and all for the sake of Mr. Collins too! Why should

HE have it more than anybody else?’
‘I leave it to yourself to determine,’ said Mr. Bennet.

Chapter 24
M iss Bingley’s letter arrived, and put an end to doubt.

The very first sentence conveyed the assurance of
their being all settled in London for the winter, and con-
cluded with her brother’s regret at not having had time to
pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left
the country.
Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend
to the rest of the letter, she found little, except the professed
affection of the writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss
Darcy’s praise occupied the chief of it. Her many attrac-
tions were again dwelt on, and Caroline boasted joyfully of
their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict the ac-
complishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in
her former letter. She wrote also with great pleasure of her
brother’s being an inmate of Mr. Darcy’s house, and men-
tioned with raptures some plans of the latter with regard to
new furniture.
Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the
chief of all this, heard it in silent indignation. Her heart
was divided between concern for her sister, and resentment
against all others. To Caroline’s assertion of her brother’s
being partial to Miss Darcy she paid no credit. That he was
really fond of Jane, she doubted no more than she had ever
done; and much as she had always been disposed to like

him, she could not think without anger, hardly without
contempt, on that easiness of temper, that want of proper
resolution, which now made him the slave of his designing
friends, and led him to sacrifice of his own happiness to the
caprice of their inclination. Had his own happiness, how-
ever, been the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to
sport with it in whatever manner he thought best, but her
sister’s was involved in it, as she thought he must be sensible
himself. It was a subject, in short, on which reflection would
be long indulged, and must be unavailing. She could think
of nothing else; and yet whether Bingley’s regard had really
died away, or were suppressed by his friends’ interference;
whether he had been aware of Jane’s attachment, or wheth-
er it had escaped his observation; whatever were the case,
though her opinion of him must be materially affected by
the difference, her sister’s situation remained the same, her
peace equally wounded.
A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of
her feelings to Elizabeth; but at last, on Mrs. Bennet’s leav-
ing them together, after a longer irritation than usual about
Netherfield and its master, she could not help saying:
‘Oh, that my dear mother had more command over her-
self! She can have no idea of the pain she gives me by her
continual reflections on him. But I will not repine. It can-
not last long. He will be forgot, and we shall all be as we
were before.’
Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solici-
tude, but said nothing.
‘You doubt me,’ cried Jane, slightly colouring; ‘indeed,

you have no reason. He may live in my memory as the most
amiable man of my acquaintance, but that is all. I have noth-
ing either to hope or fear, and nothing to reproach him with.
Thank God! I have not THAT pain. A little time, therefore—
I shall certainly try to get the better.’
With a stronger voice she soon added, ‘I have this com-
fort immediately, that it has not been more than an error of
fancy on my side, and that it has done no harm to anyone
but myself.’
‘My dear Jane!’ exclaimed Elizabeth, ‘you are too good.
Your sweetness and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do
not know what to say to you. I feel as if I had never done you
justice, or loved you as you deserve.’
Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit,
and threw back the praise on her sister’s warm affection.
‘Nay,’ said Elizabeth, ‘this is not fair. YOU wish to think
all the world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of any-
body. I only want to think YOU perfect, and you set yourself
against it. Do not be afraid of my running into any excess,
of my encroaching on your privilege of universal good-will.
You need not. There are few people whom I really love, and
still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world,
the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms
my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and
of the little dependence that can be placed on the appear-
ance of merit or sense. I have met with two instances lately,
one I will not mention; the other is Charlotte’s marriage. It
is unaccountable! In every view it is unaccountable!’
‘My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these.

They will ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance
enough for difference of situation and temper. Consider
Mr. Collins’s respectability, and Charlotte’s steady, prudent
character. Remember that she is one of a large family; that
as to fortune, it is a most eligible match; and be ready to be-
lieve, for everybody’s sake, that she may feel something like
regard and esteem for our cousin.’
‘To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything,
but no one else could be benefited by such a belief as this;
for were I persuaded that Charlotte had any regard for him,
I should only think worse of her understanding than I now
do of her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a conceited,
pompous, narrow-minded, silly man; you know he is, as
well as I do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the wom-
an who married him cannot have a proper way of thinking.
You shall not defend her, though it is Charlotte Lucas. You
shall not, for the sake of one individual, change the mean-
ing of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade
yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibil-
ity of danger security for happiness.’
‘I must think your language too strong in speaking of
both,’ replied Jane; ‘and I hope you will be convinced of it
by seeing them happy together. But enough of this. You al-
luded to something else. You mentioned TWO instances. I
cannot misunderstand you, but I entreat you, dear Lizzy, not
to pain me by thinking THAT PERSON to blame, and say-
ing your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to
fancy ourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect a
lively young man to be always so guarded and circumspect.

It is very often nothing but our own vanity that deceives us.
Women fancy admiration means more than it does.’
‘And men take care that they should.’
‘If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I
have no idea of there being so much design in the world as
some persons imagine.’
‘I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley’s con-
duct to design,’ said Elizabeth; ‘but without scheming to do
wrong, or to make others unhappy, there may be error, and
there may be misery. Thoughtlessness, want of attention to
other people’s feelings, and want of resolution, will do the
business.’
‘And do you impute it to either of those?’
‘Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by
saying what I think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst
you can.’
‘You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence
him?’
‘Yes, in conjunction with his friend.’
‘I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence
him? They can only wish his happiness; and if he is attached
to me, no other woman can secure it.’
‘Your first position is false. They may wish many things
besides his happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth
and consequence; they may wish him to marry a girl who
has all the importance of money, great connections, and
pride.’
‘Beyond a doubt, they DO wish him to choose Miss Dar-
cy,’ replied Jane; ‘but this may be from better feelings than

you are supposing. They have known her much longer than
they have known me; no wonder if they love her better. But,
whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely they
should have opposed their brother’s. What sister would
think herself at liberty to do it, unless there were something
very objectionable? If they believed him attached to me,
they would not try to part us; if he were so, they could not
succeed. By supposing such an affection, you make every-
body acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most unhappy.
Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having
been mistaken—or, at least, it is light, it is nothing in com-
parison of what I should feel in thinking ill of him or his
sisters. Let me take it in the best light, in the light in which
it may be understood.’
Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this
time Mr. Bingley’s name was scarcely ever mentioned be-
tween them.
Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his
returning no more, and though a day seldom passed in
which Elizabeth did not account for it clearly, there was lit-
tle chance of her ever considering it with less perplexity. Her
daughter endeavoured to convince her of what she did not
believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely
the effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased
when he saw her no more; but though the probability of the
statement was admitted at the time, she had the same story
to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet’s best comfort was that Mr.
Bingley must be down again in the summer.
Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. ‘So, Lizzy,’ said

he one day, ‘your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratu-
late her. Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed
a little in love now and then. It is something to think of,
and it gives her a sort of distinction among her compan-
ions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to
be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers
enough in Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the
country. Let Wickham be YOUR man. He is a pleasant fel-
low, and would jilt you creditably.’
‘Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy
me. We must not all expect Jane’s good fortune.’
‘True,’ said Mr. Bennet, ‘but it is a comfort to think that
whatever of that kind may befall you, you have an affection-
ate mother who will make the most of it.’
Mr. Wickham’s society was of material service in dis-
pelling the gloom which the late perverse occurrences had
thrown on many of the Longbourn family. They saw him
often, and to his other recommendations was now added
that of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had
already heard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had
suffered from him, was now openly acknowledged and pub-
licly canvassed; and everybody was pleased to know how
much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they had
known anything of the matter.
Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose
there might be any extenuating circumstances in the case,
unknown to the society of Hertfordshire; her mild and
steady candour always pleaded for allowances, and urged
the possibility of mistakes—but by everybody else Mr. Dar-

cy was condemned as the worst of men.

Chapter 25
A fter a week spent in professions of love and schemes of

felicity, Mr. Collins was called from his amiable Char-
lotte by the arrival of Saturday. The pain of separation,
however, might be alleviated on his side, by preparations
for the reception of his bride; as he had reason to hope, that
shortly after his return into Hertfordshire, the day would
be fixed that was to make him the happiest of men. He took
leave of his relations at Longbourn with as much solemni-
ty as before; wished his fair cousins health and happiness
again, and promised their father another letter of thanks.
On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure
of receiving her brother and his wife, who came as usual
to spend the Christmas at Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was
a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly superior to his sis-
ter, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield ladies
would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived
by trade, and within view of his own warehouses, could
have been so well-bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who
was several years younger than Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Phil-
lips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant woman, and a great
favourite with all her Longbourn nieces. Between the two
eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a particular re-
gard. They had frequently been staying with her in town.
The first part of Mrs. Gardiner’s business on her arrival

was to distribute her presents and describe the newest fash-
ions. When this was done she had a less active part to play.
It became her turn to listen. Mrs. Bennet had many griev-
ances to relate, and much to complain of. They had all been
very ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her girls
had been upon the point of marriage, and after all there was
nothing in it.
‘I do not blame Jane,’ she continued, ‘for Jane would have
got Mr. Bingley if she could. But Lizzy! Oh, sister! It is very
hard to think that she might have been Mr. Collins’s wife
by this time, had it not been for her own perverseness. He
made her an offer in this very room, and she refused him.
The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have a daugh-
ter married before I have, and that the Longbourn estate is
just as much entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful
people indeed, sister. They are all for what they can get. I
am sorry to say it of them, but so it is. It makes me very ner-
vous and poorly, to be thwarted so in my own family, and to
have neighbours who think of themselves before anybody
else. However, your coming just at this time is the greatest
of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us, of
long sleeves.’
Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been
given before, in the course of Jane and Elizabeth’s corre-
spondence with her, made her sister a slight answer, and, in
compassion to her nieces, turned the conversation.
When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more
on the subject. ‘It seems likely to have been a desirable
match for Jane,’ said she. ‘I am sorry it went off. But these

things happen so often! A young man, such as you describe
Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl for a few
weeks, and when accident separates them, so easily forgets
her, that these sort of inconsistencies are very frequent.’
‘An excellent consolation in its way,’ said Elizabeth, ‘but
it will not do for US. We do not suffer by ACCIDENT. It
does not often happen that the interference of friends will
persuade a young man of independent fortune to think no
more of a girl whom he was violently in love with only a few
days before.’
‘But that expression of ‘violently in love’ is so hackneyed,
so doubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It
is as often applied to feelings which arise from a half-hour’s
acquaintance, as to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how VI-
OLENT WAS Mr. Bingley’s love?’
‘I never saw a more promising inclination; he was grow-
ing quite inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed
by her. Every time they met, it was more decided and re-
markable. At his own ball he offended two or three young
ladies, by not asking them to dance; and I spoke to him
twice myself, without receiving an answer. Could there be
finer symptoms? Is not general incivility the very essence
of love?’
‘Oh, yes!—of that kind of love which I suppose him to
have felt. Poor Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her
disposition, she may not get over it immediately. It had bet-
ter have happened to YOU, Lizzy; you would have laughed
yourself out of it sooner. But do you think she would be pre-
vailed upon to go back with us? Change of scene might be

of service—and perhaps a little relief from home may be as
useful as anything.’
Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal,
and felt persuaded of her sister’s ready acquiescence.
‘I hope,’ added Mrs. Gardiner, ‘that no consideration
with regard to this young man will influence her. We live
in so different a part of town, all our connections are so dif-
ferent, and, as you well know, we go out so little, that it is
very improbable that they should meet at all, unless he re-
ally comes to see her.’
‘And THAT is quite impossible; for he is now in the cus-
tody of his friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him
to call on Jane in such a part of London! My dear aunt, how
could you think of it? Mr. Darcy may perhaps have HEARD
of such a place as Gracechurch Street, but he would hardly
think a month’s ablution enough to cleanse him from its
impurities, were he once to enter it; and depend upon it, Mr.
Bingley never stirs without him.’
‘So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But
does not Jane correspond with his sister? SHE will not be
able to help calling.’
‘She will drop the acquaintance entirely.’
But in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected
to place this point, as well as the still more interesting one
of Bingley’s being withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solic-
itude on the subject which convinced her, on examination,
that she did not consider it entirely hopeless. It was possible,
and sometimes she thought it probable, that his affection
might be reanimated, and the influence of his friends suc-

cessfully combated by the more natural influence of Jane’s
attractions.
Miss Bennet accepted her aunt’s invitation with pleasure;
and the Bingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the
same time, than as she hoped by Caroline’s not living in the
same house with her brother, she might occasionally spend
a morning with her, without any danger of seeing him.
The Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with
the Phillipses, the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a
day without its engagement. Mrs. Bennet had so careful-
ly provided for the entertainment of her brother and sister,
that they did not once sit down to a family dinner. When
the engagement was for home, some of the officers always
made part of it—of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure
to be one; and on these occasion, Mrs. Gardiner, rendered
suspicious by Elizabeth’s warm commendation, narrowly
observed them both. Without supposing them, from what
she saw, to be very seriously in love, their preference of each
other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy; and she
resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before she left
Hertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of en-
couraging such an attachment.
To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording
pleasure, unconnected with his general powers. About ten
or a dozen years ago, before her marriage, she had spent a
considerable time in that very part of Derbyshire to which
he belonged. They had, therefore, many acquaintances in
common; and though Wickham had been little there since
the death of Darcy’s father, it was yet in his power to give

her fresher intelligence of her former friends than she had
been in the way of procuring.
Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late
Mr. Darcy by character perfectly well. Here consequently
was an inexhaustible subject of discourse. In comparing
her recollection of Pemberley with the minute description
which Wickham could give, and in bestowing her tribute of
praise on the character of its late possessor, she was delight-
ing both him and herself. On being made acquainted with
the present Mr. Darcy’s treatment of him, she tried to re-
member some of that gentleman’s reputed disposition when
quite a lad which might agree with it, and was confident at
last that she recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam Dar-
cy formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured boy.

Chapter 26
M rs. Gardiner’s caution to Elizabeth was punctually

and kindly given on the first favourable opportunity
of speaking to her alone; after honestly telling her what she
thought, she thus went on:
‘You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely
because you are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not
afraid of speaking openly. Seriously, I would have you be on
your guard. Do not involve yourself or endeavour to involve
him in an affection which the want of fortune would make
so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against HIM; he
is a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune
he ought to have, I should think you could not do better.
But as it is, you must not let your fancy run away with you.
You have sense, and we all expect you to use it. Your father
would depend on YOUR resolution and good conduct, I am
sure. You must not disappoint your father.’
‘My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.’
‘Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.’
‘Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take
care of myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in
love with me, if I can prevent it.’
‘Elizabeth, you are not serious now.’
‘I beg your pardon, I will try again. At present I am not
in love with Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he

is, beyond all comparison, the most agreeable man I ever
saw—and if he becomes really attached to me—I believe it
will be better that he should not. I see the imprudence of it.
Oh! THAT abominable Mr. Darcy! My father’s opinion of
me does me the greatest honour, and I should be miserable
to forfeit it. My father, however, is partial to Mr. Wick-
ham. In short, my dear aunt, I should be very sorry to be
the means of making any of you unhappy; but since we see
every day that where there is affection, young people are
seldom withheld by immediate want of fortune from enter-
ing into engagements with each other, how can I promise to
be wiser than so many of my fellow-creatures if I am tempt-
ed, or how am I even to know that it would be wisdom to
resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not to be in a
hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first ob-
ject. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing.
In short, I will do my best.’
‘Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming
here so very often. At least, you should not REMIND you
mother of inviting him.’
‘As I did the other day,’ said Elizabeth with a conscious
smile: ‘very true, it will be wise in me to refrain from THAT.
But do not imagine that he is always here so often. It is on
your account that he has been so frequently invited this
week. You know my mother’s ideas as to the necessity of
constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my
honour, I will try to do what I think to be the wisest; and
now I hope you are satisfied.’
Her aunt assured her that she was, and Elizabeth hav-

ing thanked her for the kindness of her hints, they parted;
a wonderful instance of advice being given on such a point,
without being resented.
Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it
had been quitted by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took
up his abode with the Lucases, his arrival was no great in-
convenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was now fast
approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to
think it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say, in an ill-
natured tone, that she ‘WISHED they might be happy.’
Thursday was to be the wedding day, and on Wednesday
Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she rose to take
leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother’s ungracious and
reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, ac-
companied her out of the room. As they went downstairs
together, Charlotte said:
‘I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.’
‘THAT you certainly shall.’
‘And I have another favour to ask you. Will you come
and see me?’
‘We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.’
‘I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me,
therefore, to come to Hunsford.’
Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little
pleasure in the visit.
‘My father and Maria are coming to me in March,’ added
Charlotte, ‘and I hope you will consent to be of the party.
Indeed, Eliza, you will be as welcome as either of them.’
The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set

off for Kent from the church door, and everybody had as
much to say, or to hear, on the subject as usual. Elizabeth
soon heard from her friend; and their correspondence was
as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that it should be
equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never
address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy
was over, and though determined not to slacken as a corre-
spondent, it was for the sake of what had been, rather than
what was. Charlotte’s first letters were received with a good
deal of eagerness; there could not but be curiosity to know
how she would speak of her new home, how she would like
Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce
herself to be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth
felt that Charlotte expressed herself on every point exactly
as she might have foreseen. She wrote cheerfully, seemed
surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing which
she could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood,
and roads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine’s be-
haviour was most friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins’s
picture of Hunsford and Rosings rationally softened; and
Elizabeth perceived that she must wait for her own visit
there to know the rest.
Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to an-
nounce their safe arrival in London; and when she wrote
again, Elizabeth hoped it would be in her power to say
something of the Bingleys.
Her impatience for this second letter was as well reward-
ed as impatience generally is. Jane had been a week in town
without either seeing or hearing from Caroline. She ac-

counted for it, however, by supposing that her last letter to
her friend from Longbourn had by some accident been lost.
‘My aunt,’ she continued, ‘is going to-morrow into that
part of the town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling
in Grosvenor Street.’
She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had
seen Miss Bingley. ‘I did not think Caroline in spirits,’ were
her words, ‘but she was very glad to see me, and reproached
me for giving her no notice of my coming to London. I was
right, therefore, my last letter had never reached her. I in-
quired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so
much engaged with Mr. Darcy that they scarcely ever saw
him. I found that Miss Darcy was expected to dinner. I wish
I could see her. My visit was not long, as Caroline and Mrs.
Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall see them soon here.’
Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced
her that accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sis-
ter’s being in town.
Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him.
She endeavoured to persuade herself that she did not regret
it; but she could no longer be blind to Miss Bingley’s inatten-
tion. After waiting at home every morning for a fortnight,
and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the visi-
tor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet
more, the alteration of her manner would allow Jane to de-
ceive herself no longer. The letter which she wrote on this
occasion to her sister will prove what she felt.
‘My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of tri-
umphing in her better judgement, at my expense, when I

confess myself to have been entirely deceived in Miss Bing-
ley’s regard for me. But, my dear sister, though the event has
proved you right, do not think me obstinate if I still assert
that, considering what her behaviour was, my confidence
was as natural as your suspicion. I do not at all compre-
hend her reason for wishing to be intimate with me; but if
the same circumstances were to happen again, I am sure I
should be deceived again. Caroline did not return my vis-
it till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I receive in
the meantime. When she did come, it was very evident that
she had no pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal apology,
for not calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me
again, and was in every respect so altered a creature, that
when she went away I was perfectly resolved to continue the
acquaintance no longer. I pity, though I cannot help blam-
ing her. She was very wrong in singling me out as she did; I
can safely say that every advance to intimacy began on her
side. But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been
acting wrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for
her brother is the cause of it. I need not explain myself far-
ther; and though WE know this anxiety to be quite needless,
yet if she feels it, it will easily account for her behaviour to
me; and so deservedly dear as he is to his sister, whatever
anxiety she must feel on his behalf is natural and amiable.
I cannot but wonder, however, at her having any such fears
now, because, if he had at all cared about me, we must have
met, long ago. He knows of my being in town, I am certain,
from something she said herself; and yet it would seem, by
her manner of talking, as if she wanted to persuade herself

that he is really partial to Miss Darcy. I cannot understand
it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should be almost
tempted to say that there is a strong appearance of duplic-
ity in all this. But I will endeavour to banish every painful
thought, and think only of what will make me happy—your
affection, and the invariable kindness of my dear uncle and
aunt. Let me hear from you very soon. Miss Bingley said
something of his never returning to Netherfield again, of
giving up the house, but not with any certainty. We had bet-
ter not mention it. I am extremely glad that you have such
pleasant accounts from our friends at Hunsford. Pray go to
see them, with Sir William and Maria. I am sure you will be
very comfortable there.—Yours, etc.’
This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits re-
turned as she considered that Jane would no longer be duped,
by the sister at least. All expectation from the brother was
now absolutely over. She would not even wish for a renewal
of his attentions. His character sunk on every review of it;
and as a punishment for him, as well as a possible advantage
to Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr.
Darcy’s sister, as by Wickham’s account, she would make
him abundantly regret what he had thrown away.
Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of
her promise concerning that gentleman, and required in-
formation; and Elizabeth had such to send as might rather
give contentment to her aunt than to herself. His apparent
partiality had subsided, his attentions were over, he was the
admirer of some one else. Elizabeth was watchful enough to
see it all, but she could see it and write of it without material

pain. Her heart had been but slightly touched, and her van-
ity was satisfied with believing that SHE would have been
his only choice, had fortune permitted it. The sudden ac-
quisition of ten thousand pounds was the most remarkable
charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering
himself agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps
in this case than in Charlotte’s, did not quarrel with him for
his wish of independence. Nothing, on the contrary, could
be more natural; and while able to suppose that it cost him
a few struggle to relinquish her, she was ready to allow it a
wise and desirable measure for both, and could very sin-
cerely wish him happy.
All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after
relating the circumstances, she thus went on: ‘I am now
convinced, my dear aunt, that I have never been much in
love; for had I really experienced that pure and elevating
passion, I should at present detest his very name, and wish
him all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only cordial
towards HIM; they are even impartial towards Miss King. I
cannot find out that I hate her at all, or that I am in the least
unwilling to think her a very good sort of girl. There can be
no love in all this. My watchfulness has been effectual; and
though I certainly should be a more interesting object to
all my acquaintances were I distractedly in love with him,
I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance.
Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly. Kitty
and Lydia take his defection much more to heart than I do.
They are young in the ways of the world, and not yet open to
the mortifying conviction that handsome young men must

have something to live on as well as the plain.’

Chapter 27
W ith no greater events than these in the Longbourn

family, and otherwise diversified by little beyond the
walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and sometimes cold,
did January and February pass away. March was to take
Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very se-
riously of going thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was
depending on the plan and she gradually learned to consid-
er it herself with greater pleasure as well as greater certainty.
Absence had increased her desire of seeing Charlotte again,
and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There was novelty
in the scheme, and as, with such a mother and such un-
companionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little
change was not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey
would moreover give her a peep at Jane; and, in short, as
the time drew near, she would have been very sorry for any
delay. Everything, however, went on smoothly, and was fi-
nally settled according to Charlotte’s first sketch. She was
to accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The
improvement of spending a night in London was added in
time, and the plan became perfect as plan could be.
The only pain was in leaving her father, who would cer-
tainly miss her, and who, when it came to the point, so little
liked her going, that he told her to write to him, and almost
promised to answer her letter.

The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was per-
fectly friendly; on his side even more. His present pursuit
could not make him forget that Elizabeth had been the first
to excite and to deserve his attention, the first to listen and
to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner of bidding
her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of
what she was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and
trusting their opinion of her—their opinion of everybody—
would always coincide, there was a solicitude, an interest
which she felt must ever attach her to him with a most
sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced that,
whether married or single, he must always be her model of
the amiable and pleasing.
Her fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to
make her think him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and
his daughter Maria, a good-humoured girl, but as empty-
headed as himself, had nothing to say that could be worth
hearing, and were listened to with about as much delight as
the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but she
had known Sir William’s too long. He could tell her noth-
ing new of the wonders of his presentation and knighthood;
and his civilities were worn out, like his information.
It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they be-
gan it so early as to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. As
they drove to Mr. Gardiner’s door, Jane was at a drawing-
room window watching their arrival; when they entered
the passage she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth,
looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful
and lovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys

and girls, whose eagerness for their cousin’s appearance
would not allow them to wait in the drawing-room, and
whose shyness, as they had not seen her for a twelvemonth,
prevented their coming lower. All was joy and kindness.
The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle
and shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres.
Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first
object was her sister; and she was more grieved than aston-
ished to hear, in reply to her minute inquiries, that though
Jane always struggled to support her spirits, there were pe-
riods of dejection. It was reasonable, however, to hope that
they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the
particulars also of Miss Bingley’s visit in Gracechurch Street,
and repeated conversations occurring at different times be-
tween Jane and herself, which proved that the former had,
from her heart, given up the acquaintance.
Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham’s de-
sertion, and complimented her on bearing it so well.
‘But my dear Elizabeth,’ she added, ‘what sort of girl is
Miss King? I should be sorry to think our friend merce-
nary.’
‘Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimo-
nial affairs, between the mercenary and the prudent motive?
Where does discretion end, and avarice begin? Last Christ-
mas you were afraid of his marrying me, because it would
be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a girl
with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that
he is mercenary.’
‘If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I

shall know what to think.’
‘She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm
of her.’
‘But he paid her not the smallest attention till her grand-
father’s death made her mistress of this fortune.’
‘No—what should he? If it were not allowable for him to
gain MY affections because I had no money, what occasion
could there be for making love to a girl whom he did not
care about, and who was equally poor?’
‘But there seems an indelicacy in directing his attentions
towards her so soon after this event.’
‘A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all
those elegant decorums which other people may observe. If
SHE does not object to it, why should WE?’
‘HER not objecting does not justify HIM. It only shows
her being deficient in something herself—sense or feeling.’
‘Well,’ cried Elizabeth, ‘have it as you choose. HE shall be
mercenary, and SHE shall be foolish.’
‘No, Lizzy, that is what I do NOT choose. I should be sor-
ry, you know, to think ill of a young man who has lived so
long in Derbyshire.’
‘Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young
men who live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who
live in Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them
all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow where I shall find
a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has neither
manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the
only ones worth knowing, after all.’
‘Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disap-

pointment.’
Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play,
she had the unexpected happiness of an invitation to ac-
company her uncle and aunt in a tour of pleasure which
they proposed taking in the summer.
‘We have not determined how far it shall carry us,’ said
Mrs. Gardiner, ‘but, perhaps, to the Lakes.’
No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth,
and her acceptance of the invitation was most ready and
grateful. ‘Oh, my dear, dear aunt,’ she rapturously cried,
‘what delight! what felicity! You give me fresh life and vi-
gour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are young
men to rocks and mountains? Oh! what hours of transport
we shall spend! And when we DO return, it shall not be
like other travellers, without being able to give one accurate
idea of anything. We WILL know where we have gone—we
WILL recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains, and
rivers shall not be jumbled together in our imaginations;
nor when we attempt to describe any particular scene, will
we begin quarreling about its relative situation. Let OUR
first effusions be less insupportable than those of the gener-
ality of travellers.’

Chapter 28
E very object in the next day’s journey was new and in-
teresting to Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state of
enjoyment; for she had seen her sister looking so well as to
banish all fear for her health, and the prospect of her north-
ern tour was a constant source of delight.
When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford,
every eye was in search of the Parsonage, and every turn-
ing expected to bring it in view. The palings of Rosings Park
was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth smiled at the rec-
ollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants.
At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden
sloping to the road, the house standing in it, the green pales,
and the laurel hedge, everything declared they were arriv-
ing. Mr. Collins and Charlotte appeared at the door, and
the carriage stopped at the small gate which led by a short
gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of the
whole party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, re-
joicing at the sight of each other. Mrs. Collins welcomed her
friend with the liveliest pleasure, and Elizabeth was more
and more satisfied with coming when she found herself so
affectionately received. She saw instantly that her cousin’s
manners were not altered by his marriage; his formal ci-
vility was just what it had been, and he detained her some
minutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his inquiries after

all her family. They were then, with no other delay than
his pointing out the neatness of the entrance, taken into
the house; and as soon as they were in the parlour, he wel-
comed them a second time, with ostentatious formality to
his humble abode, and punctually repeated all his wife’s of-
fers of refreshment.
Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and
she could not help in fancying that in displaying the good
proportion of the room, its aspect and its furniture, he ad-
dressed himself particularly to her, as if wishing to make
her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But though ev-
erything seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to
gratify him by any sigh of repentance, and rather looked
with wonder at her friend that she could have so cheer-
ful an air with such a companion. When Mr. Collins said
anything of which his wife might reasonably be ashamed,
which certainly was not unseldom, she involuntarily turned
her eye on Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a
faint blush; but in general Charlotte wisely did not hear.
After sitting long enough to admire every article of furni-
ture in the room, from the sideboard to the fender, to give
an account of their journey, and of all that had happened
in London, Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the
garden, which was large and well laid out, and to the culti-
vation of which he attended himself. To work in this garden
was one of his most respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth ad-
mired the command of countenance with which Charlotte
talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and owned she
encouraged it as much as possible. Here, leading the way

through every walk and cross walk, and scarcely allowing
them an interval to utter the praises he asked for, every view
was pointed out with a minuteness which left beauty en-
tirely behind. He could number the fields in every direction,
and could tell how many tress there were in the most dis-
tant clump. But of all the views which his garden, or which
the country or kingdom could boast, none were to be com-
pared with the prospect of Rosings, afforded by an opening
in the trees that bordered the park nearly opposite the front
of his house. It was a handsome modern building, well situ-
ated on rising ground.
From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round
his two meadows; but the ladies, not having shoes to en-
counter the remains of a white frost, turned back; and while
Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte took her sister and
friend over the house, extremely well pleased, probably, to
have the opportunity of showing it without her husband’s
help. It was rather small, but well built and convenient; and
everything was fitted up and arranged with a neatness and
consistency of which Elizabeth gave Charlotte all the credit.
When Mr. Collins could be forgotten, there was really an
air of great comfort throughout, and by Charlotte’s evident
enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must be often for-
gotten.
She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in
the country. It was spoken of again while they were at din-
ner, when Mr. Collins joining in, observed:
‘Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing
Lady Catherine de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church,

and I need not say you will be delighted with her. She is
all affability and condescension, and I doubt not but you
will be honoured with some portion of her notice when ser-
vice is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying she will
include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with
which she honours us during your stay here. Her behaviour
to my dear Charlotte is charming. We dine at Rosings twice
every week, and are never allowed to walk home. Her lady-
ship’s carriage is regularly ordered for us. I SHOULD say,
one of her ladyship’s carriages, for she has several.’
‘Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman in-
deed,’ added Charlotte, ‘and a most attentive neighbour.’
‘Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the
sort of woman whom one cannot regard with too much def-
erence.’
The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertford-
shire news, and telling again what had already been written;
and when it closed, Elizabeth, in the solitude of her cham-
ber, had to meditate upon Charlotte’s degree of contentment,
to understand her address in guiding, and composure in
bearing with, her husband, and to acknowledge that it was
all done very well. She had also to anticipate how her visit
would pass, the quiet tenor of their usual employments, the
vexatious interruptions of Mr. Collins, and the gaieties of
their intercourse with Rosings. A lively imagination soon
settled it all.
About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room
getting ready for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to
speak the whole house in confusion; and, after listening a

moment, she heard somebody running upstairs in a vio-
lent hurry, and calling loudly after her. She opened the door
and met Maria in the landing place, who, breathless with
agitation, cried out—
‘Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the
dining-room, for there is such a sight to be seen! I will not
tell you what it is. Make haste, and come down this mo-
ment.’
Elizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her
nothing more, and down they ran into the dining-room,
which fronted the lane, in quest of this wonder; It was two
ladies stopping in a low phaeton at the garden gate.
‘And is this all?’ cried Elizabeth. ‘I expected at least that
the pigs were got into the garden, and here is nothing but
Lady Catherine and her daughter.’
‘La! my dear,’ said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, ‘it
is not Lady Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who
lives with them; the other is Miss de Bourgh. Only look at
her. She is quite a little creature. Who would have thought
that she could be so thin and small?’
‘She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in
all this wind. Why does she not come in?’
‘Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest
of favours when Miss de Bourgh comes in.’
‘I like her appearance,’ said Elizabeth, struck with other
ideas. ‘She looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him
very well. She will make him a very proper wife.’
Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the
gate in conversation with the ladies; and Sir William, to

Elizabeth’s high diversion, was stationed in the doorway,
in earnest contemplation of the greatness before him, and
constantly bowing whenever Miss de Bourgh looked that
way.
At length there was nothing more to be said; the la-
dies drove on, and the others returned into the house. Mr.
Collins no sooner saw the two girls than he began to con-
gratulate them on their good fortune, which Charlotte
explained by letting them know that the whole party was
asked to dine at Rosings the next day.

Chapter 29
M r. Collins’s triumph, in consequence of this invitation,

was complete. The power of displaying the grandeur
of his patroness to his wondering visitors, and of letting
them see her civility towards himself and his wife, was ex-
actly what he had wished for; and that an opportunity of
doing it should be given so soon, was such an instance of
Lady Catherine’s condescension, as he knew not how to ad-
mire enough.
‘I confess,’ said he, ‘that I should not have been at all sur-
prised by her ladyship’s asking us on Sunday to drink tea
and spend the evening at Rosings. I rather expected, from
my knowledge of her affability, that it would happen. But
who could have foreseen such an attention as this? Who
could have imagined that we should receive an invitation
to dine there (an invitation, moreover, including the whole
party) so immediately after your arrival!’
‘I am the less surprised at what has happened,’ replied Sir
William, ‘from that knowledge of what the manners of the
great really are, which my situation in life has allowed me to
acquire. About the court, such instances of elegant breed-
ing are not uncommon.’
Scarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next
morning but their visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was care-
fully instructing them in what they were to expect, that the

sight of such rooms, so many servants, and so splendid a
dinner, might not wholly overpower them.
When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said
to Elizabeth—
‘Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your
apparel. Lady Catherine is far from requiring that elegance
of dress in us which becomes herself and her daughter. I
would advise you merely to put on whatever of your clothes
is superior to the rest—there is no occasion for anything
more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you for
being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of
rank preserved.’
While they were dressing, he came two or three times to
their different doors, to recommend their being quick, as
Lady Catherine very much objected to be kept waiting for
her dinner. Such formidable accounts of her ladyship, and
her manner of living, quite frightened Maria Lucas who
had been little used to company, and she looked forward to
her introduction at Rosings with as much apprehension as
her father had done to his presentation at St. James’s.
As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about
half a mile across the park. Every park has its beauty and
its prospects; and Elizabeth saw much to be pleased with,
though she could not be in such raptures as Mr. Collins ex-
pected the scene to inspire, and was but slightly affected by
his enumeration of the windows in front of the house, and
his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally
cost Sir Lewis de Bourgh.
When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria’s alarm

was every moment increasing, and even Sir William did not
look perfectly calm. Elizabeth’s courage did not fail her. She
had heard nothing of Lady Catherine that spoke her awful
from any extraordinary talents or miraculous virtue, and
the mere stateliness of money or rank she thought she could
witness without trepidation.
From the entrance-hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out,
with a rapturous air, the fine proportion and the finished
ornaments, they followed the servants through an ante-
chamber, to the room where Lady Catherine, her daughter,
and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. Her ladyship, with great
condescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins
had settled it with her husband that the office of introduc-
tion should be hers, it was performed in a proper manner,
without any of those apologies and thanks which he would
have thought necessary.
In spite of having been at St. James’s Sir William was so
completely awed by the grandeur surrounding him, that
he had but just courage enough to make a very low bow,
and take his seat without saying a word; and his daughter,
frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge of her
chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth found her-
self quite equal to the scene, and could observe the three
ladies before her composedly. Lady Catherine was a tall,
large woman, with strongly-marked features, which might
once have been handsome. Her air was not conciliating,
nor was her manner of receiving them such as to make her
visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered for-
midable by silence; but whatever she said was spoken in so

authoritative a tone, as marked her self-importance, and
brought Mr. Wickham immediately to Elizabeth’s mind;
and from the observation of the day altogether, she believed
Lady Catherine to be exactly what he represented.
When, after examining the mother, in whose counte-
nance and deportment she soon found some resemblance
of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the daughter, she could
almost have joined in Maria’s astonishment at her being
so thin and so small. There was neither in figure nor face
any likeness between the ladies. Miss de Bourgh was pale
and sickly; her features, though not plain, were insignifi-
cant; and she spoke very little, except in a low voice, to Mrs.
Jenkinson, in whose appearance there was nothing remark-
able, and who was entirely engaged in listening to what she
said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before her
eyes.
After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of
the windows to admire the view, Mr. Collins attending
them to point out its beauties, and Lady Catherine kindly
informing them that it was much better worth looking at
in the summer.
The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were
all the servants and all the articles of plate which Mr. Col-
lins had promised; and, as he had likewise foretold, he took
his seat at the bottom of the table, by her ladyship’s desire,
and looked as if he felt that life could furnish nothing great-
er. He carved, and ate, and praised with delighted alacrity;
and every dish was commended, first by him and then by
Sir William, who was now enough recovered to echo what-

ever his son-in-law said, in a manner which Elizabeth
wondered Lady Catherine could bear. But Lady Catherine
seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and gave
most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the table
proved a novelty to them. The party did not supply much
conversation. Elizabeth was ready to speak whenever there
was an opening, but she was seated between Charlotte and
Miss de Bourgh—the former of whom was engaged in lis-
tening to Lady Catherine, and the latter said not a word to
her all dinner-time. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed
in watching how little Miss de Bourgh ate, pressing her to
try some other dish, and fearing she was indisposed. Maria
thought speaking out of the question, and the gentlemen
did nothing but eat and admire.
When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there
was little to be done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which
she did without any intermission till coffee came in, deliv-
ering her opinion on every subject in so decisive a manner,
as proved that she was not used to have her judgement con-
troverted. She inquired into Charlotte’s domestic concerns
familiarly and minutely, gave her a great deal of advice as to
the management of them all; told her how everything ought
to be regulated in so small a family as hers, and instructed
her as to the care of her cows and her poultry. Elizabeth
found that nothing was beneath this great lady’s attention,
which could furnish her with an occasion of dictating to
others. In the intervals of her discourse with Mrs. Collins,
she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and Eliza-
beth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she

knew the least, and who she observed to Mrs. Collins was
a very genteel, pretty kind of girl. She asked her, at differ-
ent times, how many sisters she had, whether they were
older or younger than herself, whether any of them were
likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where
they had been educated, what carriage her father kept, and
what had been her mother’s maiden name? Elizabeth felt all
the impertinence of her questions but answered them very
composedly. Lady Catherine then observed,
‘Your father’s estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think.
For your sake,’ turning to Charlotte, ‘I am glad of it; but
otherwise I see no occasion for entailing estates from the
female line. It was not thought necessary in Sir Lewis de
Bourgh’s family. Do you play and sing, Miss Bennet?’
‘A little.’
‘Oh! then—some time or other we shall be happy to hear
you. Our instrument is a capital one, probably superior to—
—You shall try it some day. Do your sisters play and sing?’
‘One of them does.’
‘Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned.
The Miss Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an
income as yours. Do you draw?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘What, none of you?’
‘Not one.’
‘That is very strange. But I suppose you had no oppor-
tunity. Your mother should have taken you to town every
spring for the benefit of masters.’
‘My mother would have had no objection, but my father

hates London.’
‘Has your governess left you?’
‘We never had any governess.’
‘No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters
brought up at home without a governess! I never heard of
such a thing. Your mother must have been quite a slave to
your education.’
Elizabeth could hardly help smiling as she assured her
that had not been the case.
‘Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a
governess, you must have been neglected.’
‘Compared with some families, I believe we were; but
such of us as wished to learn never wanted the means. We
were always encouraged to read, and had all the masters
that were necessary. Those who chose to be idle, certainly
might.’
‘Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent,
and if I had known your mother, I should have advised her
most strenuously to engage one. I always say that nothing is
to be done in education without steady and regular instruc-
tion, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is wonderful
how many families I have been the means of supplying in
that way. I am always glad to get a young person well placed
out. Four nieces of Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully
situated through my means; and it was but the other day
that I recommended another young person, who was mere-
ly accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite
delighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Met-
calf’s calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope

a treasure. ‘Lady Catherine,’ said she, ‘you have given me
a treasure.’ Are any of your younger sisters out, Miss Ben-
net?’
‘Yes, ma’am, all.’
‘All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only
the second. The younger ones out before the elder ones are
married! Your younger sisters must be very young?’
‘Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps SHE is full
young to be much in company. But really, ma’am, I think it
would be very hard upon younger sisters, that they should
not have their share of society and amusement, because the
elder may not have the means or inclination to marry early.
The last-born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth
at the first. And to be kept back on SUCH a motive! I think
it would not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or
delicacy of mind.’
‘Upon my word,’ said her ladyship, ‘you give your opin-
ion very decidedly for so young a person. Pray, what is your
age?’
‘With three younger sisters grown up,’ replied Elizabeth,
smiling, ‘your ladyship can hardly expect me to own it.’
Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiv-
ing a direct answer; and Elizabeth suspected herself to be
the first creature who had ever dared to trifle with so much
dignified impertinence.
‘You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, therefore
you need not conceal your age.’
‘I am not one-and-twenty.’
When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over,

the card-tables were placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William,
and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat down to quadrille; and as
Miss de Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the two girls had
the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her par-
ty. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable
was uttered that did not relate to the game, except when
Mrs. Jenkinson expressed her fears of Miss de Bourgh’s be-
ing too hot or too cold, or having too much or too little light.
A great deal more passed at the other table. Lady Catherine
was generally speaking—stating the mistakes of the three
others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins
was employed in agreeing to everything her ladyship said,
thanking her for every fish he won, and apologising if he
thought he won too many. Sir William did not say much. He
was storing his memory with anecdotes and noble names.
When Lady Catherine and her daughter had played
as long as they chose, the tables were broken up, the car-
riage was offered to Mrs. Collins, gratefully accepted and
immediately ordered. The party then gathered round the
fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they
were to have on the morrow. From these instructions they
were summoned by the arrival of the coach; and with many
speeches of thankfulness on Mr. Collins’s side and as many
bows on Sir William’s they departed. As soon as they had
driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her cous-
in to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings,
which, for Charlotte’s sake, she made more favourable than
it really was. But her commendation, though costing her
some trouble, could by no means satisfy Mr. Collins, and

he was very soon obliged to take her ladyship’s praise into
his own hands.

Chapter 30
S ir William stayed only a week at Hunsford, but his visit

was long enough to convince him of his daughter’s be-
ing most comfortably settled, and of her possessing such
a husband and such a neighbour as were not often met
with. While Sir William was with them, Mr. Collins devot-
ed his morning to driving him out in his gig, and showing
him the country; but when he went away, the whole fam-
ily returned to their usual employments, and Elizabeth was
thankful to find that they did not see more of her cousin
by the alteration, for the chief of the time between break-
fast and dinner was now passed by him either at work in
the garden or in reading and writing, and looking out of
the window in his own book-room, which fronted the road.
The room in which the ladies sat was backwards. Elizabeth
had at first rather wondered that Charlotte should not pre-
fer the dining-parlour for common use; it was a better sized
room, and had a more pleasant aspect; but she soon saw that
her friend had an excellent reason for what she did, for Mr.
Collins would undoubtedly have been much less in his own
apartment, had they sat in one equally lively; and she gave
Charlotte credit for the arrangement.
From the drawing-room they could distinguish noth-
ing in the lane, and were indebted to Mr. Collins for the
knowledge of what carriages went along, and how often es-

pecially Miss de Bourgh drove by in her phaeton, which he
never failed coming to inform them of, though it happened
almost every day. She not unfrequently stopped at the Par-
sonage, and had a few minutes’ conversation with Charlotte,
but was scarcely ever prevailed upon to get out.
Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk
to Rosings, and not many in which his wife did not think it
necessary to go likewise; and till Elizabeth recollected that
there might be other family livings to be disposed of, she
could not understand the sacrifice of so many hours. Now
and then they were honoured with a call from her ladyship,
and nothing escaped her observation that was passing in
the room during these visits. She examined into their em-
ployments, looked at their work, and advised them to do it
differently; found fault with the arrangement of the furni-
ture; or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she
accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake
of finding out that Mrs. Collins’s joints of meat were too
large for her family.
Elizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady
was not in commission of the peace of the county, she was
a most active magistrate in her own parish, the minutest
concerns of which were carried to her by Mr. Collins; and
whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to be quarrel-
some, discontented, or too poor, she sallied forth into the
village to settle their differences, silence their complaints,
and scold them into harmony and plenty.
The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated
about twice a week; and, allowing for the loss of Sir Wil-

liam, and there being only one card-table in the evening,
every such entertainment was the counterpart of the first.
Their other engagements were few, as the style of living in
the neighbourhood in general was beyond Mr. Collins’s
reach. This, however, was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the
whole she spent her time comfortably enough; there were
half-hours of pleasant conversation with Charlotte, and the
weather was so fine for the time of year that she had of-
ten great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and
where she frequently went while the others were calling
on Lady Catherine, was along the open grove which edged
that side of the park, where there was a nice sheltered path,
which no one seemed to value but herself, and where she felt
beyond the reach of Lady Catherine’s curiosity.
In this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon
passed away. Easter was approaching, and the week pre-
ceding it was to bring an addition to the family at Rosings,
which in so small a circle must be important. Elizabeth had
heard soon after her arrival that Mr. Darcy was expected
there in the course of a few weeks, and though there were
not many of her acquaintances whom she did not prefer, his
coming would furnish one comparatively new to look at in
their Rosings parties, and she might be amused in seeing
how hopeless Miss Bingley’s designs on him were, by his
behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently des-
tined by Lady Catherine, who talked of his coming with the
greatest satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest
admiration, and seemed almost angry to find that he had
already been frequently seen by Miss Lucas and herself.

His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr.
Collins was walking the whole morning within view of the
lodges opening into Hunsford Lane, in order to have the
earliest assurance of it, and after making his bow as the
carriage turned into the Park, hurried home with the great
intelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Ros-
ings to pay his respects. There were two nephews of Lady
Catherine to require them, for Mr. Darcy had brought with
him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of his uncle
Lord ——, and, to the great surprise of all the party, when
Mr. Collins returned, the gentleman accompanied him.
Charlotte had seen them from her husband’s room, cross-
ing the road, and immediately running into the other, told
the girls what an honour they might expect, adding:
‘I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Dar-
cy would never have come so soon to wait upon me.’
Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the
compliment, before their approach was announced by the
door-bell, and shortly afterwards the three gentlemen en-
tered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who led the way, was
about thirty, not handsome, but in person and address most
truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been
used to look in Hertfordshire—paid his compliments, with
his usual reserve, to Mrs. Collins, and whatever might be
his feelings toward her friend, met her with every appear-
ance of composure. Elizabeth merely curtseyed to him
without saying a word.
Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly
with the readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talk-

ed very pleasantly; but his cousin, after having addressed a
slight observation on the house and garden to Mrs. Collins,
sat for some time without speaking to anybody. At length,
however, his civility was so far awakened as to inquire of
Elizabeth after the health of her family. She answered him
in the usual way, and after a moment’s pause, added:
‘My eldest sister has been in town these three months.
Have you never happened to see her there?’
She was perfectly sensible that he never had; but she
wished to see whether he would betray any consciousness
of what had passed between the Bingleys and Jane, and she
thought he looked a little confused as he answered that he
had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The
subject was pursued no farther, and the gentlemen soon af-
terwards went away.

Chapter 31
C olonel Fitzwilliam’s manners were very much admired

at the Parsonage, and the ladies all felt that he must
add considerably to the pleasures of their engagements at
Rosings. It was some days, however, before they received
any invitation thither—for while there were visitors in the
house, they could not be necessary; and it was not till Eas-
ter-day, almost a week after the gentlemen’s arrival, that
they were honoured by such an attention, and then they
were merely asked on leaving church to come there in the
evening. For the last week they had seen very little of Lady
Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had called
at the Parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr.
Darcy they had seen only at church.
The invitation was accepted of course, and at a proper
hour they joined the party in Lady Catherine’s drawing-
room. Her ladyship received them civilly, but it was plain
that their company was by no means so acceptable as when
she could get nobody else; and she was, in fact, almost en-
grossed by her nephews, speaking to them, especially to
Darcy, much more than to any other person in the room.
Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them;
anything was a welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs.
Collins’s pretty friend had moreover caught his fancy very
much. He now seated himself by her, and talked so agree-

ably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying at
home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never
been half so well entertained in that room before; and they
conversed with so much spirit and flow, as to draw the at-
tention of Lady Catherine herself, as well as of Mr. Darcy.
HIS eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned towards
them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship, after
a while, shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged,
for she did not scruple to call out:
‘What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you
are talking of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me
hear what it is.’
‘We are speaking of music, madam,’ said he, when no
longer able to avoid a reply.
‘Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my
delight. I must have my share in the conversation if you are
speaking of music. There are few people in England, I sup-
pose, who have more true enjoyment of music than myself,
or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have
been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her health
had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would
have performed delightfully. How does Georgiana get on,
Darcy?’
Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister’s
proficiency.
‘I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,’ said
Lady Catherine; ‘and pray tell her from me, that she cannot
expect to excel if she does not practice a good deal.’
‘I assure you, madam,’ he replied, ‘that she does not need

such advice. She practises very constantly.’
‘So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and
when I next write to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it
on any account. I often tell young ladies that no excellence
in music is to be acquired without constant practice. I have
told Miss Bennet several times, that she will never play real-
ly well unless she practises more; and though Mrs. Collins
has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told
her, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the piano-
forte in Mrs. Jenkinson’s room. She would be in nobody’s
way, you know, in that part of the house.’
Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt’s ill-breed-
ing, and made no answer.
When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded
Elizabeth of having promised to play to him; and she sat
down directly to the instrument. He drew a chair near her.
Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then talked, as
before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away from
her, and making with his usual deliberation towards the pi-
anoforte stationed himself so as to command a full view of
the fair performer’s countenance. Elizabeth saw what he
was doing, and at the first convenient pause, turned to him
with an arch smile, and said:
‘You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all
this state to hear me? I will not be alarmed though your
sister DOES play so well. There is a stubbornness about me
that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My
courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.’
‘I shall not say you are mistaken,’ he replied, ‘because

you could not really believe me to entertain any design of
alarming you; and I have had the pleasure of your acquain-
tance long enough to know that you find great enjoyment in
occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not your
own.’
Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and
said to Colonel Fitzwilliam, ‘Your cousin will give you a very
pretty notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word I
say. I am particularly unlucky in meeting with a person
so able to expose my real character, in a part of the world
where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of
credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to
mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertford-
shire—and, give me leave to say, very impolitic too—for it
is provoking me to retaliate, and such things may come out
as will shock your relations to hear.’
‘I am not afraid of you,’ said he, smilingly.
‘Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,’ cried
Colonel Fitzwilliam. ‘I should like to know how he behaves
among strangers.’
‘You shall hear then—but prepare yourself for some-
thing very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him
in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball—and at this
ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances,
though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowl-
edge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of
a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.’
‘I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in
the assembly beyond my own party.’

‘True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room.
Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers
wait your orders.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Darcy, ‘I should have judged better, had
I sought an introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recom-
mend myself to strangers.’
‘Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?’ said Eliza-
beth, still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. ‘Shall we ask him
why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the
world, is ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers?’
‘I can answer your question,’ said Fitzwilliam, ‘without
applying to him. It is because he will not give himself the
trouble.’
‘I certainly have not the talent which some people pos-
sess,’ said Darcy, ‘of conversing easily with those I have
never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation,
or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.’
‘My fingers,’ said Elizabeth, ‘do not move over this in-
strument in the masterly manner which I see so many
women’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and
do not produce the same expression. But then I have always
supposed it to be my own fault—because I will not take the
trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe MY fin-
gers as capable as any other woman’s of superior execution.’
Darcy smiled and said, ‘You are perfectly right. You have
employed your time much better. No one admitted to the
privilege of hearing you can think anything wanting. We
neither of us perform to strangers.’
Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who

called out to know what they were talking of. Elizabeth im-
mediately began playing again. Lady Catherine approached,
and, after listening for a few minutes, said to Darcy:
‘Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss if she practised
more, and could have the advantage of a London master.
She has a very good notion of fingering, though her taste
is not equal to Anne’s. Anne would have been a delightful
performer, had her health allowed her to learn.’
Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he assent-
ed to his cousin’s praise; but neither at that moment nor at
any other could she discern any symptom of love; and from
the whole of his behaviour to Miss de Bourgh she derived
this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he might have been just
as likely to marry HER, had she been his relation.
Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth’s
performance, mixing with them many instructions on
execution and taste. Elizabeth received them with all the
forbearance of civility, and, at the request of the gentlemen,
remained at the instrument till her ladyship’s carriage was
ready to take them all home.

Chapter 32
E lizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and

writing to Jane while Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone
on business into the village, when she was startled by a ring
at the door, the certain signal of a visitor. As she had heard
no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to be Lady Catherine,
and under that apprehension was putting away her half-fin-
ished letter that she might escape all impertinent questions,
when the door opened, and, to her very great surprise, Mr.
Darcy, and Mr. Darcy only, entered the room.
He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and
apologised for his intrusion by letting her know that he had
understood all the ladies were to be within.
They then sat down, and when her inquiries after Ros-
ings were made, seemed in danger of sinking into total
silence. It was absolutely necessary, therefore, to think of
something, and in this emergence recollecting WHEN she
had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and feeling curious to
know what he would say on the subject of their hasty depar-
ture, she observed:
‘How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last No-
vember, Mr. Darcy! It must have been a most agreeable
surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you all after him so soon; for,
if I recollect right, he went but the day before. He and his
sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?’

‘Perfectly so, I thank you.’
She found that she was to receive no other answer, and,
after a short pause added:
‘I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much
idea of ever returning to Netherfield again?’
‘I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he
may spend very little of his time there in the future. He has
many friends, and is at a time of life when friends and en-
gagements are continually increasing.’
‘If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be
better for the neighbourhood that he should give up the
place entirely, for then we might possibly get a settled fam-
ily there. But, perhaps, Mr. Bingley did not take the house
so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as for
his own, and we must expect him to keep it or quit it on the
same principle.’
‘I should not be surprised,’ said Darcy, ‘if he were to give
it up as soon as any eligible purchase offers.’
Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking lon-
ger of his friend; and, having nothing else to say, was now
determined to leave the trouble of finding a subject to him.
He took the hint, and soon began with, ‘This seems a
very comfortable house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a
great deal to it when Mr. Collins first came to Hunsford.’
‘I believe she did—and I am sure she could not have be-
stowed her kindness on a more grateful object.’
‘Mr. Collins appears to be very fortunate in his choice
of a wife.’
‘Yes, indeed, his friends may well rejoice in his having

met with one of the very few sensible women who would
have accepted him, or have made him happy if they had. My
friend has an excellent understanding—though I am not
certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the wis-
est thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however,
and in a prudential light it is certainly a very good match
for her.’
‘It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so
easy a distance of her own family and friends.’
‘An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.’
‘And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than
half a day’s journey. Yes, I call it a VERY easy distance.’
‘I should never have considered the distance as one of
the ADVANTAGES of the match,’ cried Elizabeth. ‘I should
never have said Mrs. Collins was settled NEAR her family.’
‘It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire.
Anything beyond the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I
suppose, would appear far.’
As he spoke there was a sort of smile which Elizabeth
fancied she understood; he must be supposing her to be
thinking of Jane and Netherfield, and she blushed as she
answered:
‘I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled
too near her family. The far and the near must be relative,
and depend on many varying circumstances. Where there
is fortune to make the expenses of travelling unimportant,
distance becomes no evil. But that is not the case HERE. Mr.
and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not such a
one as will allow of frequent journeys—and I am persuaded

my friend would not call herself NEAR her family under
less than HALF the present distance.’
Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said,
‘YOU cannot have a right to such very strong local attach-
ment. YOU cannot have been always at Longbourn.’
Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced
some change of feeling; he drew back his chair, took a news-
paper from the table, and glancing over it, said, in a colder
voice:
‘Are you pleased with Kent?’
A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued,
on either side calm and concise—and soon put an end to by
the entrance of Charlotte and her sister, just returned from
her walk. The tete-a-tete surprised them. Mr. Darcy related
the mistake which had occasioned his intruding on Miss
Bennet, and after sitting a few minutes longer without say-
ing much to anybody, went away.
‘What can be the meaning of this?’ said Charlotte, as
soon as he was gone. ‘My dear, Eliza, he must be in love with
you, or he would never have called us in this familiar way.’
But when Elizabeth told of his silence; it did not seem
very likely, even to Charlotte’s wishes, to be the case; and
after various conjectures, they could at last only suppose his
visit to proceed from the difficulty of finding anything to do,
which was the more probable from the time of year. All field
sports were over. Within doors there was Lady Catherine,
books, and a billiard-table, but gentlemen cannot always be
within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the
pleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived

in it, the two cousins found a temptation from this period
of walking thither almost every day. They called at various
times of the morning, sometimes separately, sometimes to-
gether, and now and then accompanied by their aunt. It was
plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he
had pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course
recommended him still more; and Elizabeth was reminded
by her own satisfaction in being with him, as well as by his
evident admiration of her, of her former favourite George
Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw there
was less captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s man-
ners, she believed he might have the best informed mind.
But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage, it
was more difficult to understand. It could not be for soci-
ety, as he frequently sat there ten minutes together without
opening his lips; and when he did speak, it seemed the effect
of necessity rather than of choice—a sacrifice to propriety,
not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really ani-
mated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel
Fitzwilliam’s occasionally laughing at his stupidity, proved
that he was generally different, which her own knowledge
of him could not have told her; and as she would liked to
have believed this change the effect of love, and the object
of that love her friend Eliza, she set herself seriously to work
to find it out. She watched him whenever they were at Ros-
ings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much
success. He certainly looked at her friend a great deal, but
the expression of that look was disputable. It was an earnest,
steadfast gaze, but she often doubted whether there were

much admiration in it, and sometimes it seemed nothing
but absence of mind.
She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the pos-
sibility of his being partial to her, but Elizabeth always
laughed at the idea; and Mrs. Collins did not think it right
to press the subject, from the danger of raising expectations
which might only end in disappointment; for in her opinion
it admitted not of a doubt, that all her friend’s dislike would
vanish, if she could suppose him to be in her power.
In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes
planned her marrying Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond
comparison the most pleasant man; he certainly admired
her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but, to coun-
terbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had considerable
patronage in the church, and his cousin could have none
at all.

Chapter 33
M ore than once did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the

park, unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the
perverseness of the mischance that should bring him where
no one else was brought, and, to prevent its ever happening
again, took care to inform him at first that it was a favourite
haunt of hers. How it could occur a second time, there-
fore, was very odd! Yet it did, and even a third. It seemed
like wilful ill-nature, or a voluntary penance, for on these
occasions it was not merely a few formal inquiries and an
awkward pause and then away, but he actually thought it
necessary to turn back and walk with her. He never said
a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking
or of listening much; but it struck her in the course of their
third rencontre that he was asking some odd unconnect-
ed questions—about her pleasure in being at Hunsford, her
love of solitary walks, and her opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Col-
lins’s happiness; and that in speaking of Rosings and her
not perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to expect
that whenever she came into Kent again she would be stay-
ing THERE too. His words seemed to imply it. Could he
have Colonel Fitzwilliam in his thoughts? She supposed,
if he meant anything, he must mean and allusion to what
might arise in that quarter. It distressed her a little, and she
was quite glad to find herself at the gate in the pales oppo-

site the Parsonage.
She was engaged one day as she walked, in perusing
Jane’s last letter, and dwelling on some passages which
proved that Jane had not written in spirits, when, instead of
being again surprised by Mr. Darcy, she saw on looking up
that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her. Putting away the
letter immediately and forcing a smile, she said:
‘I did not know before that you ever walked this way.’
‘I have been making the tour of the park,’ he replied, ‘as I
generally do every year, and intend to close it with a call at
the Parsonage. Are you going much farther?’
‘No, I should have turned in a moment.’
And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards
the Parsonage together.
‘Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?’ said she.
‘Yes—if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his
disposal. He arranges the business just as he pleases.’
‘And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he
has at least pleasure in the great power of choice. I do not
know anybody who seems more to enjoy the power of doing
what he likes than Mr. Darcy.’
‘He likes to have his own way very well,’ replied Colonel
Fitzwilliam. ‘But so we all do. It is only that he has better
means of having it than many others, because he is rich,
and many others are poor. I speak feelingly. A younger son,
you know, must be inured to self-denial and dependence.’
‘In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very
little of either. Now seriously, what have you ever known
of self-denial and dependence? When have you been pre-

vented by want of money from going wherever you chose,
or procuring anything you had a fancy for?’
‘These are home questions—and perhaps I cannot say
that I have experienced many hardships of that nature. But
in matters of greater weight, I may suffer from want of mon-
ey. Younger sons cannot marry where they like.’
‘Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think
they very often do.’
‘Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there
are too many in my rank of life who can afford to marry
without some attention to money.’
‘Is this,’ thought Elizabeth, ‘meant for me?’ and she co-
loured at the idea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively
tone, ‘And pray, what is the usual price of an earl’s younger
son? Unless the elder brother is very sickly, I suppose you
would not ask above fifty thousand pounds.’
He answered her in the same style, and the subject
dropped. To interrupt a silence which might make him fan-
cy her affected with what had passed, she soon afterwards
said:
‘I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chief-
ly for the sake of having someone at his disposal. I wonder
he does not marry, to secure a lasting convenience of that
kind. But, perhaps, his sister does as well for the present,
and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he likes
with her.’
‘No,’ said Colonel Fitzwilliam, ‘that is an advantage
which he must divide with me. I am joined with him in the
guardianship of Miss Darcy.’

‘Are you indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you
make? Does your charge give you much trouble? Young la-
dies of her age are sometimes a little difficult to manage,
and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she may like to have her
own way.’
As she spoke she observed him looking at her earnestly;
and the manner in which he immediately asked her why she
supposed Miss Darcy likely to give them any uneasiness,
convinced her that she had somehow or other got pretty
near the truth. She directly replied:
‘You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of
her; and I dare say she is one of the most tractable creatures
in the world. She is a very great favourite with some ladies
of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley. I think I
have heard you say that you know them.’
‘I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentle-
manlike man—he is a great friend of Darcy’s.’
‘Oh! yes,’ said Elizabeth drily; ‘Mr. Darcy is uncommonly
kind to Mr. Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of
him.’
‘Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy DOES take care
of him in those points where he most wants care. From
something that he told me in our journey hither, I have
reason to think Bingley very much indebted to him. But I
ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that
Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture.’
‘What is it you mean?’
‘It is a circumstance which Darcy could not wish to be
generally known, because if it were to get round to the la-

dy’s family, it would be an unpleasant thing.’
‘You may depend upon my not mentioning it.’
‘And remember that I have not much reason for suppos-
ing it to be Bingley. What he told me was merely this: that
he congratulated himself on having lately saved a friend
from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage, but
without mentioning names or any other particulars, and I
only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him the kind
of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from
knowing them to have been together the whole of last sum-
mer.’
‘Did Mr. Darcy give you reasons for this interference?’
‘I understood that there were some very strong objec-
tions against the lady.’
‘And what arts did he use to separate them?’
‘He did not talk to me of his own arts,’ said Fitzwilliam,
smiling. ‘He only told me what I have now told you.’
Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart
swelling with indignation. After watching her a little, Fitz-
william asked her why she was so thoughtful.
‘I am thinking of what you have been telling me,’ said she.
‘Your cousin’s conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was
he to be the judge?’
‘You are rather disposed to call his interference offi-
cious?’
‘I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the
propriety of his friend’s inclination, or why, upon his own
judgement alone, he was to determine and direct in what
manner his friend was to be happy. But,’ she continued, rec-

ollecting herself, ‘as we know none of the particulars, it is
not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed that there
was much affection in the case.’
‘That is not an unnatural surmise,’ said Fitzwilliam, ‘but
it is a lessening of the honour of my cousin’s triumph very
sadly.’
This was spoken jestingly; but it appeared to her so just a
picture of Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with
an answer, and therefore, abruptly changing the conversa-
tion talked on indifferent matters until they reached the
Parsonage. There, shut into her own room, as soon as their
visitor left them, she could think without interruption of all
that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other
people could be meant than those with whom she was con-
nected. There could not exist in the world TWO men over
whom Mr. Darcy could have such boundless influence. That
he had been concerned in the measures taken to separate
Bingley and Jane she had never doubted; but she had always
attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and arrange-
ment of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead
him, HE was the cause, his pride and caprice were the cause,
of all that Jane had suffered, and still continued to suffer.
He had ruined for a while every hope of happiness for the
most affectionate, generous heart in the world; and no one
could say how lasting an evil he might have inflicted.
‘There were some very strong objections against the lady,’
were Colonel Fitzwilliam’s words; and those strong objec-
tions probably were, her having one uncle who was a country
attorney, and another who was in business in London.

‘To Jane herself,’ she exclaimed, ‘there could be no possi-
bility of objection; all loveliness and goodness as she is!—her
understanding excellent, her mind improved, and her man-
ners captivating. Neither could anything be urged against
my father, who, though with some peculiarities, has abili-
ties Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain, and respectability
which he will probably never each.’ When she thought of
her mother, her confidence gave way a little; but she would
not allow that any objections THERE had material weight
with Mr. Darcy, whose pride, she was convinced, would re-
ceive a deeper wound from the want of importance in his
friend’s connections, than from their want of sense; and she
was quite decided, at last, that he had been partly governed
by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of retain-
ing Mr. Bingley for his sister.
The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned,
brought on a headache; and it grew so much worse towards
the evening, that, added to her unwillingness to see Mr.
Darcy, it determined her not to attend her cousins to Ros-
ings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins,
seeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go
and as much as possible prevented her husband from press-
ing her; but Mr. Collins could not conceal his apprehension
of Lady Catherine’s being rather displeased by her staying
at home.

Chapter 34
W hen they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exas-

perate herself as much as possible against Mr. Darcy,
chose for her employment the examination of all the letters
which Jane had written to her since her being in Kent. They
contained no actual complaint, nor was there any revival of
past occurrences, or any communication of present suffer-
ing. But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was
a want of that cheerfulness which had been used to charac-
terise her style, and which, proceeding from the serenity of
a mind at ease with itself and kindly disposed towards ev-
eryone, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth noticed
every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an
attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal.
Mr. Darcy’s shameful boast of what misery he had been able
to inflict, gave her a keener sense of her sister’s sufferings. It
was some consolation to think that his visit to Rosings was
to end on the day after the next—and, a still greater, that in
less than a fortnight she should herself be with Jane again,
and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her spirits, by
all that affection could do.
She could not think of Darcy’s leaving Kent without re-
membering that his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel
Fitzwilliam had made it clear that he had no intentions at
all, and agreeable as he was, she did not mean to be unhap-

py about him.
While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by
the sound of the door-bell, and her spirits were a little flut-
tered by the idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself,
who had once before called late in the evening, and might
now come to inquire particularly after her. But this idea was
soon banished, and her spirits were very differently affect-
ed, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk
into the room. In an hurried manner he immediately began
an inquiry after her health, imputing his visit to a wish of
hearing that she were better. She answered him with cold
civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then getting
up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but
said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came
towards her in an agitated manner, and thus began:
‘In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will
not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardent-
ly I admire and love you.’
Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression. She
stared, coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he consid-
ered sufficient encouragement; and the avowal of all that
he felt, and had long felt for her, immediately followed. He
spoke well; but there were feelings besides those of the heart
to be detailed; and he was not more eloquent on the subject
of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority—of
its being a degradation—of the family obstacles which had
always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth
which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding,
but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.

In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be in-
sensible to the compliment of such a man’s affection, and
though her intentions did not vary for an instant, she was
at first sorry for the pain he was to receive; till, roused to
resentment by his subsequent language, she lost all com-
passion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to
answer him with patience, when he should have done. He
concluded with representing to her the strength of that at-
tachment which, in spite of all his endeavours, he had found
impossible to conquer; and with expressing his hope that it
would now be rewarded by her acceptance of his hand. As
he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt of a
favourable answer. He SPOKE of apprehension and anxiety,
but his countenance expressed real security. Such a circum-
stance could only exasperate farther, and, when he ceased,
the colour rose into her cheeks, and she said:
‘In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode
to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed,
however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that
obligation should be felt, and if I could FEEL gratitude, I
would now thank you. But I cannot—I have never desired
your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most
unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone.
It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope
will be of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me,
have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard,
can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this expla-
nation.’
Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with

his eyes fixed on her face, seemed to catch her words with
no less resentment than surprise. His complexion became
pale with anger, and the disturbance of his mind was vis-
ible in every feature. He was struggling for the appearance
of composure, and would not open his lips till he believed
himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth’s
feelings dreadful. At length, with a voice of forced calm-
ness, he said:
‘And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of
expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with
so little ENDEAVOUR at civility, I am thus rejected. But it
is of small importance.’
‘I might as well inquire,’ replied she, ‘why with so evi-
dent a desire of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell
me that you liked me against your will, against your reason,
and even against your character? Was not this some excuse
for incivility, if I WAS uncivil? But I have other provoca-
tions. You know I have. Had not my feelings decided against
you—had they been indifferent, or had they even been fa-
vourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt
me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining,
perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?’
As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed co-
lour; but the emotion was short, and he listened without
attempting to interrupt her while she continued:
‘I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No
motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you act-
ed THERE. You dare not, you cannot deny, that you have
been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them

from each other—of exposing one to the censure of the
world for caprice and instability, and the other to its de-
rision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in
misery of the acutest kind.’
She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he
was listening with an air which proved him wholly un-
moved by any feeling of remorse. He even looked at her
with a smile of affected incredulity.
‘Can you deny that you have done it?’ she repeated.
With assumed tranquillity he then replied: ‘I have no wish
of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my
friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. To-
wards HIM I have been kinder than towards myself.’
Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil
reflection, but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely
to conciliate her.
‘But it is not merely this affair,’ she continued, ‘on which
my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place my
opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded
in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr.
Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to say? In
what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend your-
self? or under what misrepresentation can you here impose
upon others?’
‘You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns,’
said Darcy, in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened
colour.
‘Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can
help feeling an interest in him?’

‘His misfortunes!’ repeated Darcy contemptuously; ‘yes,
his misfortunes have been great indeed.’
‘And of your infliction,’ cried Elizabeth with energy. ‘You
have reduced him to his present state of poverty—compara-
tive poverty. You have withheld the advantages which you
must know to have been designed for him. You have de-
prived the best years of his life of that independence which
was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this!
and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with
contempt and ridicule.’
‘And this,’ cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps
across the room, ‘is your opinion of me! This is the esti-
mation in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining
it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are
heavy indeed! But perhaps,’ added he, stopping in his
walk, and turning towards her, ‘these offenses might have
been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my hon-
est confession of the scruples that had long prevented my
forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might
have been suppressed, had I, with greater policy, concealed
my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being
impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason,
by reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is
my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related.
They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice
in the inferiority of your connections?—to congratulate
myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so
decidedly beneath my own?’
Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every mo-

ment; yet she tried to the utmost to speak with composure
when she said:
‘You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the
mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than
as it spared the concern which I might have felt in refusing
you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.’
She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she
continued:
‘You could not have made the offer of your hand in any
possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.’
Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at
her with an expression of mingled incredulity and mortifi-
cation. She went on:
‘From the very beginning—from the first moment, I may
almost say—of my acquaintance with you, your manners,
impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance,
your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of oth-
ers, were such as to form the groundwork of disapprobation
on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dis-
like; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you
were the last man in the world whom I could ever be pre-
vailed on to marry.’
‘You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly com-
prehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed
of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up
so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your
health and happiness.’
And with these words he hastily left the room, and Eliza-
beth heard him the next moment open the front door and

quit the house.
The tumult of her mind, was now painfully great. She
knew not how to support herself, and from actual weakness
sat down and cried for half-an-hour. Her astonishment, as
she reflected on what had passed, was increased by every re-
view of it. That she should receive an offer of marriage from
Mr. Darcy! That he should have been in love with her for so
many months! So much in love as to wish to marry her in
spite of all the objections which had made him prevent his
friend’s marrying her sister, and which must appear at least
with equal force in his own case—was almost incredible! It
was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so strong an
affection. But his pride, his abominable pride—his shame-
less avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane—his
unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he
could not justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he
had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he
had not attempted to deny, soon overcame the pity which
the consideration of his attachment had for a moment excit-
ed. She continued in very agitated reflections till the sound
of Lady Catherine’s carriage made her feel how unequal she
was to encounter Charlotte’s observation, and hurried her
away to her room.

Chapter 35
E lizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts

and meditations which had at length closed her eyes.
She could not yet recover from the surprise of what had
happened; it was impossible to think of anything else; and,
totally indisposed for employment, she resolved, soon af-
ter breakfast, to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was
proceeding directly to her favourite walk, when the recol-
lection of Mr. Darcy’s sometimes coming there stopped her,
and instead of entering the park, she turned up the lane,
which led farther from the turnpike-road. The park paling
was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed one
of the gates into the ground.
After walking two or three times along that part of the
lane, she was tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning,
to stop at the gates and look into the park. The five weeks
which she had now passed in Kent had made a great dif-
ference in the country, and every day was adding to the
verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continu-
ing her walk, when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman
within the sort of grove which edged the park; he was mov-
ing that way; and, fearful of its being Mr. Darcy, she was
directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now
near enough to see her, and stepping forward with eager-
ness, pronounced her name. She had turned away; but on

hearing herself called, though in a voice which proved it to
be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the gate. He had by
that time reached it also, and, holding out a letter, which she
instinctively took, said, with a look of haughty composure,
‘I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of
meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that
letter?’ And then, with a slight bow, turned again into the
plantation, and was soon out of sight.
With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest
curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still in-
creasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two
sheets of letter-paper, written quite through, in a very close
hand. The envelope itself was likewise full. Pursuing her way
along the lane, she then began it. It was dated from Rosings,
at eight o’clock in the morning, and was as follows:—
‘Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the
apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sen-
timents or renewal of those offers which were last night so
disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining
you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes which, for
the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and
the effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter
must occasion, should have been spared, had not my char-
acter required it to be written and read. You must, therefore,
pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention;
your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I de-
mand it of your justice.
‘Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means
of equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The

first mentioned was, that, regardless of the sentiments of
either, I had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister, and the
other, that I had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance
of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity
and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. Wilfully and
wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth,
the acknowledged favourite of my father, a young man who
had scarcely any other dependence than on our patron-
age, and who had been brought up to expect its exertion,
would be a depravity, to which the separation of two young
persons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few
weeks, could bear no comparison. But from the severity of
that blame which was last night so liberally bestowed, re-
specting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in the future
secured, when the following account of my actions and
their motives has been read. If, in the explanation of them,
which is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating
feelings which may be offensive to yours, I can only say that
I am sorry. The necessity must be obeyed, and further apol-
ogy would be absurd.
‘I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in
common with others, that Bingley preferred your elder sis-
ter to any other young woman in the country. But it was
not till the evening of the dance at Netherfield that I had
any apprehension of his feeling a serious attachment. I had
often seen him in love before. At that ball, while I had the
honour of dancing with you, I was first made acquainted,
by Sir William Lucas’s accidental information, that Bing-
ley’s attentions to your sister had given rise to a general

expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it as a certain
event, of which the time alone could be undecided. From
that moment I observed my friend’s behaviour attentively;
and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet
was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I
also watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful,
and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar
regard, and I remained convinced from the evening’s scru-
tiny, that though she received his attentions with pleasure,
she did not invite them by any participation of sentiment.
If YOU have not been mistaken here, I must have been in
error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make
the latter probable. If it be so, if I have been misled by
such error to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not
been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert, that
the serenity of your sister’s countenance and air was such
as might have given the most acute observer a conviction
that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely
to be easily touched. That I was desirous of believing her
indifferent is certain—but I will venture to say that my in-
vestigation and decisions are not usually influenced by my
hopes or fears. I did not believe her to be indifferent because
I wished it; I believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as
I wished it in reason. My objections to the marriage were
not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have
the utmost force of passion to put aside, in my own case;
the want of connection could not be so great an evil to my
friend as to me. But there were other causes of repugnance;
causes which, though still existing, and existing to an equal

degree in both instances, I had myself endeavoured to for-
get, because they were not immediately before me. These
causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your
mother’s family, though objectionable, was nothing in
comparison to that total want of propriety so frequently, so
almost uniformly betrayed by herself, by your three young-
er sisters, and occasionally even by your father. Pardon me.
It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the
defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at
this representation of them, let it give you consolation to
consider that, to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid
any share of the like censure, is praise no less generally be-
stowed on you and your elder sister, than it is honourable to
the sense and disposition of both. I will only say farther that
from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties
was confirmed, and every inducement heightened which
could have led me before, to preserve my friend from what
I esteemed a most unhappy connection. He left Netherfield
for London, on the day following, as you, I am certain, re-
member, with the design of soon returning.
‘The part which I acted is now to be explained. His sis-
ters’ uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our
coincidence of feeling was soon discovered, and, alike sen-
sible that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother,
we shortly resolved on joining him directly in London. We
accordingly went—and there I readily engaged in the of-
fice of pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a
choice. I described, and enforced them earnestly. But, how-
ever this remonstrance might have staggered or delayed his

determination, I do not suppose that it would ultimately
have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded by
the assurance that I hesitated not in giving, of your sister’s
indifference. He had before believed her to return his af-
fection with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley
has great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on
my judgement than on his own. To convince him, therefore,
that he had deceived himself, was no very difficult point. To
persuade him against returning into Hertfordshire, when
that conviction had been given, was scarcely the work of a
moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much.
There is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair on
which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is that I conde-
scended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal
from him your sister’s being in town. I knew it myself, as
it was known to Miss Bingley; but her brother is even yet
ignorant of it. That they might have met without ill conse-
quence is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to
me enough extinguished for him to see her without some
danger. Perhaps this concealment, this disguise was be-
neath me; it is done, however, and it was done for the best.
On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology
to offer. If I have wounded your sister’s feelings, it was un-
knowingly done and though the motives which governed
me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not
yet learnt to condemn them.
‘With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of
having injured Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying
before you the whole of his connection with my family. Of

what he has PARTICULARLY accused me I am ignorant;
but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more
than one witness of undoubted veracity.
‘Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who
had for many years the management of all the Pemberley es-
tates, and whose good conduct in the discharge of his trust
naturally inclined my father to be of service to him; and
on George Wickham, who was his godson, his kindness
was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him
at school, and afterwards at Cambridge—most important
assistance, as his own father, always poor from the extrav-
agance of his wife, would have been unable to give him a
gentleman’s education. My father was not only fond of this
young man’s society, whose manner were always engag-
ing; he had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the
church would be his profession, intended to provide for him
in it. As for myself, it is many, many years since I first be-
gan to think of him in a very different manner. The vicious
propensities—the want of principle, which he was careful
to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not
escape the observation of a young man of nearly the same
age with himself, and who had opportunities of seeing him
in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have.
Here again shall give you pain—to what degree you only
can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr.
Wickham has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not
prevent me from unfolding his real character—it adds even
another motive.
‘My excellent father died about five years ago; and his at-

tachment to Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in
his will he particularly recommended it to me, to promote
his advancement in the best manner that his profession
might allow—and if he took orders, desired that a valu-
able family living might be his as soon as it became vacant.
There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own
father did not long survive mine, and within half a year
from these events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that,
having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I
should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some
more immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the pre-
ferment, by which he could not be benefited. He had some
intention, he added, of studying law, and I must be aware
that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very
insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than believed
him to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to
accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought
not to be a clergyman; the business was therefore soon set-
tled—he resigned all claim to assistance in the church, were
it possible that he could ever be in a situation to receive it,
and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All con-
nection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too
ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his society
in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his studying
the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all
restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For
about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease
of the incumbent of the living which had been designed for
him, he applied to me again by letter for the presentation.

His circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty
in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had found the law
a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved
on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in
question—of which he trusted there could be little doubt, as
he was well assured that I had no other person to provide
for, and I could not have forgotten my revered father’s in-
tentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to comply
with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition to it. His
resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circum-
stances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me
to others as in his reproaches to myself. After this period ev-
ery appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived
I know not. But last summer he was again most painfully
obtruded on my notice.
‘I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish
to forget myself, and which no obligation less than the pres-
ent should induce me to unfold to any human being. Having
said thus much, I feel no doubt of your secrecy. My sister,
who is more than ten years my junior, was left to the guard-
ianship of my mother’s nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and
myself. About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an
establishment formed for her in London; and last summer
she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate;
and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by de-
sign; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance
between him and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were
most unhappily deceived; and by her connivance and aid,
he so far recommended himself to Georgiana, whose affec-

tionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness
to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself
in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but
fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her im-
prudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of
it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two be-
fore the intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to
support the idea of grieving and offending a brother whom
she almost looked up to as a father, acknowledged the whole
to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Re-
gard for my sister’s credit and feelings prevented any public
exposure; but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place
immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from
her charge. Mr. Wickham’s chief object was unquestionably
my sister’s fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I
cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself
on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have
been complete indeed.
‘This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in
which we have been concerned together; and if you do not
absolutely reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me hence-
forth of cruelty towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what
manner, under what form of falsehood he had imposed on
you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered at. Igno-
rant as you previously were of everything concerning either,
detection could not be in your power, and suspicion cer-
tainly not in your inclination.
‘You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you
last night; but I was not then master enough of myself to

know what could or ought to be revealed. For the truth of
everything here related, I can appeal more particularly to
the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our near
relationship and constant intimacy, and, still more, as one
of the executors of my father’s will, has been unavoidably ac-
quainted with every particular of these transactions. If your
abhorrence of ME should make MY assertions valueless,
you cannot be prevented by the same cause from confiding
in my cousin; and that there may be the possibility of con-
sulting him, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of
putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morn-
ing. I will only add, God bless you.
‘FITZWILLIAM DARCY.’

Chapter 36
I f Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did

not expect it to contain a renewal of his offers, she had
formed no expectation at all of its contents. But such as
they were, it may well be supposed how eagerly she went
through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they ex-
cited. Her feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined.
With amazement did she first understand that he believed
any apology to be in his power; and steadfastly was she per-
suaded, that he could have no explanation to give, which a
just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong preju-
dice against everything he might say, she began his account
of what had happened at Netherfield. She read with an ea-
gerness which hardly left her power of comprehension, and
from impatience of knowing what the next sentence might
bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of the one
before her eyes. His belief of her sister’s insensibility she in-
stantly resolved to be false; and his account of the real, the
worst objections to the match, made her too angry to have
any wish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for
what he had done which satisfied her; his style was not peni-
tent, but haughty. It was all pride and insolence.
But when this subject was succeeded by his account of
Mr. Wickham—when she read with somewhat clearer at-
tention a relation of events which, if true, must overthrow

every cherished opinion of his worth, and which bore so
alarming an affinity to his own history of himself—her
feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of
definition. Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror,
oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely, repeat-
edly exclaiming, ‘This must be false! This cannot be! This
must be the grossest falsehood!’—and when she had gone
through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing any-
thing of the last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting
that she would not regard it, that she would never look in
it again.
In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could
rest on nothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a
minute the letter was unfolded again, and collecting herself
as well as she could, she again began the mortifying perus-
al of all that related to Wickham, and commanded herself
so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence. The
account of his connection with the Pemberley family was
exactly what he had related himself; and the kindness of the
late Mr. Darcy, though she had not before known its extent,
agreed equally well with his own words. So far each recit-
al confirmed the other; but when she came to the will, the
difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living
was fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words,
it was impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity
on one side or the other; and, for a few moments, she flat-
tered herself that her wishes did not err. But when she read
and re-read with the closest attention, the particulars im-
mediately following of Wickham’s resigning all pretensions

to the living, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum
as three thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate.
She put down the letter, weighed every circumstance with
what she meant to be impartiality—deliberated on the prob-
ability of each statement—but with little success. On both
sides it was only assertion. Again she read on; but every line
proved more clearly that the affair, which she had believed
it impossible that any contrivance could so represent as to
render Mr. Darcy’s conduct in it less than infamous, was
capable of a turn which must make him entirely blameless
throughout the whole.
The extravagance and general profligacy which he
scrupled not to lay at Mr. Wickham’s charge, exceedingly
shocked her; the more so, as she could bring no proof of its
injustice. She had never heard of him before his entrance
into the ——shire Militia, in which he had engaged at the
persuasion of the young man who, on meeting him acciden-
tally in town, had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of
his former way of life nothing had been known in Hertford-
shire but what he told himself. As to his real character, had
information been in her power, she had never felt a wish of
inquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had estab-
lished him at once in the possession of every virtue. She
tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some distin-
guished trait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue
him from the attacks of Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the pre-
dominance of virtue, atone for those casual errors under
which she would endeavour to class what Mr. Darcy had
described as the idleness and vice of many years’ continu-

ance. But no such recollection befriended her. She could see
him instantly before her, in every charm of air and address;
but she could remember no more substantial good than the
general approbation of the neighbourhood, and the regard
which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After
pausing on this point a considerable while, she once more
continued to read. But, alas! the story which followed, of his
designs on Miss Darcy, received some confirmation from
what had passed between Colonel Fitzwilliam and her-
self only the morning before; and at last she was referred
for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam
himself—from whom she had previously received the in-
formation of his near concern in all his cousin’s affairs, and
whose character she had no reason to question. At one time
she had almost resolved on applying to him, but the idea
was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and at
length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy
would never have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not
been well assured of his cousin’s corroboration.
She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in
conversation between Wickham and herself, in their first
evening at Mr. Phillips’s. Many of his expressions were still
fresh in her memory. She was NOW struck with the impro-
priety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered
it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting
himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of
his professions with his conduct. She remembered that he
had boasted of having no fear of seeing Mr. Darcy—that Mr.
Darcy might leave the country, but that HE should stand

his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball the very
next week. She remembered also that, till the Netherfield
family had quitted the country, he had told his story to
no one but herself; but that after their removal it had been
everywhere discussed; that he had then no reserves, no
scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy’s character, though he had
assured her that respect for the father would always prevent
his exposing the son.
How differently did everything now appear in which he
was concerned! His attentions to Miss King were now the
consequence of views solely and hatefully mercenary; and
the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer the modera-
tion of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at anything.
His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable
motive; he had either been deceived with regard to her for-
tune, or had been gratifying his vanity by encouraging the
preference which she believed she had most incautiously
shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter
and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she
could not but allow Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane,
had long ago asserted his blamelessness in the affair; that
proud and repulsive as were his manners, she had never, in
the whole course of their acquaintance—an acquaintance
which had latterly brought them much together, and given
her a sort of intimacy with his ways—seen anything that
betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust—anything that
spoke him of irreligious or immoral habits; that among his
own connections he was esteemed and valued—that even
Wickham had allowed him merit as a brother, and that she

had often heard him speak so affectionately of his sister as
to prove him capable of SOME amiable feeling; that had
his actions been what Mr. Wickham represented them, so
gross a violation of everything right could hardly have been
concealed from the world; and that friendship between a
person capable of it, and such an amiable man as Mr. Bing-
ley, was incomprehensible.
She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy
nor Wickham could she think without feeling she had been
blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd.
‘How despicably I have acted!’ she cried; ‘I, who have
prided myself on my discernment! I, who have valued my-
self on my abilities! who have often disdained the generous
candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or
blameable mistrust! How humiliating is this discovery! Yet,
how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not have
been more wretchedly blind! But vanity, not love, has been
my folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended
by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our
acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance,
and driven reason away, where either were concerned. Till
this moment I never knew myself.’
From herself to Jane—from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts
were in a line which soon brought to her recollection that
Mr. Darcy’s explanation THERE had appeared very insuf-
ficient, and she read it again. Widely different was the effect
of a second perusal. How could she deny that credit to his
assertions in one instance, which she had been obliged to
give in the other? He declared himself to be totally unsus-

picious of her sister’s attachment; and she could not help
remembering what Charlotte’s opinion had always been.
Neither could she deny the justice of his description of Jane.
She felt that Jane’s feelings, though fervent, were little dis-
played, and that there was a constant complacency in her air
and manner not often united with great sensibility.
When she came to that part of the letter in which her
family were mentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet
merited reproach, her sense of shame was severe. The jus-
tice of the charge struck her too forcibly for denial, and the
circumstances to which he particularly alluded as having
passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first
disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression
on his mind than on hers.
The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt.
It soothed, but it could not console her for the contempt
which had thus been self-attracted by the rest of her fam-
ily; and as she considered that Jane’s disappointment had
in fact been the work of her nearest relations, and reflected
how materially the credit of both must be hurt by such im-
propriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything
she had ever known before.
After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way
to every variety of thought—re-considering events, deter-
mining probabilities, and reconciling herself, as well as she
could, to a change so sudden and so important, fatigue, and
a recollection of her long absence, made her at length return
home; and she entered the house with the wish of appearing
cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such re-

flections as must make her unfit for conversation.
She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from
Rosings had each called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only
for a few minutes, to take leave—but that Colonel Fitzwil-
liam had been sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for
her return, and almost resolving to walk after her till she
could be found. Elizabeth could but just AFFECT concern
in missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam
was no longer an object; she could think only of her letter.

Chapter 37
T he two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning, and

Mr. Collins having been in waiting near the lodges, to
make them his parting obeisance, was able to bring home
the pleasing intelligence, of their appearing in very good
health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after
the melancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings. To
Rosings he then hastened, to console Lady Catherine and
her daughter; and on his return brought back, with great
satisfaction, a message from her ladyship, importing that
she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of hav-
ing them all to dine with her.
Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recol-
lecting that, had she chosen it, she might by this time have
been presented to her as her future niece; nor could she
think, without a smile, of what her ladyship’s indignation
would have been. ‘What would she have said? how would
she have behaved?’ were questions with which she amused
herself.
Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings par-
ty. ‘I assure you, I feel it exceedingly,’ said Lady Catherine; ‘I
believe no one feels the loss of friends so much as I do. But
I am particularly attached to these young men, and know
them to be so much attached to me! They were excessively
sorry to go! But so they always are. The dear Colonel rallied

his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy seemed to feel
it most acutely, more, I think, than last year. His attachment
to Rosings certainly increases.’
Mr. Collins had a compliment, and an allusion to throw
in here, which were kindly smiled on by the mother and
daughter.
Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet
seemed out of spirits, and immediately accounting for it by
herself, by supposing that she did not like to go home again
so soon, she added:
‘But if that is the case, you must write to your mother and
beg that you may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be
very glad of your company, I am sure.’
‘I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invita-
tion,’ replied Elizabeth, ‘but it is not in my power to accept
it. I must be in town next Saturday.’
‘Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks.
I expected you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so
before you came. There can be no occasion for your going
so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly spare you for another
fortnight.’
‘But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my
return.’
‘Oh! your father of course may spare you, if your mother
can. Daughters are never of so much consequence to a father.
And if you will stay another MONTH complete, it will be in
my power to take one of you as far as London, for I am go-
ing there early in June, for a week; and as Dawson does not
object to the barouche-box, there will be very good room

for one of you—and indeed, if the weather should happen
to be cool, I should not object to taking you both, as you are
neither of you large.’
‘You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide
by our original plan.’
Lady Catherine seemed resigned. ‘Mrs. Collins, you must
send a servant with them. You know I always speak my mind,
and I cannot bear the idea of two young women travelling
post by themselves. It is highly improper. You must contrive
to send somebody. I have the greatest dislike in the world to
that sort of thing. Young women should always be properly
guarded and attended, according to their situation in life.
When my niece Georgiana went to Ramsgate last summer,
I made a point of her having two men-servants go with her.
Miss Darcy, the daughter of Mr. Darcy, of Pemberley, and
Lady Anne, could not have appeared with propriety in a dif-
ferent manner. I am excessively attentive to all those things.
You must send John with the young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I
am glad it occurred to me to mention it; for it would really
be discreditable to YOU to let them go alone.’
‘My uncle is to send a servant for us.’
‘Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am
very glad you have somebody who thinks of these things.
Where shall you change horses? Oh! Bromley, of course. If
you mention my name at the Bell, you will be attended to.’
Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask re-
specting their journey, and as she did not answer them all
herself, attention was necessary, which Elizabeth believed
to be lucky for her; or, with a mind so occupied, she might

have forgotten where she was. Reflection must be reserved
for solitary hours; whenever she was alone, she gave way to
it as the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a soli-
tary walk, in which she might indulge in all the delight of
unpleasant recollections.
Mr. Darcy’s letter she was in a fair way of soon know-
ing by heart. She studied every sentence; and her feelings
towards its writer were at times widely different. When
she remembered the style of his address, she was still full
of indignation; but when she considered how unjustly she
had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned
against herself; and his disappointed feelings became the
object of compassion. His attachment excited gratitude, his
general character respect; but she could not approve him;
nor could she for a moment repent her refusal, or feel the
slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past
behaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and re-
gret; and in the unhappy defects of her family, a subject
of yet heavier chagrin. They were hopeless of remedy. Her
father, contented with laughing at them, would never ex-
ert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his youngest
daughters; and her mother, with manners so far from right
herself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had
frequently united with Jane in an endeavour to check the
imprudence of Catherine and Lydia; but while they were
supported by their mother’s indulgence, what chance could
there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited, irritable,
and completely under Lydia’s guidance, had been always af-
fronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless,

would scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant,
idle, and vain. While there was an officer in Meryton, they
would flirt with him; and while Meryton was within a walk
of Longbourn, they would be going there forever.
Anxiety on Jane’s behalf was another prevailing concern;
and Mr. Darcy’s explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her
former good opinion, heightened the sense of what Jane
had lost. His affection was proved to have been sincere, and
his conduct cleared of all blame, unless any could attach to
the implicitness of his confidence in his friend. How griev-
ous then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in
every respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for
happiness, Jane had been deprived, by the folly and indeco-
rum of her own family!
When to these recollections was added the development
of Wickham’s character, it may be easily believed that the
happy spirits which had seldom been depressed before,
were now so much affected as to make it almost impossible
for her to appear tolerably cheerful.
Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the
last week of her stay as they had been at first. The very last
evening was spent there; and her ladyship again inquired
minutely into the particulars of their journey, gave them di-
rections as to the best method of packing, and was so urgent
on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right way, that
Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all
the work of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh.
When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great conde-
scension, wished them a good journey, and invited them to

come to Hunsford again next year; and Miss de Bourgh ex-
erted herself so far as to curtsey and hold out her hand to
both.

Chapter 38
O n Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for

breakfast a few minutes before the others appeared;
and he took the opportunity of paying the parting civilities
which he deemed indispensably necessary.
‘I know not, Miss Elizabeth,’ said he, ‘whether Mrs. Col-
lins has yet expressed her sense of your kindness in coming
to us; but I am very certain you will not leave the house
without receiving her thanks for it. The favor of your com-
pany has been much felt, I assure you. We know how little
there is to tempt anyone to our humble abode. Our plain
manner of living, our small rooms and few domestics, and
the little we see of the world, must make Hunsford ex-
tremely dull to a young lady like yourself; but I hope you
will believe us grateful for the condescension, and that we
have done everything in our power to prevent your spend-
ing your time unpleasantly.’
Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of
happiness. She had spent six weeks with great enjoyment;
and the pleasure of being with Charlotte, and the kind at-
tentions she had received, must make HER feel the obliged.
Mr. Collins was gratified, and with a more smiling solem-
nity replied:
‘It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have passed
your time not disagreeably. We have certainly done our

best; and most fortunately having it in our power to intro-
duce you to very superior society, and, from our connection
with Rosings, the frequent means of varying the hum-
ble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that your
Hunsford visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situ-
ation with regard to Lady Catherine’s family is indeed the
sort of extraordinary advantage and blessing which few can
boast. You see on what a footing we are. You see how con-
tinually we are engaged there. In truth I must acknowledge
that, with all the disadvantages of this humble parsonage, I
should not think anyone abiding in it an object of compas-
sion, while they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings.’
Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings;
and he was obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth
tried to unite civility and truth in a few short sentences.
‘You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into
Hertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself at least that
you will be able to do so. Lady Catherine’s great attentions
to Mrs. Collins you have been a daily witness of; and alto-
gether I trust it does not appear that your friend has drawn
an unfortunate—but on this point it will be as well to be
silent. Only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that
I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity
in marriage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one mind
and one way of thinking. There is in everything a most re-
markable resemblance of character and ideas between us.
We seem to have been designed for each other.’
Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness
where that was the case, and with equal sincerity could add,

that she firmly believed and rejoiced in his domestic com-
forts. She was not sorry, however, to have the recital of them
interrupted by the lady from whom they sprang. Poor Char-
lotte! it was melancholy to leave her to such society! But she
had chosen it with her eyes open; and though evidently re-
gretting that her visitors were to go, she did not seem to ask
for compassion. Her home and her housekeeping, her par-
ish and her poultry, and all their dependent concerns, had
not yet lost their charms.
At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened
on, the parcels placed within, and it was pronounced to be
ready. After an affectionate parting between the friends,
Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by Mr. Collins, and
as they walked down the garden he was commissioning her
with his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his
thanks for the kindness he had received at Longbourn in
the winter, and his compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner,
though unknown. He then handed her in, Maria followed,
and the door was on the point of being closed, when he sud-
denly reminded them, with some consternation, that they
had hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies
at Rosings.
‘But,’ he added, ‘you will of course wish to have your hum-
ble respects delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for
their kindness to you while you have been here.’
Elizabeth made no objection; the door was then allowed
to be shut, and the carriage drove off.
‘Good gracious!’ cried Maria, after a few minutes’ silence,
‘it seems but a day or two since we first came! and yet how

many things have happened!’
‘A great many indeed,’ said her companion with a sigh.
‘We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking
tea there twice! How much I shall have to tell!’
Elizabeth added privately, ‘And how much I shall have
to conceal!’
Their journey was performed without much conversa-
tion, or any alarm; and within four hours of their leaving
Hunsford they reached Mr. Gardiner’s house, where they
were to remain a few days.
Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of
studying her spirits, amidst the various engagements which
the kindness of her aunt had reserved for them. But Jane
was to go home with her, and at Longbourn there would be
leisure enough for observation.
It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could
wait even for Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr.
Darcy’s proposals. To know that she had the power of re-
vealing what would so exceedingly astonish Jane, and must,
at the same time, so highly gratify whatever of her own
vanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such
a temptation to openness as nothing could have conquered
but the state of indecision in which she remained as to the
extent of what she should communicate; and her fear, if she
once entered on the subject, of being hurried into repeat-
ing something of Bingley which might only grieve her sister
further.

Chapter 19
I t was the second week in May, in which the three young

ladies set out together from Gracechurch Street for the
town of ——, in Hertfordshire; and, as they drew near the
appointed inn where Mr. Bennet’s carriage was to meet
them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman’s
punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-
room upstairs. These two girls had been above an hour in
the place, happily employed in visiting an opposite milliner,
watching the sentinel on guard, and dressing a salad and
cucumber.
After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly dis-
played a table set out with such cold meat as an inn larder
usually affords, exclaiming, ‘Is not this nice? Is not this an
agreeable surprise?’
‘And we mean to treat you all,’ added Lydia, ‘but you
must lend us the money, for we have just spent ours at the
shop out there.’ Then, showing her purchases—‘Look here,
I have bought this bonnet. I do not think it is very pretty;
but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall pull it to
pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any
better.’
And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with
perfect unconcern, ‘Oh! but there were two or three much
uglier in the shop; and when I have bought some prettier-

coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I think it will be very
tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what one wears
this summer, after the ——shire have left Meryton, and
they are going in a fortnight.’
‘Are they indeed!’ cried Elizabeth, with the greatest sat-
isfaction.
‘They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do
so want papa to take us all there for the summer! It would
be such a delicious scheme; and I dare say would hardly cost
anything at all. Mamma would like to go too of all things!
Only think what a miserable summer else we shall have!’
‘Yes,’ thought Elizabeth, ‘THAT would be a delightful
scheme indeed, and completely do for us at once. Good
Heaven! Brighton, and a whole campful of soldiers, to us,
who have been overset already by one poor regiment of mi-
litia, and the monthly balls of Meryton!’
‘Now I have got some news for you,’ said Lydia, as they
sat down at table. ‘What do you think? It is excellent news—
capital news—and about a certain person we all like!’
Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter
was told he need not stay. Lydia laughed, and said:
‘Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You
thought the waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say
he often hears worse things said than I am going to say. But
he is an ugly fellow! I am glad he is gone. I never saw such a
long chin in my life. Well, but now for my news; it is about
dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is it not? There is
no danger of Wickham’s marrying Mary King. There’s for
you! She is gone down to her uncle at Liverpool: gone to stay.

Wickham is safe.’
‘And Mary King is safe!’ added Elizabeth; ‘safe from a
connection imprudent as to fortune.’
‘She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.’
‘But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,’
said Jane.
‘I am sure there is not on HIS. I will answer for it, he
never cared three straws about her—who could about such
a nasty little freckled thing?’
Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable
of such coarseness of EXPRESSION herself, the coarseness
of the SENTIMENT was little other than her own breast
had harboured and fancied liberal!
As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the car-
riage was ordered; and after some contrivance, the whole
party, with all their boxes, work-bags, and parcels, and the
unwelcome addition of Kitty’s and Lydia’s purchases, were
seated in it.
‘How nicely we are all crammed in,’ cried Lydia. ‘I am
glad I bought my bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having
another bandbox! Well, now let us be quite comfortable and
snug, and talk and laugh all the way home. And in the first
place, let us hear what has happened to you all since you
went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had
any flirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have
got a husband before you came back. Jane will be quite an
old maid soon, I declare. She is almost three-and-twenty!
Lord, how ashamed I should be of not being married be-
fore three-and-twenty! My aunt Phillips wants you so to get

husbands, you can’t think. She says Lizzy had better have
taken Mr. Collins; but I do not think there would have been
any fun in it. Lord! how I should like to be married before
any of you; and then I would chaperon you about to all the
balls. Dear me! we had such a good piece of fun the other
day at Colonel Forster’s. Kitty and me were to spend the
day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance
in the evening; (by the bye, Mrs. Forster and me are SUCH
friends!) and so she asked the two Harringtons to come, but
Harriet was ill, and so Pen was forced to come by herself;
and then, what do you think we did? We dressed up Cham-
berlayne in woman’s clothes on purpose to pass for a lady,
only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Colonel and
Mrs. Forster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were
forced to borrow one of her gowns; and you cannot imagine
how well he looked! When Denny, and Wickham, and Pratt,
and two or three more of the men came in, they did not
know him in the least. Lord! how I laughed! and so did Mrs.
Forster. I thought I should have died. And THAT made the
men suspect something, and then they soon found out what
was the matter.’
With such kinds of histories of their parties and good
jokes, did Lydia, assisted by Kitty’s hints and additions, en-
deavour to amuse her companions all the way to Longbourn.
Elizabeth listened as little as she could, but there was no es-
caping the frequent mention of Wickham’s name.
Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet re-
joiced to see Jane in undiminished beauty; and more than
once during dinner did Mr. Bennet say voluntarily to Eliza-

beth:
‘I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.’
Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all
the Lucases came to meet Maria and hear the news; and
various were the subjects that occupied them: Lady Lucas
was inquiring of Maria, after the welfare and poultry of her
eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet was doubly engaged, on one
hand collecting an account of the present fashions from
Jane, who sat some way below her, and, on the other, retail-
ing them all to the younger Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice
rather louder than any other person’s, was enumerating the
various pleasures of the morning to anybody who would
hear her.
‘Oh! Mary,’ said she, ‘I wish you had gone with us, for we
had such fun! As we went along, Kitty and I drew up the
blinds, and pretended there was nobody in the coach; and I
should have gone so all the way, if Kitty had not been sick;
and when we got to the George, I do think we behaved very
handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest
cold luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we
would have treated you too. And then when we came away
it was such fun! I thought we never should have got into the
coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then we were so
merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so loud, that
anybody might have heard us ten miles off!’
To this Mary very gravely replied, ‘Far be it from me, my
dear sister, to depreciate such pleasures! They would doubt-
less be congenial with the generality of female minds. But I
confess they would have no charms for ME—I should infi-

nitely prefer a book.’
But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom
listened to anybody for more than half a minute, and never
attended to Mary at all.
In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the
girls to walk to Meryton, and to see how everybody went
on; but Elizabeth steadily opposed the scheme. It should
not be said that the Miss Bennets could not be at home half
a day before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was
another reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing
Mr. Wickham again, and was resolved to avoid it as long as
possible. The comfort to HER of the regiment’s approach-
ing removal was indeed beyond expression. In a fortnight
they were to go—and once gone, she hoped there could be
nothing more to plague her on his account.
She had not been many hours at home before she found
that the Brighton scheme, of which Lydia had given them a
hint at the inn, was under frequent discussion between her
parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her father had not the
smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were at the
same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though
often disheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding
at last.

Chapter 20
E lizabeth’s impatience to acquaint Jane with what had

happened could no longer be overcome; and at length,
resolving to suppress every particular in which her sister
was concerned, and preparing her to be surprised, she re-
lated to her the next morning the chief of the scene between
Mr. Darcy and herself.
Miss Bennet’s astonishment was soon lessened by the
strong sisterly partiality which made any admiration of
Elizabeth appear perfectly natural; and all surprise was
shortly lost in other feelings. She was sorry that Mr. Darcy
should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so little
suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved
for the unhappiness which her sister’s refusal must have
given him.
‘His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,’ said she,
‘and certainly ought not to have appeared; but consider how
much it must increase his disappointment!’
‘Indeed,’ replied Elizabeth, ‘I am heartily sorry for him;
but he has other feelings, which will probably soon drive
away his regard for me. You do not blame me, however, for
refusing him?’
‘Blame you! Oh, no.’
‘But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wick-
ham?’

‘No—I do not know that you were wrong in saying what
you did.’
‘But you WILL know it, when I tell you what happened
the very next day.’
She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its
contents as far as they concerned George Wickham. What
a stroke was this for poor Jane! who would willingly have
gone through the world without believing that so much
wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind, as was
here collected in one individual. Nor was Darcy’s vindica-
tion, though grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling
her for such discovery. Most earnestly did she labour to
prove the probability of error, and seek to clear the one
without involving the other.
‘This will not do,’ said Elizabeth; ‘you never will be able
to make both of them good for anything. Take your choice,
but you must be satisfied with only one. There is but such a
quantity of merit between them; just enough to make one
good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting about pret-
ty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Darcy’s;
but you shall do as you choose.’
It was some time, however, before a smile could be ex-
torted from Jane.
‘I do not know when I have been more shocked,’ said she.
‘Wickham so very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor
Mr. Darcy! Dear Lizzy, only consider what he must have
suffered. Such a disappointment! and with the knowledge
of your ill opinion, too! and having to relate such a thing
of his sister! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must

feel it so.’
‘Oh! no, my regret and compassion are all done away
by seeing you so full of both. I know you will do him such
ample justice, that I am growing every moment more un-
concerned and indifferent. Your profusion makes me
saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart
will be as light as a feather.’
‘Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness
in his countenance! such an openness and gentleness in his
manner!’
‘There certainly was some great mismanagement in the
education of those two young men. One has got all the
goodness, and the other all the appearance of it.’
‘I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the APPEAR-
ANCE of it as you used to do.’
‘And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so
decided a dislike to him, without any reason. It is such a
spur to one’s genius, such an opening for wit, to have a dis-
like of that kind. One may be continually abusive without
saying anything just; but one cannot always be laughing at
a man without now and then stumbling on something wit-
ty.’
‘Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could
not treat the matter as you do now.’
‘Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I may
say unhappy. And with no one to speak to about what I felt,
no Jane to comfort me and say that I had not been so very
weak and vain and nonsensical as I knew I had! Oh! how I
wanted you!’

‘How unfortunate that you should have used such very
strong expressions in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy,
for now they DO appear wholly undeserved.’
‘Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitter-
ness is a most natural consequence of the prejudices I had
been encouraging. There is one point on which I want your
advice. I want to be told whether I ought, or ought not, to
make our acquaintances in general understand Wickham’s
character.’
Miss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, ‘Surely
there can be no occasion for exposing him so dreadfully.
What is your opinion?’
‘That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not
authorised me to make his communication public. On the
contrary, every particular relative to his sister was meant
to be kept as much as possible to myself; and if I endeavour
to undeceive people as to the rest of his conduct, who will
believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so
violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in
Meryton to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am
not equal to it. Wickham will soon be gone; and therefore
it will not signify to anyone here what he really is. Some
time hence it will be all found out, and then we may laugh
at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At present I will
say nothing about it.’
‘You are quite right. To have his errors made public might
ruin him for ever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has
done, and anxious to re-establish a character. We must not
make him desperate.’

The tumult of Elizabeth’s mind was allayed by this con-
versation. She had got rid of two of the secrets which had
weighed on her for a fortnight, and was certain of a will-
ing listener in Jane, whenever she might wish to talk again
of either. But there was still something lurking behind, of
which prudence forbade the disclosure. She dared not re-
late the other half of Mr. Darcy’s letter, nor explain to her
sister how sincerely she had been valued by her friend. Here
was knowledge in which no one could partake; and she was
sensible that nothing less than a perfect understanding be-
tween the parties could justify her in throwing off this last
encumbrance of mystery. ‘And then,’ said she, ‘if that very
improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be
able to tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable
manner himself. The liberty of communication cannot be
mine till it has lost all its value!’
She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to ob-
serve the real state of her sister’s spirits. Jane was not happy.
She still cherished a very tender affection for Bingley. Hav-
ing never even fancied herself in love before, her regard had
all the warmth of first attachment, and, from her age and
disposition, greater steadiness than most first attachments
often boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance,
and prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense,
and all her attention to the feelings of her friends, were req-
uisite to check the indulgence of those regrets which must
have been injurious to her own health and their tranquil-
lity.
‘Well, Lizzy,’ said Mrs. Bennet one day, ‘what is your

opinion NOW of this sad business of Jane’s? For my part, I
am determined never to speak of it again to anybody. I told
my sister Phillips so the other day. But I cannot find out
that Jane saw anything of him in London. Well, he is a very
undeserving young man—and I do not suppose there’s the
least chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There
is no talk of his coming to Netherfield again in the sum-
mer; and I have inquired of everybody, too, who is likely to
know.’
‘I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any
more.’
‘Oh well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to
come. Though I shall always say he used my daughter ex-
tremely ill; and if I was her, I would not have put up with
it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure Jane will die of a broken
heart; and then he will be sorry for what he has done.’
But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any
such expectation, she made no answer.
‘Well, Lizzy,’ continued her mother, soon afterwards,
‘and so the Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well,
well, I only hope it will last. And what sort of table do they
keep? Charlotte is an excellent manager, I dare say. If she is
half as sharp as her mother, she is saving enough. There is
nothing extravagant in THEIR housekeeping, I dare say.’
‘No, nothing at all.’
‘A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes,
yes. THEY will take care not to outrun their income. THEY
will never be distressed for money. Well, much good may it
do them! And so, I suppose, they often talk of having Long-

bourn when your father is dead. They look upon it as quite
their own, I dare say, whenever that happens.’
‘It was a subject which they could not mention before
me.’
‘No; it would have been strange if they had; but I make no
doubt they often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they
can be easy with an estate that is not lawfully their own, so
much the better. I should be ashamed of having one that
was only entailed on me.’

Chapter 41
T he first week of their return was soon gone. The second

began. It was the last of the regiment’s stay in Mery-
ton, and all the young ladies in the neighbourhood were
drooping apace. The dejection was almost universal. The
elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink, and
sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments.
Very frequently were they reproached for this insensibility
by Kitty and Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and
who could not comprehend such hard-heartedness in any
of the family.
‘Good Heaven! what is to become of us? What are we
to do?’ would they often exclaiming the bitterness of woe.
‘How can you be smiling so, Lizzy?’
Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she
remembered what she had herself endured on a similar oc-
casion, five-and-twenty years ago.
‘I am sure,’ said she, ‘I cried for two days together when
Colonel Miller’s regiment went away. I thought I should
have broken my heart.’
‘I am sure I shall break MINE,’ said Lydia.
‘If one could but go to Brighton!’ observed Mrs. Bennet.
‘Oh, yes!—if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so
disagreeable.’
‘A little sea-bathing would set me up forever.’

‘And my aunt Phillips is sure it would do ME a great deal
of good,’ added Kitty.
Such were the kind of lamentations resounding per-
petually through Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be
diverted by them; but all sense of pleasure was lost in shame.
She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy’s objections; and never
had she been so much disposed to pardon his interference
in the views of his friend.
But the gloom of Lydia’s prospect was shortly cleared
away; for she received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the
wife of the colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to
Brighton. This invaluable friend was a very young woman,
and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour
and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each
other, and out of their THREE months’ acquaintance they
had been intimate TWO.
The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of
Mrs. Forster, the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortifica-
tion of Kitty, are scarcely to be described. Wholly inattentive
to her sister’s feelings, Lydia flew about the house in restless
ecstasy, calling for everyone’s congratulations, and laugh-
ing and talking with more violence than ever; whilst the
luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repined at her fate in
terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish.
‘I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask ME as well
as Lydia,’ said she, ‘Though I am NOT her particular friend.
I have just as much right to be asked as she has, and more
too, for I am two years older.’
In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable,

and Jane to make her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this
invitation was so far from exciting in her the same feelings
as in her mother and Lydia, that she considered it as the
death warrant of all possibility of common sense for the
latter; and detestable as such a step must make her were it
known, she could not help secretly advising her father not
to let her go. She represented to him all the improprieties
of Lydia’s general behaviour, the little advantage she could
derive from the friendship of such a woman as Mrs. Forster,
and the probability of her being yet more imprudent with
such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must
be greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then
said:
‘Lydia will never be easy until she has exposed herself in
some public place or other, and we can never expect her to
do it with so little expense or inconvenience to her family as
under the present circumstances.’
‘If you were aware,’ said Elizabeth, ‘of the very great dis-
advantage to us all which must arise from the public notice
of Lydia’s unguarded and imprudent manner—nay, which
has already arisen from it, I am sure you would judge dif-
ferently in the affair.’
‘Already arisen?’ repeated Mr. Bennet. ‘What, has she
frightened away some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But
do not be cast down. Such squeamish youths as cannot bear
to be connected with a little absurdity are not worth a re-
gret. Come, let me see the list of pitiful fellows who have
been kept aloof by Lydia’s folly.’
‘Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to re-

sent. It is not of particular, but of general evils, which I am
now complaining. Our importance, our respectability in the
world must be affected by the wild volatility, the assurance
and disdain of all restraint which mark Lydia’s character.
Excuse me, for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear father,
will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits,
and of teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be
the business of her life, she will soon be beyond the reach
of amendment. Her character will be fixed, and she will, at
sixteen, be the most determined flirt that ever made herself
or her family ridiculous; a flirt, too, in the worst and mean-
est degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond youth
and a tolerable person; and, from the ignorance and empti-
ness of her mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion of
that universal contempt which her rage for admiration will
excite. In this danger Kitty also is comprehended. She will
follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain, ignorant, idle, and abso-
lutely uncontrolled! Oh! my dear father, can you suppose it
possible that they will not be censured and despised wher-
ever they are known, and that their sisters will not be often
involved in the disgrace?’
Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject,
and affectionately taking her hand said in reply:
‘Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you
and Jane are known you must be respected and valued; and
you will not appear to less advantage for having a couple
of—or I may say, three—very silly sisters. We shall have no
peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to Brighton. Let her
go, then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will keep

her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to
be an object of prey to anybody. At Brighton she will be of
less importance even as a common flirt than she has been
here. The officers will find women better worth their notice.
Let us hope, therefore, that her being there may teach her
her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow many
degrees worse, without authorising us to lock her up for the
rest of her life.’
With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content;
but her own opinion continued the same, and she left him
disappointed and sorry. It was not in her nature, howev-
er, to increase her vexations by dwelling on them. She was
confident of having performed her duty, and to fret over un-
avoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of
her disposition.
Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her
conference with her father, their indignation would hardly
have found expression in their united volubility. In Lydia’s
imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised every possibility
of earthly happiness. She saw, with the creative eye of fancy,
the streets of that gay bathing-place covered with officers.
She saw herself the object of attention, to tens and to scores
of them at present unknown. She saw all the glories of the
camp—its tents stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of
lines, crowded with the young and the gay, and dazzling
with scarlet; and, to complete the view, she saw herself seat-
ed beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six officers
at once.
Had she known her sister sought to tear her from such

prospects and such realities as these, what would have been
her sensations? They could have been understood only by
her mother, who might have felt nearly the same. Lydia’s
going to Brighton was all that consoled her for her melan-
choly conviction of her husband’s never intending to go
there himself.
But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and
their raptures continued, with little intermission, to the
very day of Lydia’s leaving home.
Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time.
Having been frequently in company with him since her re-
turn, agitation was pretty well over; the agitations of formal
partiality entirely so. She had even learnt to detect, in the
very gentleness which had first delighted her, an affecta-
tion and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present
behaviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of
displeasure, for the inclination he soon testified of renewing
those intentions which had marked the early part of their ac-
quaintance could only serve, after what had since passed, to
provoke her. She lost all concern for him in finding herself
thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous gallant-
ry; and while she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the
reproof contained in his believing, that however long, and
for whatever cause, his attentions had been withdrawn, her
vanity would be gratified, and her preference secured at any
time by their renewal.
On the very last day of the regiment’s remaining at Mery-
ton, he dined, with other of the officers, at Longbourn; and
so little was Elizabeth disposed to part from him in good

humour, that on his making some inquiry as to the manner
in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she mentioned
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s and Mr. Darcy’s having both spent
three weeks at Rosings, and asked him, if he was acquaint-
ed with the former.
He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a
moment’s recollection and a returning smile, replied, that
he had formerly seen him often; and, after observing that he
was a very gentlemanlike man, asked her how she had liked
him. Her answer was warmly in his favour. With an air of
indifference he soon afterwards added:
‘How long did you say he was at Rosings?’
‘Nearly three weeks.’
‘And you saw him frequently?’
‘Yes, almost every day.’
‘His manners are very different from his cousin’s.’
‘Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves upon
acquaintance.’
‘Indeed!’ cried Mr. Wickham with a look which did not
escape her. ‘And pray, may I ask?—‘ But checking himself,
he added, in a gayer tone, ‘Is it in address that he improves?
Has he deigned to add aught of civility to his ordinary
style?—for I dare not hope,’ he continued in a lower and
more serious tone, ‘that he is improved in essentials.’
‘Oh, no!’ said Elizabeth. ‘In essentials, I believe, he is very
much what he ever was.’
While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely know-
ing whether to rejoice over her words, or to distrust their
meaning. There was a something in her countenance which

made him listen with an apprehensive and anxious atten-
tion, while she added:
‘When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did
not mean that his mind or his manners were in a state of
improvement, but that, from knowing him better, his dis-
position was better understood.’
Wickham’s alarm now appeared in a heightened com-
plexion and agitated look; for a few minuted he was silent,
till, shaking off his embarrassment, he turned to her again,
and said in the gentlest of accents:
‘You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Darcy,
will readily comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that
he is wise enough to assume even the APPEARANCE of
what is right. His pride, in that direction, may be of service,
if not to himself, to many others, for it must only deter him
from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only fear
that the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have
been alluding, is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt,
of whose good opinion and judgement he stands much in
awe. His fear of her has always operated, I know, when they
were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his wish
of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I am
certain he has very much at heart.’
Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she an-
swered only by a slight inclination of the head. She saw that
he wanted to engage her on the old subject of his grievanc-
es, and she was in no humour to indulge him. The rest of
the evening passed with the APPEARANCE, on his side, of
usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to distin-

guish Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility,
and possibly a mutual desire of never meeting again.
When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. For-
ster to Meryton, from whence they were to set out early the
next morning. The separation between her and her family
was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the only one who
shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs.
Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her
daughter, and impressive in her injunctions that she should
not miss the opportunity of enjoying herself as much as
possible—advice which there was every reason to believe
would be well attended to; and in the clamorous happiness
of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle adieus
of her sisters were uttered without being heard.

Chapter 42
H ad Elizabeth’s opinion been all drawn from her own

family, she could not have formed a very pleasing
opinion of conjugal felicity or domestic comfort. Her father,
captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance of
good humour which youth and beauty generally give, had
married a woman whose weak understanding and illiberal
mind had very early in their marriage put and end to all real
affection for her. Respect, esteem, and confidence had van-
ished for ever; and all his views of domestic happiness were
overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a disposition to seek
comfort for the disappointment which his own imprudence
had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often
console the unfortunate for their folly of their vice. He was
fond of the country and of books; and from these tastes had
arisen his principal enjoyments. To his wife he was very lit-
tle otherwise indebted, than as her ignorance and folly had
contributed to his amusement. This is not the sort of happi-
ness which a man would in general wish to owe to his wife;
but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the
true philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given.
Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impro-
priety of her father’s behaviour as a husband. She had always
seen it with pain; but respecting his abilities, and grateful
for his affectionate treatment of herself, she endeavoured to

forget what she could not overlook, and to banish from her
thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation and
decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of
her own children, was so highly reprehensible. But she had
never felt so strongly as now the disadvantages which must
attend the children of so unsuitable a marriage, nor ever
been so fully aware of the evils arising from so ill-judged
a direction of talents; talents, which, rightly used, might
at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters,
even if incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife.
When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham’s departure
she found little other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the
regiment. Their parties abroad were less varied than before,
and at home she had a mother and sister whose constant
repinings at the dullness of everything around them threw
a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty
might in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the
disturbers of her brain were removed, her other sister, from
whose disposition greater evil might be apprehended, was
likely to be hardened in all her folly and assurance by a situ-
ation of such double danger as a watering-place and a camp.
Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what has been some-
times been found before, that an event to which she had
been looking with impatient desire did not, in taking place,
bring all the satisfaction she had promised herself. It was
consequently necessary to name some other period for the
commencement of actual felicity—to have some other point
on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by again
enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the

present, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour
to the Lakes was now the object of her happiest thoughts;
it was her best consolation for all the uncomfortable hours
which the discontentedness of her mother and Kitty made
inevitable; and could she have included Jane in the scheme,
every part of it would have been perfect.
‘But it is fortunate,’ thought she, ‘that I have something to
wish for. Were the whole arrangement complete, my disap-
pointment would be certain. But here, by carrying with me
one ceaseless source of regret in my sister’s absence, I may
reasonably hope to have all my expectations of pleasure re-
alised. A scheme of which every part promises delight can
never be successful; and general disappointment is only
warded off by the defence of some little peculiar vexation.’
When Lydia went away she promised to write very often
and very minutely to her mother and Kitty; but her letters
were always long expected, and always very short. Those to
her mother contained little else than that they were just re-
turned from the library, where such and such officers had
attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful or-
naments as made her quite wild; that she had a new gown,
or a new parasol, which she would have described more ful-
ly, but was obliged to leave off in a violent hurry, as Mrs.
Forster called her, and they were going off to the camp; and
from her correspondence with her sister, there was still less
to be learnt—for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer,
were much too full of lines under the words to be made pub-
lic.
After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence,

health, good humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear
at Longbourn. Everything wore a happier aspect. The fami-
lies who had been in town for the winter came back again,
and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs.
Bennet was restored to her usual querulous serenity; and,
by the middle of June, Kitty was so much recovered as to be
able to enter Meryton without tears; an event of such happy
promise as to make Elizabeth hope that by the following
Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable as not to
mention an officer above once a day, unless, by some cruel
and malicious arrangement at the War Office, another regi-
ment should be quartered in Meryton.
The time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour
was now fast approaching, and a fortnight only was want-
ing of it, when a letter arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which
at once delayed its commencement and curtailed its extent.
Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from set-
ting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London
again within a month, and as that left too short a period for
them to go so far, and see so much as they had proposed, or
at least to see it with the leisure and comfort they had built
on, they were obliged to give up the Lakes, and substitute
a more contracted tour, and, according to the present plan,
were to go no farther northwards than Derbyshire. In that
county there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of
their three weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly
strong attraction. The town where she had formerly passed
some years of her life, and where they were now to spend a
few days, was probably as great an object of her curiosity as

all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, Dove-
dale, or the Peak.
Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her
heart on seeing the Lakes, and still thought there might
have been time enough. But it was her business to be sat-
isfied—and certainly her temper to be happy; and all was
soon right again.
With the mention of Derbyshire there were many ideas
connected. It was impossible for her to see the word without
thinking of Pemberley and its owner. ‘But surely,’ said she, ‘I
may enter his county without impunity, and rob it of a few
petrified spars without his perceiving me.’
The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks
were to pass away before her uncle and aunt’s arrival. But
they did pass away, and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, with their
four children, did at length appear at Longbourn. The chil-
dren, two girls of six and eight years old, and two younger
boys, were to be left under the particular care of their cous-
in Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady
sense and sweetness of temper exactly adapted her for at-
tending to them in every way—teaching them, playing with
them, and loving them.
The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn,
and set off the next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of
novelty and amusement. One enjoyment was certain—
that of suitableness of companions; a suitableness which
comprehended health and temper to bear inconvenienc-
es—cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure—and affection
and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves

if there were disappointments abroad.
It is not the object of this work to give a description of
Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable places through
which their route thither lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick,
Kenilworth, Birmingham, etc. are sufficiently known. A
small part of Derbyshire is all the present concern. To the
little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner’s former
residence, and where she had lately learned some acquain-
tance still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen
all the principal wonders of the country; and within five
miles of Lambton, Elizabeth found from her aunt that Pem-
berley was situated. It was not in their direct road, nor more
than a mile or two out of it. In talking over their route the
evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an inclination to
see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his willingness,
and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.
‘My love, should not you like to see a place of which you
have heard so much?’ said her aunt; ‘a place, too, with which
so many of your acquaintances are connected. Wickham
passed all his youth there, you know.’
Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business
at Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for
seeing it. She must own that she was tired of seeing great
houses; after going over so many, she really had no pleasure
in fine carpets or satin curtains.
Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. ‘If it were merely
a fine house richly furnished,’ said she, ‘I should not care
about it myself; but the grounds are delightful. They have
some of the finest woods in the country.’

Elizabeth said no more—but her mind could not acqui-
esce. The possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing
the place, instantly occurred. It would be dreadful! She
blushed at the very idea, and thought it would be better to
speak openly to her aunt than to run such a risk. But against
this there were objections; and she finally resolved that it
could be the last resource, if her private inquiries to the ab-
sence of the family were unfavourably answered.
Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the
chambermaid whether Pemberley were not a very fine
place? what was the name of its proprietor? and, with no
little alarm, whether the family were down for the summer?
A most welcome negative followed the last question—and
her alarms now being removed, she was at leisure to feel a
great deal of curiosity to see the house herself; and when the
subject was revived the next morning, and she was again
applied to, could readily answer, and with a proper air of in-
difference, that she had not really any dislike to the scheme.
To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.

Chapter 43
E lizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first ap-

pearance of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation;
and when at length they turned in at the lodge, her spirits
were in a high flutter.
The park was very large, and contained great variety
of ground. They entered it in one of its lowest points, and
drove for some time through a beautiful wood stretching
over a wide extent.
Elizabeth’s mind was too full for conversation, but she
saw and admired every remarkable spot and point of view.
They gradually ascended for half-a-mile, and then found
themselves at the top of a considerable eminence, where
the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Pem-
berley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into
which the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large,
handsome stone building, standing well on rising ground,
and backed by a ridge of high woody hills; and in front, a
stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater,
but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were nei-
ther formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted.
She had never seen a place for which nature had done more,
or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by
an awkward taste. They were all of them warm in their ad-
miration; and at that moment she felt that to be mistress of

Pemberley might be something!
They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove
to the door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the
house, all her apprehension of meeting its owner returned.
She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been mistaken. On
applying to see the place, they were admitted into the hall;
and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had lei-
sure to wonder at her being where she was.
The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking elderly
woman, much less fine, and more civil, than she had any
notion of finding her. They followed her into the dining-
parlour. It was a large, well proportioned room, handsomely
fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went to a
window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood,
which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness
from the distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition
of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene,
the river, the trees scattered on its banks and the winding of
the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight. As they
passed into other rooms these objects were taking different
positions; but from every window there were beauties to be
seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furni-
ture suitable to the fortune of its proprietor; but Elizabeth
saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy
nor uselessly fine; with less of splendour, and more real el-
egance, than the furniture of Rosings.
‘And of this place,’ thought she, ‘I might have been mis-
tress! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly
acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might

have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as
visitors my uncle and aunt. But no,’—recollecting herself—
‘that could never be; my uncle and aunt would have been
lost to me; I should not have been allowed to invite them.’
This was a lucky recollection—it saved her from some-
thing very like regret.
She longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her
master was really absent, but had not the courage for it. At
length however, the question was asked by her uncle; and
she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied
that he was, adding, ‘But we expect him to-morrow, with
a large party of friends.’ How rejoiced was Elizabeth that
their own journey had not by any circumstance been de-
layed a day!
Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She ap-
proached and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended,
amongst several other miniatures, over the mantelpiece.
Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The house-
keeper came forward, and told them it was a picture of a
young gentleman, the son of her late master’s steward, who
had been brought up by him at his own expense. ‘He is
now gone into the army,’ she added; ‘but I am afraid he has
turned out very wild.’
Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Eliz-
abeth could not return it.
‘And that,’ said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the
miniatures, ‘is my master—and very like him. It was drawn
at the same time as the other—about eight years ago.’
‘I have heard much of your master’s fine person,’ said

Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; ‘it is a handsome face.
But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not.’
Mrs. Reynolds respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase
on this intimation of her knowing her master.
‘Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?’
Elizabeth coloured, and said: ‘A little.’
‘And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman,
ma’am?’
‘Yes, very handsome.’
‘I am sure I know none so handsome; but in the gallery
upstairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this.
This room was my late master’s favourite room, and these
miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very
fond of them.’
This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham’s being
among them.
Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of
Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old.
‘And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?’ said
Mrs. Gardiner.
‘Oh! yes—the handsomest young lady that ever was seen;
and so accomplished!—She plays and sings all day long. In
the next room is a new instrument just come down for her—
a present from my master; she comes here to-morrow with
him.’
Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleas-
ant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions
and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either by pride or attachment,
had evidently great pleasure in talking of her master and

his sister.
‘Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the
year?’
‘Not so much as I could wish, sir; but I dare say he may
spend half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for
the summer months.’
‘Except,’ thought Elizabeth, ‘when she goes to Ramsgate.’
‘If your master would marry, you might see more of
him.’
‘Yes, sir; but I do not know when THAT will be. I do not
know who is good enough for him.’
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help
saying, ‘It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you
should think so.’
‘I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that
knows him,’ replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was
going pretty far; and she listened with increasing astonish-
ment as the housekeeper added, ‘I have never known a cross
word from him in my life, and I have known him ever since
he was four years old.’
This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most
opposite to her ideas. That he was not a good-tempered
man had been her firmest opinion. Her keenest attention
was awakened; she longed to hear more, and was grateful to
her uncle for saying:
‘There are very few people of whom so much can be said.
You are lucky in having such a master.’
‘Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world,
I could not meet with a better. But I have always ob-

served, that they who are good-natured when children,
are good-natured when they grow up; and he was always
the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the
world.’
Elizabeth almost stared at her. ‘Can this be Mr. Darcy?’
thought she.
‘His father was an excellent man,’ said Mrs. Gardiner.
‘Yes, ma’am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just
like him—just as affable to the poor.’
Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impa-
tient for more. Mrs. Reynolds could interest her on no other
point. She related the subjects of the pictures, the dimen-
sions of the rooms, and the price of the furniture, in vain,
Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family preju-
dice to which he attributed her excessive commendation of
her master, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with
energy on his many merits as they proceeded together up
the great staircase.
‘He is the best landlord, and the best master,’ said she,
‘that ever lived; not like the wild young men nowadays, who
think of nothing but themselves. There is not one of his
tenants or servants but will give him a good name. Some
people call him proud; but I am sure I never saw anything
of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away
like other young men.’
‘In what an amiable light does this place him!’ thought
Elizabeth.
‘This fine account of him,’ whispered her aunt as they
walked, ‘is not quite consistent with his behaviour to our

poor friend.’
‘Perhaps we might be deceived.’
‘That is not very likely; our authority was too good.’
On reaching the spacious lobby above they were shown
into a very pretty sitting-room, lately fitted up with great-
er elegance and lightness than the apartments below; and
were informed that it was but just done to give pleasure to
Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room when last
at Pemberley.
‘He is certainly a good brother,’ said Elizabeth, as she
walked towards one of the windows.
Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy’s delight, when
she should enter the room. ‘And this is always the way with
him,’ she added. ‘Whatever can give his sister any pleasure
is sure to be done in a moment. There is nothing he would
not do for her.’
The picture-gallery, and two or three of the principal
bedrooms, were all that remained to be shown. In the for-
mer were many good paintings; but Elizabeth knew nothing
of the art; and from such as had been already visible below,
she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss
Darcy’s, in crayons, whose subjects were usually more inter-
esting, and also more intelligible.
In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they
could have little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth
walked in quest of the only face whose features would be
known to her. At last it arrested her—and she beheld a strik-
ing resemblance to Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over the
face as she remembered to have sometimes seen when he

looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture,
in earnest contemplation, and returned to it again before
they quitted the gallery. Mrs. Reynolds informed them that
it had been taken in his father’s lifetime.
There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth’s mind,
a more gentle sensation towards the original than she had
ever felt at the height of their acquaintance. The commen-
dation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds was of no trifling
nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise of an
intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she
considered how many people’s happiness were in his guard-
ianship!—how much of pleasure or pain was it in his power
to bestow!—how much of good or evil must be done by him!
Every idea that had been brought forward by the house-
keeper was favourable to his character, and as she stood
before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed
his eyes upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deep-
er sentiment of gratitude than it had ever raised before; she
remembered its warmth, and softened its impropriety of ex-
pression.
When all of the house that was open to general inspec-
tion had been seen, they returned downstairs, and, taking
leave of the housekeeper, were consigned over to the gar-
dener, who met them at the hall-door.
As they walked across the hall towards the river, Eliza-
beth turned back to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped
also, and while the former was conjecturing as to the date
of the building, the owner of it himself suddenly came for-
ward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.

They were within twenty yards of each other, and so
abrupt was his appearance, that it was impossible to avoid
his sight. Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of both
were overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely start-
ed, and for a moment seemed immovable from surprise;
but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party,
and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect compo-
sure, at least of perfect civility.
She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his
approach, received his compliments with an embarrass-
ment impossible to be overcome. Had his first appearance,
or his resemblance to the picture they had just been exam-
ining, been insufficient to assure the other two that they
now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener’s expression of surprise,
on beholding his master, must immediately have told it.
They stood a little aloof while he was talking to their niece,
who, astonished and confused, scarcely dared lift her eyes
to his face, and knew not what answer she returned to his
civil inquiries after her family. Amazed at the alteration of
his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he
uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea
of the impropriety of her being found there recurring to her
mind, the few minutes in which they continued were some
of the most uncomfortable in her life. Nor did he seem
much more at ease; when he spoke, his accent had none of
its usual sedateness; and he repeated his inquiries as to the
time of her having left Longbourn, and of her having stayed
in Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly
spoke the distraction of his thoughts.

At length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after stand-
ing a few moments without saying a word, he suddenly
recollected himself, and took leave.
The others then joined her, and expressed admiration of
his figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and wholly en-
grossed by her own feelings, followed them in silence. She
was overpowered by shame and vexation. Her coming there
was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged thing in the
world! How strange it must appear to him! In what a dis-
graceful light might it not strike so vain a man! It might
seem as if she had purposely thrown herself in his way
again! Oh! why did she come? Or, why did he thus come a
day before he was expected? Had they been only ten min-
utes sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his
discrimination; for it was plain that he was that moment
arrived—that moment alighted from his horse or his car-
riage. She blushed again and again over the perverseness of
the meeting. And his behaviour, so strikingly altered—what
could it mean? That he should even speak to her was amaz-
ing!—but to speak with such civility, to inquire after her
family! Never in her life had she seen his manners so little
dignified, never had he spoken with such gentleness as on
this unexpected meeting. What a contrast did it offer to his
last address in Rosings Park, when he put his letter into her
hand! She knew not what to think, or how to account for it.
They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the
water, and every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of
ground, or a finer reach of the woods to which they were
approaching; but it was some time before Elizabeth was sen-

sible of any of it; and, though she answered mechanically to
the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and seemed to
direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she dis-
tinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed
on that one spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might
be, where Mr. Darcy then was. She longed to know what at
the moment was passing in his mind—in what manner he
thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything, she
was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because
he felt himself at ease; yet there had been THAT in his voice
which was not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or
of pleasure in seeing her she could not tell, but he certainly
had not seen her with composure.
At length, however, the remarks of her companions on
her absence of mind aroused her, and she felt the necessity
of appearing more like herself.
They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river
for a while, ascended some of the higher grounds; when, in
spots where the opening of the trees gave the eye power to
wander, were many charming views of the valley, the op-
posite hills, with the long range of woods overspreading
many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner
expressed a wish of going round the whole park, but feared
it might be beyond a walk. With a triumphant smile they
were told that it was ten miles round. It settled the matter;
and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which brought
them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging
woods, to the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest
parts. They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with

the general air of the scene; it was a spot less adorned than
any they had yet visited; and the valley, here contracted
into a glen, allowed room only for the stream, and a nar-
row walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered
it. Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they
had crossed the bridge, and perceived their distance from
the house, Mrs. Gardiner, who was not a great walker, could
go no farther, and thought only of returning to the carriage
as quickly as possible. Her niece was, therefore, obliged to
submit, and they took their way towards the house on the
opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their
progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to
indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much
engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some
trout in the water, and talking to the man about them, that
he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow
manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth’s aston-
ishment was quite equal to what it had been at first, by the
sight of Mr. Darcy approaching them, and at no great dis-
tance. The walk here being here less sheltered than on the
other side, allowed them to see him before they met. Eliza-
beth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an
interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak
with calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few
moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike
into some other path. The idea lasted while a turning in the
walk concealed him from their view; the turning past, he
was immediately before them. With a glance, she saw that
he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his

politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of
the place; but she had not got beyond the words ‘delightful,’
and ‘charming,’ when some unlucky recollections obtruded,
and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from her might be
mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said
no more.
Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her
pausing, he asked her if she would do him the honour of
introducing him to her friends. This was a stroke of civility
for which she was quite unprepared; and she could hardly
suppress a smile at his being now seeking the acquaintance
of some of those very people against whom his pride had
revolted in his offer to herself. ‘What will be his surprise,’
thought she, ‘when he knows who they are? He takes them
now for people of fashion.’
The introduction, however, was immediately made; and
as she named their relationship to herself, she stole a sly
look at him, to see how he bore it, and was not without the
expectation of his decamping as fast as he could from such
disgraceful companions. That he was SURPRISED by the
connection was evident; he sustained it, however, with for-
titude, and so far from going away, turned his back with
them, and entered into conversation with Mr. Gardiner.
Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but triumph.
It was consoling that he should know she had some rela-
tions for whom there was no need to blush. She listened
most attentively to all that passed between them, and glo-
ried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle, which
marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners.

The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she
heard Mr. Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish
there as often as he chose while he continued in the neigh-
bourhood, offering at the same time to supply him with
fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of the stream
where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who
was walking arm-in-arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look
expressive of wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it grati-
fied her exceedingly; the compliment must be all for herself.
Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and continually
was she repeating, ‘Why is he so altered? From what can
it proceed? It cannot be for ME—it cannot be for MY sake
that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hun-
sford could not work such a change as this. It is impossible
that he should still love me.’
After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in
front, the two gentlemen behind, on resuming their plac-
es, after descending to the brink of the river for the better
inspection of some curious water-plant, there chanced to
be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who,
fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth’s
arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred
her husband’s. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and
they walked on together. After a short silence, the lady first
spoke. She wished him to know that she had been assured
of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly
began by observing, that his arrival had been very unex-
pected—‘for your housekeeper,’ she added, ‘informed us
that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and

indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you
were not immediately expected in the country.’ He ac-
knowledged the truth of it all, and said that business with
his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours
before the rest of the party with whom he had been travel-
ling. ‘They will join me early to-morrow,’ he continued, ‘and
among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with
you—Mr. Bingley and his sisters.’
Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts
were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley’s
name had been the last mentioned between them; and, if
she might judge by his complexion, HIS mind was not very
differently engaged.
‘There is also one other person in the party,’ he continued
after a pause, ‘who more particularly wishes to be known to
you. Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce
my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lamb-
ton?’
The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it
was too great for her to know in what manner she acceded
to it. She immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy
might have of being acquainted with her must be the work
of her brother, and, without looking farther, it was satisfac-
tory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not
made him think really ill of her.
They now walked on in silence, each of them deep in
thought. Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was im-
possible; but she was flattered and pleased. His wish of
introducing his sister to her was a compliment of the high-

est kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they
had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half
a quarter of a mile behind.
He then asked her to walk into the house—but she de-
clared herself not tired, and they stood together on the lawn.
At such a time much might have been said, and silence was
very awkward. She wanted to talk, but there seemed to be
an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected that she
had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove
Dale with great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved
slowly—and her patience and her ideas were nearly worn
our before the tete-a-tete was over. On Mr. and Mrs. Gar-
diner’s coming up they were all pressed to go into the house
and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and
they parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy
handed the ladies into the carriage; and when it drove off,
Elizabeth saw him walking slowly towards the house.
The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and
each of them pronounced him to be infinitely superior to
anything they had expected. ‘He is perfectly well behaved,
polite, and unassuming,’ said her uncle.
‘There IS something a little stately in him, to be sure,’
replied her aunt, ‘but it is confined to his air, and is not un-
becoming. I can now say with the housekeeper, that though
some people may call him proud, I have seen nothing of it.’
‘I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us.
It was more than civil; it was really attentive; and there was
no necessity for such attention. His acquaintance with Eliz-
abeth was very trifling.’

‘To be sure, Lizzy,’ said her aunt, ‘he is not so handsome
as Wickham; or, rather, he has not Wickham’s countenance,
for his features are perfectly good. But how came you to tell
me that he was so disagreeable?’
Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that
she had liked him better when they had met in Kent than
before, and that she had never seen him so pleasant as this
morning.
‘But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,’
replied her uncle. ‘Your great men often are; and therefore I
shall not take him at his word, as he might change his mind
another day, and warn me off his grounds.’
Elizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his
character, but said nothing.
‘From what we have seen of him,’ continued Mrs. Gar-
diner, ‘I really should not have thought that he could have
behaved in so cruel a way by anybody as he has done by
poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look. On the con-
trary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when
he speaks. And there is something of dignity in his coun-
tenance that would not give one an unfavourable idea of
his heart. But, to be sure, the good lady who showed us his
house did give him a most flaming character! I could hardly
help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal master, I
suppose, and THAT in the eye of a servant comprehends
every virtue.’
Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something
in vindication of his behaviour to Wickham; and there-
fore gave them to understand, in as guarded a manner as

she could, that by what she had heard from his relations
in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different con-
struction; and that his character was by no means so faulty,
nor Wickham’s so amiable, as they had been considered in
Hertfordshire. In confirmation of this, she related the par-
ticulars of all the pecuniary transactions in which they had
been connected, without actually naming her authority, but
stating it to be such as such as might be relied on.
Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they
were now approaching the scene of her former pleasures,
every idea gave way to the charm of recollection; and she
was too much engaged in pointing out to her husband all
the interesting spots in its environs to think of anything
else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning’s walk they
had no sooner dined than she set off again in quest of her
former acquaintance, and the evening was spent in the
satisfactions of a intercourse renewed after many years’ dis-
continuance.
The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to
leave Elizabeth much attention for any of these new friends;
and she could do nothing but think, and think with wonder,
of Mr. Darcy’s civility, and, above all, of his wishing her to
be acquainted with his sister.

Chapter 44
E lizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his

sister to visit her the very day after her reaching Pem-
berley; and was consequently resolved not to be out of sight
of the inn the whole of that morning. But her conclusion
was false; for on the very morning after their arrival at
Lambton, these visitors came. They had been walking about
the place with some of their new friends, and were just re-
turning to the inn to dress themselves for dining with the
same family, when the sound of a carriage drew them to a
window, and they saw a gentleman and a lady in a curricle
driving up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognizing
the livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small
degree of her surprise to her relations by acquainting them
with the honour which she expected. Her uncle and aunt
were all amazement; and the embarrassment of her manner
as she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many
of the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them
a new idea on the business. Nothing had ever suggested
it before, but they felt that there was no other way of ac-
counting for such attentions from such a quarter than by
supposing a partiality for their niece. While these newly-
born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation
of Elizabeth’s feelings was at every moment increasing. She
was quite amazed at her own discomposure; but amongst

other causes of disquiet, she dreaded lest the partiality of
the brother should have said too much in her favour; and,
more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally sus-
pected that every power of pleasing would fail her.
She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen;
and as she walked up and down the room, endeavouring to
compose herself, saw such looks of inquiring surprise in her
uncle and aunt as made everything worse.
Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formi-
dable introduction took place. With astonishment did
Elizabeth see that her new acquaintance was at least as
much embarrassed as herself. Since her being at Lambton,
she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud; but
the observation of a very few minutes convinced her that
she was only exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain
even a word from her beyond a monosyllable.
Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth;
and, though little more than sixteen, her figure was formed,
and her appearance womanly and graceful. She was less
handsome than her brother; but there was sense and good
humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly un-
assuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find
in her as acute and unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr.
Darcy had been, was much relieved by discerning such dif-
ferent feelings.
They had not long been together before Mr. Darcy told
her that Bingley was also coming to wait on her; and she had
barely time to express her satisfaction, and prepare for such
a visitor, when Bingley’s quick step was heard on the stairs,

and in a moment he entered the room. All Elizabeth’s anger
against him had been long done away; but had she still felt
any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaf-
fected cordiality with which he expressed himself on seeing
her again. He inquired in a friendly, though general way,
after her family, and looked and spoke with the same good-
humoured ease that he had ever done.
To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interest-
ing personage than to herself. They had long wished to see
him. The whole party before them, indeed, excited a lively
attention. The suspicions which had just arisen of Mr. Dar-
cy and their niece directed their observation towards each
with an earnest though guarded inquiry; and they soon
drew from those inquiries the full conviction that one of
them at least knew what it was to love. Of the lady’s sensa-
tions they remained a little in doubt; but that the gentleman
was overflowing with admiration was evident enough.
Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to
ascertain the feelings of each of her visitors; she wanted to
compose her own, and to make herself agreeable to all; and
in the latter object, where she feared most to fail, she was
most sure of success, for those to whom she endeavoured
to give pleasure were prepossessed in her favour. Bingley
was ready, Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined, to
be pleased.
In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sis-
ter; and, oh! how ardently did she long to know whether any
of his were directed in a like manner. Sometimes she could
fancy that he talked less than on former occasions, and once

or twice pleased herself with the notion that, as he looked
at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But, though
this might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his
behaviour to Miss Darcy, who had been set up as a rival to
Jane. No look appeared on either side that spoke particular
regard. Nothing occurred between them that could justify
the hopes of his sister. On this point she was soon satis-
fied; and two or three little circumstances occurred ere they
parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted a rec-
ollection of Jane not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish
of saying more that might lead to the mention of her, had
he dared. He observed to her, at a moment when the others
were talking together, and in a tone which had something
of real regret, that it ‘was a very long time since he had had
the pleasure of seeing her;’ and, before she could reply, he
added, ‘It is above eight months. We have not met since the
26th of November, when we were all dancing together at
Netherfield.’
Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and
he afterwards took occasion to ask her, when unattend-
ed to by any of the rest, whether ALL her sisters were at
Longbourn. There was not much in the question, nor in the
preceding remark; but there was a look and a manner which
gave them meaning.
It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy
himself; but, whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an
expression of general complaisance, and in all that he said
she heard an accent so removed from hauteur or disdain
of his companions, as convinced her that the improvement

of manners which she had yesterday witnessed however
temporary its existence might prove, had at least outlived
one day. When she saw him thus seeking the acquaintance
and courting the good opinion of people with whom any
intercourse a few months ago would have been a disgrace—
when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to the
very relations whom he had openly disdained, and recol-
lected their last lively scene in Hunsford Parsonage—the
difference, the change was so great, and struck so forcibly
on her mind, that she could hardly restrain her astonish-
ment from being visible. Never, even in the company of his
dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations at Ros-
ings, had she seen him so desirous to please, so free from
self-consequence or unbending reserve, as now, when no
importance could result from the success of his endeavours,
and when even the acquaintance of those to whom his at-
tentions were addressed would draw down the ridicule and
censure of the ladies both of Netherfield as Rosings.
Their visitors stayed with them above half-an-hour; and
when they arose to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister
to join him in expressing their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs.
Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner at Pemberley, before
they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a diffidence
which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations,
readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous
of knowing how SHE, whom the invitation most concerned,
felt disposed as to its acceptance, but Elizabeth had turned
away her head. Presuming however, that this studied avoid-
ance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment than any

dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was
fond of society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ven-
tured to engage for her attendance, and the day after the
next was fixed on.
Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of see-
ing Elizabeth again, having still a great deal to say to her,
and many inquiries to make after all their Hertfordshire
friends. Elizabeth, construing all this into a wish of hearing
her speak of her sister, was pleased, and on this account, as
well as some others, found herself, when their visitors left
them, capable of considering the last half-hour with some
satisfaction, though while it was passing, the enjoyment of
it had been little. Eager to be alone, and fearful of inqui-
ries or hints from her uncle and aunt, she stayed with them
only long enough to hear their favourable opinion of Bing-
ley, and then hurried away to dress.
But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s
curiosity; it was not their wish to force her communication.
It was evident that she was much better acquainted with Mr.
Darcy than they had before any idea of; it was evident that
he was very much in love with her. They saw much to inter-
est, but nothing to justify inquiry.
Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think
well; and, as far as their acquaintance reached, there was no
fault to find. They could not be untouched by his politeness;
and had they drawn his character from their own feelings
and his servant’s report, without any reference to any other
account, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known
would not have recognized it for Mr. Darcy. There was now

an interest, however, in believing the housekeeper; and they
soon became sensible that the authority of a servant who
had known him since he was four years old, and whose own
manners indicated respectability, was not to be hastily re-
jected. Neither had anything occurred in the intelligence
of their Lambton friends that could materially lessen its
weight. They had nothing to accuse him of but pride; pride
he probably had, and if not, it would certainly be imputed
by the inhabitants of a small market-town where the family
did not visit. It was acknowledged, however, that he was a
liberal man, and did much good among the poor.
With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that
he was not held there in much estimation; for though the
chief of his concerns with the son of his patron were im-
perfectly understood, it was yet a well-known fact that, on
his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind him,
which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged.
As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this
evening more than the last; and the evening, though as it
passed it seemed long, was not long enough to determine her
feelings towards ONE in that mansion; and she lay awake
two whole hours endeavouring to make them out. She cer-
tainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago,
and she had almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling
a dislike against him, that could be so called. The respect
created by the conviction of his valuable qualities, though
at first unwillingly admitted, had for some time ceased to
be repugnant to her feeling; and it was now heightened into
somewhat of a friendlier nature, by the testimony so highly

in his favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so
amiable a light, which yesterday had produced. But above
all, above respect and esteem, there was a motive within her
of goodwill which could not be overlooked. It was gratitude;
gratitude, not merely for having once loved her, but for lov-
ing her still well enough to forgive all the petulance and
acrimony of her manner in rejecting him, and all the un-
just accusations accompanying her rejection. He who, she
had been persuaded, would avoid her as his greatest enemy,
seemed, on this accidental meeting, most eager to preserve
the acquaintance, and without any indelicate display of re-
gard, or any peculiarity of manner, where their two selves
only were concerned, was soliciting the good opinion of her
friends, and bent on making her known to his sister. Such a
change in a man of so much pride exciting not only aston-
ishment but gratitude—for to love, ardent love, it must be
attributed; and as such its impression on her was of a sort to
be encouraged, as by no means unpleasing, though it could
not be exactly defined. She respected, she esteemed, she was
grateful to him, she felt a real interest in his welfare; and
she only wanted to know how far she wished that welfare to
depend upon herself, and how far it would be for the hap-
piness of both that she should employ the power, which her
fancy told her she still possessed, of bringing on her the re-
newal of his addresses.
It had been settled in the evening between the aunt and
the niece, that such a striking civility as Miss Darcy’s in
coming to see them on the very day of her arrival at Pem-
berley, for she had reached it only to a late breakfast, ought

to be imitated, though it could not be equalled, by some ex-
ertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that it
would be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the
following morning. They were, therefore, to go. Elizabeth
was pleased; though when she asked herself the reason, she
had very little to say in reply.
Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fish-
ing scheme had been renewed the day before, and a positive
engagement made of his meeting some of the gentlemen at
Pemberley before noon.

Chapter 45
C onvinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley’s dis-

like of her had originated in jealousy, she could not
help feeling how unwelcome her appearance at Pemberley
must be to her, and was curious to know with how much
civility on that lady’s side the acquaintance would now be
renewed.
On reaching the house, they were shown through the
hall into the saloon, whose northern aspect rendered it de-
lightful for summer. Its windows opening to the ground,
admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody hills
behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish
chestnuts which were scattered over the intermediate lawn.
In this house they were received by Miss Darcy, who was
sitting there with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady
with whom she lived in London. Georgiana’s reception of
them was very civil, but attended with all the embarrass-
ment which, though proceeding from shyness and the fear
of doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt them-
selves inferior the belief of her being proud and reserved.
Mrs. Gardiner and her niece, however, did her justice, and
pitied her.
By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only
by a curtsey; and, on their being seated, a pause, awkward as
such pauses must always be, succeeded for a few moments.

It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a genteel, agreeable-
looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind
of discourse proved her to be more truly well-bred than
either of the others; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner,
with occasional help from Elizabeth, the conversation was
carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she wished for courage
enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a short sen-
tence when there was least danger of its being heard.
Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched
by Miss Bingley, and that she could not speak a word, es-
pecially to Miss Darcy, without calling her attention. This
observation would not have prevented her from trying to
talk to the latter, had they not been seated at an inconvenient
distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity of
saying much. Her own thoughts were employing her. She
expected every moment that some of the gentlemen would
enter the room. She wished, she feared that the master of
the house might be amongst them; and whether she wished
or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After sitting
in this manner a quarter of an hour without hearing Miss
Bingley’s voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her
a cold inquiry after the health of her family. She answered
with equal indifference and brevity, and the others said no
more.
The next variation which their visit afforded was pro-
duced by the entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and
a variety of all the finest fruits in season; but this did not
take place till after many a significant look and smile from
Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been given, to remind

her of her post. There was now employment for the whole
party—for though they could not all talk, they could all
eat; and the beautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and
peaches soon collected them round the table.
While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of
deciding whether she most feared or wished for the appear-
ance of Mr. Darcy, by the feelings which prevailed on his
entering the room; and then, though but a moment before
she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to
regret that he came.
He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with
two or three other gentlemen from the house, was en-
gaged by the river, and had left him only on learning that
the ladies of the family intended a visit to Georgiana that
morning. No sooner did he appear than Elizabeth wisely re-
solved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed; a resolution
the more necessary to be made, but perhaps not the more
easily kept, because she saw that the suspicions of the whole
party were awakened against them, and that there was
scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour when he
first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive
curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley’s, in spite
of the smiles which overspread her face whenever she spoke
to one of its objects; for jealousy had not yet made her des-
perate, and her attentions to Mr. Darcy were by no means
over. Miss Darcy, on her brother’s entrance, exerted herself
much more to talk, and Elizabeth saw that he was anxious
for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded
as much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either

side. Miss Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in the impru-
dence of anger, took the first opportunity of saying, with
sneering civility:
‘Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ——shire Militia removed
from Meryton? They must be a great loss to YOUR family.’
In Darcy’s presence she dared not mention Wickham’s
name; but Elizabeth instantly comprehended that he was
uppermost in her thoughts; and the various recollections
connected with him gave her a moment’s distress; but ex-
erting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she
presently answered the question in a tolerably detached
tone. While she spoke, an involuntary glance showed her
Darcy, with a heightened complexion, earnestly looking
at her, and his sister overcome with confusion, and unable
to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what pain she
was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would
have refrained from the hint; but she had merely intend-
ed to discompose Elizabeth by bringing forward the idea
of a man to whom she believed her partial, to make her be-
tray a sensibility which might injure her in Darcy’s opinion,
and, perhaps, to remind the latter of all the follies and ab-
surdities by which some part of her family were connected
with that corps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss
Darcy’s meditated elopement. To no creature had it been re-
vealed, where secrecy was possible, except to Elizabeth; and
from all Bingley’s connections her brother was particularly
anxious to conceal it, from the very wish which Elizabeth
had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming hereafter
her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and without

meaning that it should effect his endeavour to separate him
from Miss Bennet, it is probable that it might add some-
thing to his lively concern for the welfare of his friend.
Elizabeth’s collected behaviour, however, soon quieted
his emotion; and as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed,
dared not approach nearer to Wickham, Georgiana also re-
covered in time, though not enough to be able to speak any
more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely
recollected her interest in the affair, and the very circum-
stance which had been designed to turn his thoughts from
Elizabeth seemed to have fixed them on her more and more
cheerfully.
Their visit did not continue long after the question and
answer above mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was at-
tending them to their carriage Miss Bingley was venting
her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth’s person, behaviour,
and dress. But Georgiana would not join her. Her broth-
er’s recommendation was enough to ensure her favour;
his judgement could not err. And he had spoken in such
terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana without the pow-
er of finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When
Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help
repeating to him some part of what she had been saying to
his sister.
‘How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr.
Darcy,’ she cried; ‘I never in my life saw anyone so much al-
tered as she is since the winter. She is grown so brown and
coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing that we should not have
known her again.’

However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an ad-
dress, he contented himself with coolly replying that he
perceived no other alteration than her being rather tanned,
no miraculous consequence of travelling in the summer.
‘For my own part,’ she rejoined, ‘I must confess that I
never could see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her
complexion has no brilliancy; and her features are not at
all handsome. Her nose wants character—there is nothing
marked in its lines. Her teeth are tolerable, but not out of the
common way; and as for her eyes, which have sometimes
been called so fine, I could never see anything extraordi-
nary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do
not like at all; and in her air altogether there is a self-suffi-
ciency without fashion, which is intolerable.’
Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired
Elizabeth, this was not the best method of recommending
herself; but angry people are not always wise; and in seeing
him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the success
she expected. He was resolutely silent, however, and, from a
determination of making him speak, she continued:
‘I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire,
how amazed we all were to find that she was a reputed
beauty; and I particularly recollect your saying one night,
after they had been dining at Netherfield, ‘SHE a beauty!—I
should as soon call her mother a wit.’ But afterwards she
seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her
rather pretty at one time.’
‘Yes,’ replied Darcy, who could contain himself no lon-
ger, ‘but THAT was only when I first saw her, for it is many

months since I have considered her as one of the handsom-
est women of my acquaintance.’
He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the
satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one
any pain but herself.
Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had oc-
curred during their visit, as they returned, except what had
particularly interested them both. The look and behaviour
of everybody they had seen were discussed, except of the
person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked
of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit—of everything
but himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs.
Gardiner thought of him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have
been highly gratified by her niece’s beginning the subject.

Chapter 46
E lizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not find-

ing a letter from Jane on their first arrival at Lambton;
and this disappointment had been renewed on each of the
mornings that had now been spent there; but on the third
her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the receipt
of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked
that it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not sur-
prised at it, as Jane had written the direction remarkably
ill.
They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came
in; and her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in
quiet, set off by themselves. The one missent must first be
attended to; it had been written five days ago. The begin-
ning contained an account of all their little parties and
engagements, with such news as the country afforded; but
the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in
evident agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was
to this effect:
‘Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has
occurred of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I
am afraid of alarming you—be assured that we are all well.
What I have to say relates to poor Lydia. An express came at
twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed, from Colo-
nel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland

with one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham!
Imagine our surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem
so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry. So imprudent
a match on both sides! But I am willing to hope the best,
and that his character has been misunderstood. Thought-
less and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step
(and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His
choice is disinterested at least, for he must know my father
can give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My
father bears it better. How thankful am I that we never let
them know what has been said against him; we must forget
it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about twelve, as is
conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at
eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they
must have passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster
gives us reason to expect him here soon. Lydia left a few
lines for his wife, informing her of their intention. I must
conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor mother. I am
afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly know
what I have written.’
Without allowing herself time for consideration, and
scarcely knowing what she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this
letter instantly seized the other, and opening it with the ut-
most impatience, read as follows: it had been written a day
later than the conclusion of the first.
‘By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my
hurried letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but
though not confined for time, my head is so bewildered that
I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly

know what I would write, but I have bad news for you, and
it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as the marriage between
Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia would be, we are now
anxious to be assured it has taken place, for there is but too
much reason to fear they are not gone to Scotland. Colonel
Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day be-
fore, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia’s short
letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were
going to Gretna Green, something was dropped by Den-
ny expressing his belief that W. never intended to go there,
or to marry Lydia at all, which was repeated to Colonel F.,
who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B. intending to
trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham, but
no further; for on entering that place, they removed into a
hackney coach, and dismissed the chaise that brought them
from Epsom. All that is known after this is, that they were
seen to continue the London road. I know not what to think.
After making every possible inquiry on that side London,
Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renew-
ing them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and
Hatfield, but without any success—no such people had been
seen to pass through. With the kindest concern he came
on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions to us in a
manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved
for him and Mrs. F., but no one can throw any blame on
them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father
and mother believe the worst, but I cannot think so ill of
him. Many circumstances might make it more eligible for
them to be married privately in town than to pursue their

first plan; and even if HE could form such a design against
a young woman of Lydia’s connections, which is not likely,
can I suppose her so lost to everything? Impossible! I grieve
to find, however, that Colonel F. is not disposed to depend
upon their marriage; he shook his head when I expressed
my hopes, and said he fear W. was not a man to be trusted.
My poor mother is really ill, and keeps her room. Could
she exert herself, it would be better; but this is not to be ex-
pected. And as to my father, I never in my life saw him so
affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having concealed their
attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence, one can-
not wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have
been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now,
as the first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your
return? I am not so selfish, however, as to press for it, if in-
convenient. Adieu! I take up my pen again to do what I have
just told you I would not; but circumstances are such that I
cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as soon
as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well, that I
am not afraid of requesting it, though I have still something
more to ask of the former. My father is going to London with
Colonel Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he
means to do I am sure I know not; but his excessive distress
will not allow him to pursue any measure in the best and
safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton
again to-morrow evening. In such and exigence, my uncle’s
advice and assistance would be everything in the world; he
will immediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely
upon his goodness.’

‘Oh! where, where is my uncle?’ cried Elizabeth, darting
from her seat as she finished the letter, in eagerness to fol-
low him, without losing a moment of the time so precious;
but as she reached the door it was opened by a servant, and
Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous man-
ner made him start, and before he could recover himself
to speak, she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by
Lydia’s situation, hastily exclaimed, ‘I beg your pardon, but
I must leave you. I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment,
on business that cannot be delayed; I have not an instant
to lose.’
‘Good God! what is the matter?’ cried he, with more feel-
ing than politeness; then recollecting himself, ‘I will not
detain you a minute; but let me, or let the servant go after
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are not well enough; you can-
not go yourself.’
Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her
and she felt how little would be gained by her attempting to
pursue them. Calling back the servant, therefore, she com-
missioned him, though in so breathless an accent as made
her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and mistress
home instantly.
On his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support
herself, and looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible
for Darcy to leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone
of gentleness and commiseration, ‘Let me call your maid. Is
there nothing you could take to give you present relief? A
glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill.’
‘No, I thank you,’ she replied, endeavouring to recover

herself. ‘There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite
well; I am only distressed by some dreadful news which I
have just received from Longbourn.’
She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few
minutes could not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched
suspense, could only say something indistinctly of his con-
cern, and observe her in compassionate silence. At length
she spoke again. ‘I have just had a letter from Jane, with
such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone.
My younger sister has left all her friends—has eloped; has
thrown herself into the power of—of Mr. Wickham. They
are gone off together from Brighton. YOU know him too
well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections,
nothing that can tempt him to—she is lost for ever.’
Darcy was fixed in astonishment. ‘When I consider,’ she
added in a yet more agitated voice, ‘that I might have pre-
vented it! I, who knew what he was. Had I but explained
some part of it only—some part of what I learnt, to my own
family! Had his character been known, this could not have
happened. But it is all—all too late now.’
‘I am grieved indeed,’ cried Darcy; ‘grieved—shocked.
But is it certain—absolutely certain?’
‘Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night,
and were traced almost to London, but not beyond; they
are certainly not gone to Scotland.’
‘And what has been done, what has been attempted, to
recover her?’
‘My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to
beg my uncle’s immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I

hope, in half-an-hour. But nothing can be done—I know
very well that nothing can be done. How is such a man to be
worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have not
the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!’
Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.
‘When MY eyes were opened to his real character—Oh!
had I known what I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew
not—I was afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched
mistake!’
Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her,
and was walking up and down the room in earnest medi-
tation, his brow contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon
observed, and instantly understood it. Her power was sink-
ing; everything MUST sink under such a proof of family
weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She
could neither wonder nor condemn, but the belief of his self-
conquest brought nothing to her consolatory to her bosom,
afforded no palliation of her distress. It was, on the con-
trary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own
wishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could
have loved him, as now, when all love must be vain.
But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her.
Lydia—the humiliation, the misery she was bringing on
them all, soon swallowed up every private care; and cov-
ering her face with her handkerchief, Elizabeth was soon
lost to everything else; and, after a pause of several minutes,
was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the voice of
her companion, who, in a manner which, though it spoke
compassion, spoke likewise restraint, said, ‘I am afraid you

have been long desiring my absence, nor have I anything
to plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing
concern. Would to Heaven that anything could be either
said or done on my part that might offer consolation to
such distress! But I will not torment you with vain wishes,
which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This un-
fortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister’s having the
pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley to-day.’
‘Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us to Miss Darcy.
Say that urgent business calls us home immediately. Con-
ceal the unhappy truth as long as it is possible, I know it
cannot be long.’
He readily assured her of his secrecy; again expressed his
sorrow for her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than
there was at present reason to hope, and leaving his compli-
ments for her relations, with only one serious, parting look,
went away.
As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable
it was that they should ever see each other again on such
terms of cordiality as had marked their several meetings in
Derbyshire; and as she threw a retrospective glance over the
whole of their acquaintance, so full of contradictions and
varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those feelings which
would now have promoted its continuance, and would for-
merly have rejoiced in its termination.
If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection,
Elizabeth’s change of sentiment will be neither improba-
ble nor faulty. But if otherwise—if regard springing from
such sources is unreasonable or unnatural, in comparison

of what is so often described as arising on a first interview
with its object, and even before two words have been ex-
changed, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she
had given somewhat of a trial to the latter method in her
partiality for Wickham, and that its ill success might, per-
haps, authorise her to seek the other less interesting mode
of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go with re-
gret; and in this early example of what Lydia’s infamy must
produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that
wretched business. Never, since reading Jane’s second let-
ter, had she entertained a hope of Wickham’s meaning to
marry her. No one but Jane, she thought, could flatter her-
self with such an expectation. Surprise was the least of her
feelings on this development. While the contents of the first
letter remained in her mind, she was all surprise—all as-
tonishment that Wickham should marry a girl whom it was
impossible he could marry for money; and how Lydia could
ever have attached him had appeared incomprehensible. But
now it was all too natural. For such an attachment as this
she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not
suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement
without the intention of marriage, she had no difficulty in
believing that neither her virtue nor her understanding
would preserve her from falling an easy prey.
She had never perceived, while the regiment was in
Hertfordshire, that Lydia had any partiality for him; but
she was convinced that Lydia wanted only encouragement
to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one officer, some-
times another, had been her favourite, as their attentions

raised them in her opinion. Her affections had continually
been fluctuating but never without an object. The mischief
of neglect and mistaken indulgence towards such a girl—
oh! how acutely did she now feel it!
She was wild to be at home—to hear, to see, to be upon
the spot to share with Jane in the cares that must now fall
wholly upon her, in a family so deranged, a father absent,
a mother incapable of exertion, and requiring constant at-
tendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing could
be done for Lydia, her uncle’s interference seemed of the
utmost importance, and till he entered the room her im-
patience was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried
back in alarm, supposing by the servant’s account that their
niece was taken suddenly ill; but satisfying them instantly
on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their
summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on
the postscript of the last with trembling energy, though
Lydia had never been a favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs.
Gardiner could not but be deeply afflicted. Not Lydia only,
but all were concerned in it; and after the first exclamations
of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner promised every as-
sistance in his power. Elizabeth, though expecting no less,
thanked him with tears of gratitude; and all three being
actuated by one spirit, everything relating to their journey
was speedily settled. They were to be off as soon as possible.
‘But what is to be done about Pemberley?’ cried Mrs. Gar-
diner. ‘John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for
us; was it so?’
‘Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our en-

gagement. THAT is all settled.’
‘What is all settled?’ repeated the other, as she ran into
her room to prepare. ‘And are they upon such terms as for
her to disclose the real truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!’
But wishes were vain, or at least could only serve to
amuse her in the hurry and confusion of the following hour.
Had Elizabeth been at leisure to be idle, she would have re-
mained certain that all employment was impossible to one
so wretched as herself; but she had her share of business
as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes
to be written to all their friends at Lambton, with false ex-
cuses for their sudden departure. An hour, however, saw
the whole completed; and Mr. Gardiner meanwhile having
settled his account at the inn, nothing remained to be done
but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of the morn-
ing, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could
have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to
Longbourn.

Chapter 47
‘I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth,’ said her

uncle, as they drove from the town; ‘and really, upon se-
rious consideration, I am much more inclined than I was to
judge as your eldest sister does on the matter. It appears to
me so very unlikely that any young man should form such
a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or
friendless, and who was actually staying in his colonel’s
family, that I am strongly inclined to hope the best. Could
he expect that her friends would not step forward? Could
he expect to be noticed again by the regiment, after such an
affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is not adequate
to the risk!’
‘Do you really think so?’ cried Elizabeth, brightening up
for a moment.
‘Upon my word,’ said Mrs. Gardiner, ‘I begin to be of
your uncle’s opinion. It is really too great a violation of de-
cency, honour, and interest, for him to be guilty of. I cannot
think so very ill of Wickham. Can you yourself, Lizzy, so
wholly give him up, as to believe him capable of it?’
‘Not, perhaps, of neglecting his own interest; but of every
other neglect I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should
be so! But I dare not hope it. Why should they not go on to
Scotland if that had been the case?’
‘In the first place,’ replied Mr. Gardiner, ‘there is no abso-

lute proof that they are not gone to Scotland.’
‘Oh! but their removing from the chaise into a hackney
coach is such a presumption! And, besides, no traces of
them were to be found on the Barnet road.’
‘Well, then—supposing them to be in London. They
may be there, though for the purpose of concealment, for
no more exceptional purpose. It is not likely that money
should be very abundant on either side; and it might strike
them that they could be more economically, though less ex-
peditiously, married in London than in Scotland.’
‘But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection?
Why must their marriage be private? Oh, no, no—this is
not likely. His most particular friend, you see by Jane’s ac-
count, was persuaded of his never intending to marry her.
Wickham will never marry a woman without some money.
He cannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia—what at-
traction has she beyond youth, health, and good humour
that could make him, for her sake, forego every chance of
benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what restraint
the apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on
a dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge;
for I know nothing of the effects that such a step might
produce. But as to your other objection, I am afraid it will
hardly hold good. Lydia has no brothers to step forward;
and he might imagine, from my father’s behaviour, from his
indolence and the little attention he has ever seemed to give
to what was going forward in his family, that HE would do
as little, and think as little about it, as any father could do,
in such a matter.’

‘But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but
love of him as to consent to live with him on any terms oth-
er than marriage?’
‘It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed,’ replied
Elizabeth, with tears in her eyes, ‘that a sister’s sense of de-
cency and virtue in such a point should admit of doubt. But,
really, I know not what to say. Perhaps I am not doing her
justice. But she is very young; she has never been taught
to think on serious subjects; and for the last half-year, nay,
for a twelvemonth—she has been given up to nothing but
amusement and vanity. She has been allowed to dispose
of her time in the most idle and frivolous manner, and
to adopt any opinions that came in her way. Since the —
—shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love,
flirtation, and officers have been in her head. She has been
doing everything in her power by thinking and talking on
the subject, to give greater—what shall I call it? susceptibil-
ity to her feelings; which are naturally lively enough. And
we all know that Wickham has every charm of person and
address that can captivate a woman.’
‘But you see that Jane,’ said her aunt, ‘does not think so
very ill of Wickham as to believe him capable of the at-
tempt.’
‘Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there,
whatever might be their former conduct, that she would
think capable of such an attempt, till it were proved against
them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what Wickham really
is. We both know that he has been profligate in every sense
of the word; that he has neither integrity nor honour; that

he is as false and deceitful as he is insinuating.’
‘And do you really know all this?’ cried Mrs. Gardiner,
whose curiosity as to the mode of her intelligence was all
alive.
‘I do indeed,’ replied Elizabeth, colouring. ‘I told you,
the other day, of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy;
and you yourself, when last at Longbourn, heard in what
manner he spoke of the man who had behaved with such
forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are oth-
er circumstances which I am not at liberty—which it is not
worth while to relate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley
family are endless. From what he said of Miss Darcy I was
thoroughly prepared to see a proud, reserved, disagreeable
girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He must know
that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found
her.’
‘But does Lydia know nothing of this? can she be igno-
rant of what you and Jane seem so well to understand?’
‘Oh, yes!—that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent,
and saw so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Col-
onel Fitzwilliam, I was ignorant of the truth myself. And
when I returned home, the ——shire was to leave Meryton
in a week or fortnight’s time. As that was the case, neither
Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it neces-
sary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could it
apparently be to any one, that the good opinion which all
the neighbourhood had of him should then be overthrown?
And even when it was settled that Lydia should go with Mrs.
Forster, the necessity of opening her eyes to his character

never occurred to me. That SHE could be in any danger
from the deception never entered my head. That such a con-
sequence as THIS could ensue, you may easily believe, was
far enough from my thoughts.’
‘When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had
no reason, I suppose, to believe them fond of each other?’
‘Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of af-
fection on either side; and had anything of the kind been
perceptible, you must be aware that ours is not a family on
which it could be thrown away. When first he entered the
corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all
were. Every girl in or near Meryton was out of her senses
about him for the first two months; but he never distin-
guished HER by any particular attention; and, consequently,
after a moderate period of extravagant and wild admiration,
her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment, who
treated her with more distinction, again became her favou-
rites.’
*****
It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty
could be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on
this interesting subject, by its repeated discussion, no oth-
er could detain them from it long, during the whole of the
journey. From Elizabeth’s thoughts it was never absent.
Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she
could find no interval of ease or forgetfulness.
They travelled as expeditiously as possible, and, sleeping
one night on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner time
the next day. It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that

Jane could not have been wearied by long expectations.
The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise,
were standing on the steps of the house as they entered the
paddock; and, when the carriage drove up to the door, the
joyful surprise that lighted up their faces, and displayed it-
self over their whole bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks,
was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome.
Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them a
hasty kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came
running down from her mother’s apartment, immediately
met her.
Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst
tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking
whether anything had been heard of the fugitives.
‘Not yet,’ replied Jane. ‘But now that my dear uncle is
come, I hope everything will be well.’
‘Is my father in town?’
‘Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word.’
‘And have you heard from him often?’
‘We have heard only twice. He wrote me a few lines on
Wednesday to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give
me his directions, which I particularly begged him to do.
He merely added that he should not write again till he had
something of importance to mention.’
‘And my mother—how is she? How are you all?’
‘My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spir-
its are greatly shaken. She is upstairs and will have great
satisfaction in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her
dressing-room. Mary and Kitty are, thank Heaven, are

quite well.’
‘But you—how are you?’ cried Elizabeth. ‘You look pale.
How much you must have gone through!’
Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly
well; and their conversation, which had been passing while
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were engaged with their children,
was now put an end to by the approach of the whole party.
Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and thanked
them both, with alternate smiles and tears.
When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions
which Elizabeth had already asked were of course repeated
by the others, and they soon found that Jane had no intel-
ligence to give. The sanguine hope of good, however, which
the benevolence of her heart suggested had not yet deserted
her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that ev-
ery morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or
her father, to explain their proceedings, and, perhaps, an-
nounce their marriage.
Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after
a few minutes’ conversation together, received them exactly
as might be expected; with tears and lamentations of regret,
invectives against the villainous conduct of Wickham, and
complaints of her own sufferings and ill-usage; blaming ev-
erybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the
errors of her daughter must principally be owing.
‘If I had been able,’ said she, ‘to carry my point in going
to Brighton, with all my family, THIS would not have hap-
pened; but poor dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her.
Why did the Forsters ever let her go out of their sight? I am

sure there was some great neglect or other on their side, for
she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing if she had been
well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to
have the charge of her; but I was overruled, as I always am.
Poor dear child! And now here’s Mr. Bennet gone away, and
I know he will fight Wickham, wherever he meets him and
then he will be killed, and what is to become of us all? The
Collinses will turn us out before he is cold in his grave, and
if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what we
shall do.’
They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr.
Gardiner, after general assurances of his affection for her
and all her family, told her that he meant to be in London
the very next day, and would assist Mr. Bennet in every en-
deavour for recovering Lydia.
‘Do not give way to useless alarm,’ added he; ‘though it
is right to be prepared for the worst, there is no occasion
to look on it as certain. It is not quite a week since they left
Brighton. In a few days more we may gain some news of
them; and till we know that they are not married, and have
no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as
lost. As soon as I get to town I shall go to my brother, and
make him come home with me to Gracechurch Street; and
then we may consult together as to what is to be done.’
‘Oh! my dear brother,’ replied Mrs. Bennet, ‘that is exact-
ly what I could most wish for. And now do, when you get to
town, find them out, wherever they may be; and if they are
not married already, MAKE them marry. And as for wed-
ding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but tell Lydia she

shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them, af-
ter they are married. And, above all, keep Mr. Bennet from
fighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in, that I am
frighted out of my wits—and have such tremblings, such
flutterings, all over me—such spasms in my side and pains
in my head, and such beatings at heart, that I can get no
rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear Lydia not to give
any directions about her clothes till she has seen me, for she
does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother,
how kind you are! I know you will contrive it all.’
But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his
earnest endeavours in the cause, could not avoid recom-
mending moderation to her, as well in her hopes as her fear;
and after talking with her in this manner till dinner was
on the table, they all left her to vent all her feelings on the
housekeeper, who attended in the absence of her daughters.
Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there
was no real occasion for such a seclusion from the family,
they did not attempt to oppose it, for they knew that she
had not prudence enough to hold her tongue before the ser-
vants, while they waited at table, and judged it better that
ONE only of the household, and the one whom they could
most trust should comprehend all her fears and solicitude
on the subject.
In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and
Kitty, who had been too busily engaged in their separate
apartments to make their appearance before. One came
from her books, and the other from her toilette. The faces
of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change was

visible in either, except that the loss of her favourite sister,
or the anger which she had herself incurred in this business,
had given more of fretfulness than usual to the accents of
Kitty. As for Mary, she was mistress enough of herself to
whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance of grave reflec-
tion, soon after they were seated at table:
‘This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be
much talked of. But we must stem the tide of malice, and
pour into the wounded bosoms of each other the balm of
sisterly consolation.’
Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of reply-
ing, she added, ‘Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we
may draw from it this useful lesson: that loss of virtue in
a female is irretrievable; that one false step involves her in
endless ruin; that her reputation is no less brittle than it is
beautiful; and that she cannot be too much guarded in her
behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex.’
Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too
much oppressed to make any reply. Mary, however, contin-
ued to console herself with such kind of moral extractions
from the evil before them.
In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to
be for half-an-hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly
availed herself of the opportunity of making any inqui-
ries, which Jane was equally eager to satisfy. After joining
in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel of this
event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and
Miss Bennet could not assert to be wholly impossible, the
former continued the subject, by saying, ‘But tell me all and

everything about it which I have not already heard. Give me
further particulars. hat did Colonel Forster say? Had they
no apprehension of anything before the elopement took
place? They must have seen them together for ever.’
‘Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected
some partiality, especially on Lydia’s side, but nothing to
give him any alarm. I am so grieved for him! His behaviour
was attentive and kind to the utmost. He WAS coming to us,
in order to assure us of his concern, before he had any idea
of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension
first got abroad, it hastened his journey.’
‘And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not
marry? Did he know of their intending to go off? Had Colo-
nel Forster seen Denny himself?’
‘Yes; but, when questioned by HIM, Denny denied know-
ing anything of their plans, and would not give his real
opinion about it. He did not repeat his persuasion of their
not marrying—and from THAT, I am inclined to hope, he
might have been misunderstood before.’
‘And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you en-
tertained a doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?’
‘How was it possible that such an idea should enter our
brains? I felt a little uneasy—a little fearful of my sister’s
happiness with him in marriage, because I knew that his
conduct had not been always quite right. My father and
mother knew nothing of that; they only felt how imprudent
a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natu-
ral triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in
Lydia’s last letter she had prepared her for such a step. She

had known, it seems, of their being in love with each other,
many weeks.’
‘But not before they went to Brighton?’
‘No, I believe not.’
‘And did Colonel Forster appear to think well of Wick-
ham himself? Does he know his real character?’
‘I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham
as he formerly did. He believed him to be imprudent and
extravagant. And since this sad affair has taken place, it is
said that he left Meryton greatly in debt; but I hope this may
be false.’
‘Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we
knew of him, this could not have happened!’
‘Perhaps it would have been better,’ replied her sister. ‘But
to expose the former faults of any person without knowing
what their present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We
acted with the best intentions.’
‘Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia’s
note to his wife?’
‘He brought it with him for us to see.’
Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to
Elizabeth. These were the contents:
‘MY DEAR HARRIET,
‘You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot
help laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as
soon as I am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you
cannot guess with who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there

is but one man in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should
never be happy without him, so think it no harm to be off. You
need not send them word at Longbourn of my going, if you
do not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater, when
I write to them and sign my name ‘Lydia Wickham.’ What
a good joke it will be! I can hardly write for laughing. Pray
make my excuses to Pratt for not keeping my engagement,
and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I hope he will excuse
me when he knows all; and tell him I will dance with him at
the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I shall send for my
clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell
Sally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown before
they are packed up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster.
I hope you will drink to our good journey.
‘Your affectionate friend,
‘LYDIA BENNET.’
‘Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!’ cried Elizabeth

when she had finished it. ‘What a letter is this, to be written
at such a moment! But at least it shows that SHE was serious
on the subject of their journey. Whatever he might after-
wards persuade her to, it was not on her side a SCHEME of
infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it!’
‘I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a
word for full ten minutes. My mother was taken ill immedi-
ately, and the whole house in such confusion!’
‘Oh! Jane,’ cried Elizabeth, ‘was there a servant belong-

ing to it who did not know the whole story before the end
of the day?’
‘I do not know. I hope there was. But to be guarded at
such a time is very difficult. My mother was in hysterics,
and though I endeavoured to give her every assistance in
my power, I am afraid I did not do so much as I might have
done! But the horror of what might possibly happen almost
took from me my faculties.’
‘Your attendance upon her has been too much for you.
You do not look well. Oh that I had been with you! you have
had every care and anxiety upon yourself alone.’
‘Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have
shared in every fatigue, I am sure; but I did not think it
right for either of them. Kitty is slight and delicate; and
Mary studies so much, that her hours of repose should not
be broken in on. My aunt Phillips came to Longbourn on
Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to
stay till Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort
to us all. And Lady Lucas has been very kind; she walked
here on Wednesday morning to condole with us, and of-
fered her services, or any of her daughters’, if they should
be of use to us.’
‘She had better have stayed at home,’ cried Elizabeth; ‘per-
haps she MEANT well, but, under such a misfortune as this,
one cannot see too little of one’s neighbours. Assistance is
impossible; condolence insufferable. Let them triumph over
us at a distance, and be satisfied.’
She then proceeded to inquire into the measures which
her father had intended to pursue, while in town, for the re-

covery of his daughter.
‘He meant I believe,’ replied Jane, ‘to go to Epsom, the
place where they last changed horses, see the postilions and
try if anything could be made out from them. His princi-
pal object must be to discover the number of the hackney
coach which took them from Clapham. It had come with a
fare from London; and as he thought that the circumstance
of a gentleman and lady’s removing from one carriage into
another might be remarked he meant to make inquiries at
Clapham. If he could anyhow discover at what house the
coachman had before set down his fare, he determined to
make inquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossi-
ble to find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not
know of any other designs that he had formed; but he was
in such a hurry to be gone, and his spirits so greatly dis-
composed, that I had difficulty in finding out even so much
as this.’

Chapter 48
T he whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet

the next morning, but the post came in without bring-
ing a single line from him. His family knew him to be, on
all common occasions, a most negligent and dilatory cor-
respondent; but at such a time they had hoped for exertion.
They were forced to conclude that he had no pleasing intelli-
gence to send; but even of THAT they would have been glad
to be certain. Mr. Gardiner had waited only for the letters
before he set off.
When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving
constant information of what was going on, and their uncle
promised, at parting, to prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to
Longbourn, as soon as he could, to the great consolation
of his sister, who considered it as the only security for her
husband’s not being killed in a duel.
Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hert-
fordshire a few days longer, as the former thought her
presence might be serviceable to her nieces. She shared in
their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a great comfort to
them in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also visit-
ed them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design
of cheering and heartening them up—though, as she never
came without reporting some fresh instance of Wickham’s
extravagance or irregularity, she seldom went away without

leaving them more dispirited than she found them.
All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who,
but three months before, had been almost an angel of light.
He was declared to be in debt to every tradesman in the
place, and his intrigues, all honoured with the title of se-
duction, had been extended into every tradesman’s family.
Everybody declared that he was the wickedest young man
in the world; and everybody began to find out that they had
always distrusted the appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth,
though she did not credit above half of what was said, be-
lieved enough to make her former assurance of her sister’s
ruin more certain; and even Jane, who believed still less
of it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time
was now come when, if they had gone to Scotland, which
she had never before entirely despaired of, they must in all
probability have gained some news of them.
Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday his
wife received a letter from him; it told them that, on his
arrival, he had immediately found out his brother, and per-
suaded him to come to Gracechurch Street; that Mr. Bennet
had been to Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival, but
without gaining any satisfactory information; and that he
was now determined to inquire at all the principal hotels
in town, as Mr. Bennet thought it possible they might have
gone to one of them, on their first coming to London, before
they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself did not ex-
pect any success from this measure, but as his brother was
eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He add-
ed that Mr. Bennet seemed wholly disinclined at present to

leave London and promised to write again very soon. There
was also a postscript to this effect:
‘I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find
out, if possible, from some of the young man’s intimates in
the regiment, whether Wickham has any relations or con-
nections who would be likely to know in what part of town
he has now concealed himself. If there were anyone that
one could apply to with a probability of gaining such a clue
as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we
have nothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do
everything in his power to satisfy us on this head. But, on
second thoughts, perhaps, Lizzy could tell us what relations
he has now living, better than any other person.’
Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this
deference to her authority proceeded; but it was not in her
power to give any information of so satisfactory a nature as
the compliment deserved. She had never heard of his hav-
ing had any relations, except a father and mother, both of
whom had been dead many years. It was possible, however,
that some of his companions in the ——shire might be able
to give more information; and though she was not very san-
guine in expecting it, the application was a something to
look forward to.
Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but
the most anxious part of each was when the post was ex-
pected. The arrival of letters was the grand object of every
morning’s impatience. Through letters, whatever of good
or bad was to be told would be communicated, and every
succeeding day was expected to bring some news of impor-

tance.
But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter
arrived for their father, from a different quarter, from Mr.
Collins; which, as Jane had received directions to open all
that came for him in his absence, she accordingly read; and
Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his letters always were,
looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as follows:
‘MY DEAR SIR,
‘I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my

situation in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction
you are now suffering under, of which we were yesterday
informed by a letter from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear
sir, that Mrs. Collins and myself sincerely sympathise with
you and all your respectable family, in your present distress,
which must be of the bitterest kind, because proceeding
from a cause which no time can remove. No arguments
shall be wanting on my part that can alleviate so severe a
misfortune—or that may comfort you, under a circumstance
that must be of all others the most afflicting to a parent’s
mind. The death of your daughter would have been a blessing
in comparison of this. And it is the more to be lamented,
because there is reason to suppose as my dear Charlotte
informs me, that this licentiousness of behaviour in your
daughter has proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence;
though, at the same time, for the consolation of yourself and
Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think that her own disposition
must be naturally bad, or she could not be guilty of such an

enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever that may be, you
are grievously to be pitied; in which opinion I am not only
joined by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by Lady Catherine and
her daughter, to whom I have related the affair. They agree
with me in apprehending that this false step in one daughter
will be injurious to the fortunes of all the others; for who, as
Lady Catherine herself condescendingly says, will connect
themselves with such a family? And this consideration leads
me moreover to reflect, with augmented satisfaction, on a
certain event of last November; for had it been otherwise, I
must have been involved in all your sorrow and disgrace. Let
me then advise you, dear sir, to console yourself as much as
possible, to throw off your unworthy child from your affection
for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of her own heinous
offense.
‘I am, dear sir, etc., etc.’
Mr. Gardiner did not write again till he had received an

answer from Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of
a pleasant nature to send. It was not known that Wickham
had a single relationship with whom he kept up any connec-
tion, and it was certain that he had no near one living. His
former acquaintances had been numerous; but since he had
been in the militia, it did not appear that he was on terms
of particular friendship with any of them. There was no one,
therefore, who could be pointed out as likely to give any
news of him. And in the wretched state of his own finances,
there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in addition

to his fear of discovery by Lydia’s relations, for it had just
transpired that he had left gaming debts behind him to a
very considerable amount. Colonel Forster believed that
more than a thousand pounds would be necessary to clear
his expenses at Brighton. He owed a good deal in town, but
his debts of honour were still more formidable. Mr. Gar-
diner did not attempt to conceal these particulars from the
Longbourn family. Jane heard them with horror. ‘A game-
ster!’ she cried. ‘This is wholly unexpected. I had not an idea
of it.’
Mr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect
to see their father at home on the following day, which was
Saturday. Rendered spiritless by the ill-success of all their
endeavours, he had yielded to his brother-in-law’s entreaty
that he would return to his family, and leave it to him to do
whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable for con-
tinuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this,
she did not express so much satisfaction as her children ex-
pected, considering what her anxiety for his life had been
before.
‘What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia?’ she
cried. ‘Sure he will not leave London before he has found
them. Who is to fight Wickham, and make him marry her,
if he comes away?’
As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was set-
tled that she and the children should go to London, at the
same time that Mr. Bennet came from it. The coach, there-
fore, took them the first stage of their journey, and brought
its master back to Longbourn.

Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Eliz-
abeth and her Derbyshire friend that had attended her from
that part of the world. His name had never been volun-
tarily mentioned before them by her niece; and the kind of
half-expectation which Mrs. Gardiner had formed, of their
being followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing.
Elizabeth had received none since her return that could
come from Pemberley.
The present unhappy state of the family rendered any
other excuse for the lowness of her spirits unnecessary;
nothing, therefore, could be fairly conjectured from THAT,
though Elizabeth, who was by this time tolerably well ac-
quainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware that,
had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the
dread of Lydia’s infamy somewhat better. It would have
spared her, she thought, one sleepless night out of two.
When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of
his usual philosophic composure. He said as little as he had
ever been in the habit of saying; made no mention of the
business that had taken him away, and it was some time be-
fore his daughters had courage to speak of it.
It was not till the afternoon, when he had joined them at
tea, that Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and
then, on her briefly expressing her sorrow for what he must
have endured, he replied, ‘Say nothing of that. Who should
suffer but myself? It has been my own doing, and I ought
to feel it.’
‘You must not be too severe upon yourself,’ replied Eliza-
beth.

‘You may well warn me against such an evil. Human na-
ture is so prone to fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my
life feel how much I have been to blame. I am not afraid
of being overpowered by the impression. It will pass away
soon enough.’
‘Do you suppose them to be in London?’
‘Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?’
‘And Lydia used to want to go to London,’ added Kitty.
‘She is happy then,’ said her father drily; ‘and her resi-
dence there will probably be of some duration.’
Then after a short silence he continued:
‘Lizzy, I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your
advice to me last May, which, considering the event, shows
some greatness of mind.’
They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to
fetch her mother’s tea.
‘This is a parade,’ he cried, ‘which does one good; it gives
such an elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the
same; I will sit in my library, in my nightcap and powdering
gown, and give as much trouble as I can; or, perhaps, I may
defer it till Kitty runs away.’
‘I am not going to run away, papa,’ said Kitty fretfully.
‘If I should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than
Lydia.’
‘YOU go to Brighton. I would not trust you so near it as
Eastbourne for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt
to be cautious, and you will feel the effects of it. No officer is
ever to enter into my house again, nor even to pass through
the village. Balls will be absolutely prohibited, unless you

stand up with one of your sisters. And you are never to stir
out of doors till you can prove that you have spent ten min-
utes of every day in a rational manner.’
Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began
to cry.
‘Well, well,’ said he, ‘do not make yourself unhappy. If
you are a good girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a
review at the end of them.’

Chapter 49
T wo days after Mr. Bennet’s return, as Jane and Eliza-

beth were walking together in the shrubbery behind
the house, they saw the housekeeper coming towards them,
and, concluding that she came to call them to their mother,
went forward to meet her; but, instead of the expected sum-
mons, when they approached her, she said to Miss Bennet,
‘I beg your pardon, madam, for interrupting you, but I was
in hopes you might have got some good news from town, so
I took the liberty of coming to ask.’
‘What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from
town.’
‘Dear madam,’ cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment,
‘don’t you know there is an express come for master from
Mr. Gardiner? He has been here this half-hour, and master
has had a letter.’
Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for
speech. They ran through the vestibule into the breakfast-
room; from thence to the library; their father was in neither;
and they were on the point of seeking him upstairs with
their mother, when they were met by the butler, who said:
‘If you are looking for my master, ma’am, he is walking
towards the little copse.’
Upon this information, they instantly passed through
the hall once more, and ran across the lawn after their fa-

ther, who was deliberately pursuing his way towards a small
wood on one side of the paddock.
Jane, who was not so light nor so much in the habit of
running as Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister,
panting for breath, came up with him, and eagerly cried
out:
‘Oh, papa, what news—what news? Have you heard from
my uncle?’
‘Yes I have had a letter from him by express.’
‘Well, and what news does it bring—good or bad?’
‘What is there of good to be expected?’ said he, taking
the letter from his pocket. ‘But perhaps you would like to
read it.’
Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now
came up.
‘Read it aloud,’ said their father, ‘for I hardly know myself
what it is about.’
‘Gracechurch Street, Monday, August 2.
‘MY DEAR BROTHER,
‘At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and

such as, upon the whole, I hope it will give you satisfaction.
Soon after you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to
find out in what part of London they were. The particulars I
reserve till we meet; it is enough to know they are discovered.
I have seen them both—‘
‘Then it is as I always hoped,’ cried Jane; ‘they are mar-

ried!’
Elizabeth read on:
‘I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find
there was any intention of being so; but if you are willing to
perform the engagements which I have ventured to make on
your side, I hope it will not be long before they are. All that is
required of you is, to assure to your daughter, by settlement,
her equal share of the five thousand pounds secured among
your children after the decease of yourself and my sister;
and, moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her,
during your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are
conditions which, considering everything, I had no hesitation
in complying with, as far as I thought myself privileged, for
you. I shall send this by express, that no time may be lost in
bringing me your answer. You will easily comprehend, from
these particulars, that Mr. Wickham’s circumstances are not
so hopeless as they are generally believed to be. The world has
been deceived in that respect; and I am happy to say there will
be some little money, even when all his debts are discharged,
to settle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune. If, as
I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers to act
in your name throughout the whole of this business, I will
immediately give directions to Haggerston for preparing a
proper settlement. There will not be the smallest occasion for
your coming to town again; therefore stay quiet at Longbourn,
and depend on my diligence and care. Send back your answer
as fast as you can, and be careful to write explicitly. We
have judged it best that my niece should be married from

this house, of which I hope you will approve. She comes to
us to-day. I shall write again as soon as anything more is
determined on. Yours, etc.,
‘EDW. GARDINER.’
‘Is it possible?’ cried Elizabeth, when she had finished.

‘Can it be possible that he will marry her?’
‘Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we thought
him,’ said her sister. ‘My dear father, I congratulate you.’
‘And have you answered the letter?’ cried Elizabeth.
‘No; but it must be done soon.’
Most earnestly did she then entreaty him to lose no more
time before he wrote.
‘Oh! my dear father,’ she cried, ‘come back and write im-
mediately. Consider how important every moment is in
such a case.’
‘Let me write for you,’ said Jane, ‘if you dislike the trouble
yourself.’
‘I dislike it very much,’ he replied; ‘but it must be done.’
And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked
towards the house.
‘And may I ask—‘ said Elizabeth; ‘but the terms, I sup-
pose, must be complied with.’
‘Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so lit-
tle.’
‘And they MUST marry! Yet he is SUCH a man!’
‘Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be
done. But there are two things that I want very much to

know; one is, how much money your uncle has laid down to
bring it about; and the other, how am I ever to pay him.’
‘Money! My uncle!’ cried Jane, ‘what do you mean, sir?’
‘I mean, that no man in his senses would marry Lydia on
so slight a temptation as one hundred a year during my life,
and fifty after I am gone.’
‘That is very true,’ said Elizabeth; ‘though it had not
occurred to me before. His debts to be discharged, and
something still to remain! Oh! it must be my uncle’s doings!
Generous, good man, I am afraid he has distressed himself.
A small sum could not do all this.’
‘No,’ said her father; ‘Wickham’s a fool if he takes her
with a farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be
sorry to think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our re-
lationship.’
‘Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such
a sum to be repaid?’
Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in
thought, continued silent till they reached the house. Their
father then went on to the library to write, and the girls
walked into the breakfast-room.
‘And they are really to be married!’ cried Elizabeth, as
soon as they were by themselves. ‘How strange this is! And
for THIS we are to be thankful. That they should marry,
small as is their chance of happiness, and wretched as is his
character, we are forced to rejoice. Oh, Lydia!’
‘I comfort myself with thinking,’ replied Jane, ‘that he
certainly would not marry Lydia if he had not a real re-
gard for her. Though our kind uncle has done something

towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten thousand
pounds, or anything like it, has been advanced. He has chil-
dren of his own, and may have more. How could he spare
half ten thousand pounds?’
‘If he were ever able to learn what Wickham’s debts have
been,’ said Elizabeth, ‘and how much is settled on his side
on our sister, we shall exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has
done for them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his
own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be re-
quited. Their taking her home, and affording her their
personal protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice
to her advantage as years of gratitude cannot enough ac-
knowledge. By this time she is actually with them! If such
goodness does not make her miserable now, she will never
deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she first
sees my aunt!’
‘We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on ei-
ther side,’ said Jane: ‘I hope and trust they will yet be happy.
His consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that
he is come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection
will steady them; and I flatter myself they will settle so qui-
etly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in time make
their past imprudence forgotten.’
‘Their conduct has been such,’ replied Elizabeth, ‘as nei-
ther you, nor I, nor anybody can ever forget. It is useless to
talk of it.’
It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all
likelihood perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They
went to the library, therefore, and asked their father wheth-

er he would not wish them to make it known to her. He was
writing and, without raising his head, coolly replied:
‘Just as you please.’
‘May we take my uncle’s letter to read to her?’
‘Take whatever you like, and get away.’
Elizabeth took the letter from his writing-table, and they
went upstairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs.
Bennet: one communication would, therefore, do for all.
After a slight preparation for good news, the letter was read
aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself. As soon
as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner’s hope of Lydia’s being soon
married, her joy burst forth, and every following sentence
added to its exuberance. She was now in an irritation as vio-
lent from delight, as she had ever been fidgety from alarm
and vexation. To know that her daughter would be married
was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her felicity,
nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct.
‘My dear, dear Lydia!’ she cried. ‘This is delightful indeed!
She will be married! I shall see her again! She will be mar-
ried at sixteen! My good, kind brother! I knew how it would
be. I knew he would manage everything! How I long to see
her! and to see dear Wickham too! But the clothes, the wed-
ding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardiner about them
directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask
him how much he will give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself.
Ring the bell, Kitty, for Hill. I will put on my things in a mo-
ment. My dear, dear Lydia! How merry we shall be together
when we meet!’
Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to

the violence of these transports, by leading her thoughts to
the obligations which Mr. Gardiner’s behaviour laid them
all under.
‘For we must attribute this happy conclusion,’ she added,
‘in a great measure to his kindness. We are persuaded that
he has pledged himself to assist Mr. Wickham with money.’
‘Well,’ cried her mother, ‘it is all very right; who should
do it but her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his
own, I and my children must have had all his money, you
know; and it is the first time we have ever had anything
from him, except a few presents. Well! I am so happy! In a
short time I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham!
How well it sounds! And she was only sixteen last June. My
dear Jane, I am in such a flutter, that I am sure I can’t write;
so I will dictate, and you write for me. We will settle with
your father about the money afterwards; but the things
should be ordered immediately.’
She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico,
muslin, and cambric, and would shortly have dictated some
very plentiful orders, had not Jane, though with some dif-
ficulty, persuaded her to wait till her father was at leisure
to be consulted. One day’s delay, she observed, would be
of small importance; and her mother was too happy to be
quite so obstinate as usual. Other schemes, too, came into
her head.
‘I will go to Meryton,’ said she, ‘as soon as I am dressed,
and tell the good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I
come back, I can call on Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty,
run down and order the carriage. An airing would do me

a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do anything for
you in Meryton? Oh! Here comes Hill! My dear Hill, have
you heard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be mar-
ried; and you shall all have a bowl of punch to make merry
at her wedding.’
Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth re-
ceived her congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick
of this folly, took refuge in her own room, that she might
think with freedom.
Poor Lydia’s situation must, at best, be bad enough; but
that it was no worse, she had need to be thankful. She felt
it so; and though, in looking forward, neither rational hap-
piness nor worldly prosperity could be justly expected for
her sister, in looking back to what they had feared, only
two hours ago, she felt all the advantages of what they had
gained.

Chapter 50
M r. Bennet had very often wished before this period of

his life that, instead of spending his whole income,
he had laid by an annual sum for the better provision of
his children, and of his wife, if she survived him. He now
wished it more than ever. Had he done his duty in that re-
spect, Lydia need not have been indebted to her uncle for
whatever of honour or credit could now be purchased for
her. The satisfaction of prevailing on one of the most worth-
less young men in Great Britain to be her husband might
then have rested in its proper place.
He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little ad-
vantage to anyone should be forwarded at the sole expense
of his brother-in-law, and he was determined, if possible, to
find out the extent of his assistance, and to discharge the
obligation as soon as he could.
When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held
to be perfectly useless, for, of course, they were to have a
son. The son was to join in cutting off the entail, as soon as
he should be of age, and the widow and younger children
would by that means be provided for. Five daughters succes-
sively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and
Mrs. Bennet, for many years after Lydia’s birth, had been
certain that he would. This event had at last been despaired
of, but it was then too late to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no

turn for economy, and her husband’s love of independence
had alone prevented their exceeding their income.
Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles
on Mrs. Bennet and the children. But in what proportions it
should be divided amongst the latter depended on the will
of the parents. This was one point, with regard to Lydia, at
least, which was now to be settled, and Mr. Bennet could
have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him.
In terms of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of
his brother, though expressed most concisely, he then deliv-
ered on paper his perfect approbation of all that was done,
and his willingness to fulfil the engagements that had been
made for him. He had never before supposed that, could
Wickham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would
be done with so little inconvenience to himself as by the
present arrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds a
year the loser by the hundred that was to be paid them; for,
what with her board and pocket allowance, and the con-
tinual presents in money which passed to her through her
mother’s hands, Lydia’s expenses had been very little within
that sum.
That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his
side, too, was another very welcome surprise; for his wish at
present was to have as little trouble in the business as pos-
sible. When the first transports of rage which had produced
his activity in seeking her were over, he naturally returned
to all his former indolence. His letter was soon dispatched;
for, though dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick
in its execution. He begged to know further particulars of

what he was indebted to his brother, but was too angry with
Lydia to send any message to her.
The good news spread quickly through the house, and
with proportionate speed through the neighbourhood. It
was borne in the latter with decent philosophy. To be sure, it
would have been more for the advantage of conversation had
Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the happiest
alternative, been secluded from the world, in some distant
farmhouse. But there was much to be talked of in marry-
ing her; and the good-natured wishes for her well-doing
which had proceeded before from all the spiteful old ladies
in Meryton lost but a little of their spirit in this change of
circumstances, because with such an husband her misery
was considered certain.
It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been down-
stairs; but on this happy day she again took her seat at the
head of her table, and in spirits oppressively high. No senti-
ment of shame gave a damp to her triumph. The marriage
of a daughter, which had been the first object of her wishes
since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of accom-
plishment, and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on
those attendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new car-
riages, and servants. She was busily searching through the
neighbourhood for a proper situation for her daughter, and,
without knowing or considering what their income might
be, rejected many as deficient in size and importance.
‘Haye Park might do,’ said she, ‘if the Gouldings could
quit it—or the great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room
were larger; but Ashworth is too far off! I could not bear to

have her ten miles from me; and as for Pulvis Lodge, the at-
tics are dreadful.’
Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption
while the servants remained. But when they had withdrawn,
he said to her: ‘Mrs. Bennet, before you take any or all of
these houses for your son and daughter, let us come to a
right understanding. Into ONE house in this neighbour-
hood they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage
the impudence of either, by receiving them at Longbourn.’
A long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Ben-
net was firm. It soon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found,
with amazement and horror, that her husband would not
advance a guinea to buy clothes for his daughter. He pro-
tested that she should receive from him no mark of affection
whatever on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly com-
prehend it. That his anger could be carried to such a point of
inconceivable resentment as to refuse his daughter a privi-
lege without which her marriage would scarcely seem valid,
exceeded all she could believe possible. She was more alive
to the disgrace which her want of new clothes must reflect
on her daughter’s nuptials, than to any sense of shame at her
eloping and living with Wickham a fortnight before they
took place.
Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had,
from the distress of the moment, been led to make Mr. Dar-
cy acquainted with their fears for her sister; for since her
marriage would so shortly give the proper termination to
the elopement, they might hope to conceal its unfavourable
beginning from all those who were not immediately on the

spot.
She had no fear of its spreading farther through his
means. There were few people on whose secrecy she would
have more confidently depended; but, at the same time,
there was no one whose knowledge of a sister’s frailty would
have mortified her so much—not, however, from any fear of
disadvantage from it individually to herself, for, at any rate,
there seemed a gulf impassable between them. Had Lydia’s
marriage been concluded on the most honourable terms, it
was not to be supposed that Mr. Darcy would connect him-
self with a family where, to every other objection, would
now be added an alliance and relationship of the nearest
kind with a man whom he so justly scorned.
From such a connection she could not wonder that he
would shrink. The wish of procuring her regard, which she
had assured herself of his feeling in Derbyshire, could not
in rational expectation survive such a blow as this. She was
humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she hardly
knew of what. She became jealous of his esteem, when she
could no longer hope to be benefited by it. She wanted to
hear of him, when there seemed the least chance of gaining
intelligence. She was convinced that she could have been
happy with him, when it was no longer likely they should
meet.
What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he
know that the proposals which she had proudly spurned
only four months ago, would now have been most gladly
and gratefully received! He was as generous, she doubted
not, as the most generous of his sex; but while he was mor-

tal, there must be a triumph.
She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the
man who, in disposition and talents, would most suit her.
His understanding and temper, though unlike her own,
would have answered all her wishes. It was an union that
must have been to the advantage of both; by her ease and
liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his man-
ners improved; and from his judgement, information, and
knowledge of the world, she must have received benefit of
greater importance.
But no such happy marriage could now teach the admir-
ing multitude what connubial felicity really was. An union
of a different tendency, and precluding the possibility of the
other, was soon to be formed in their family.
How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in toler-
able independence, she could not imagine. But how little of
permanent happiness could belong to a couple who were
only brought together because their passions were stronger
than their virtue, she could easily conjecture.
*****
Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr.
Bennet’s acknowledgments he briefly replied, with as-
surance of his eagerness to promote the welfare of any of
his family; and concluded with entreaties that the subject
might never be mentioned to him again. The principal pur-
port of his letter was to inform them that Mr. Wickham had
resolved on quitting the militia.
‘It was greatly my wish that he should do so,’ he added,
‘as soon as his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will

agree with me, in considering the removal from that corps
as highly advisable, both on his account and my niece’s.
It is Mr. Wickham’s intention to go into the regulars; and
among his former friends, there are still some who are able
and willing to assist him in the army. He has the promise
of an ensigncy in General ——‘s regiment, now quartered
in the North. It is an advantage to have it so far from this
part of the kingdom. He promises fairly; and I hope among
different people, where they may each have a character to
preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have written to
Colonel Forster, to inform him of our present arrangements,
and to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of
Mr. Wickham in and near Brighton, with assurances of
speedy payment, for which I have pledged myself. And will
you give yourself the trouble of carrying similar assurances
to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin a list
according to his information? He has given in all his debts;
I hope at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has our
directions, and all will be completed in a week. They will
then join his regiment, unless they are first invited to Long-
bourn; and I understand from Mrs. Gardiner, that my niece
is very desirous of seeing you all before she leaves the South.
She is well, and begs to be dutifully remembered to you and
your mother.—Yours, etc.,
‘E. GARDINER.’
Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages
of Wickham’s removal from the ——shire as clearly as Mr.
Gardiner could do. But Mrs. Bennet was not so well pleased
with it. Lydia’s being settled in the North, just when she

had expected most pleasure and pride in her company, for
she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in
Hertfordshire, was a severe disappointment; and, besides, it
was such a pity that Lydia should be taken from a regiment
where she was acquainted with everybody, and had so many
favourites.
‘She is so fond of Mrs. Forster,’ said she, ‘it will be quite
shocking to send her away! And there are several of the
young men, too, that she likes very much. The officers may
not be so pleasant in General——‘s regiment.’
His daughter’s request, for such it might be considered,
of being admitted into her family again before she set off for
the North, received at first an absolute negative. But Jane
and Elizabeth, who agreed in wishing, for the sake of their
sister’s feelings and consequence, that she should be noticed
on her marriage by her parents, urged him so earnestly yet
so rationally and so mildly, to receive her and her husband
at Longbourn, as soon as they were married, that he was pre-
vailed on to think as they thought, and act as they wished.
And their mother had the satisfaction of knowing that she
would be able to show her married daughter in the neigh-
bourhood before she was banished to the North. When Mr.
Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore, he sent his per-
mission for them to come; and it was settled, that as soon as
the ceremony was over, they should proceed to Longbourn.
Elizabeth was surprised, however, that Wickham should
consent to such a scheme, and had she consulted only her
own inclination, any meeting with him would have been
the last object of her wishes.

Chapter 51
T heir sister’s wedding day arrived; and Jane and Eliza-

beth felt for her probably more than she felt for herself.
The carriage was sent to meet them at ——, and they were
to return in it by dinner-time. Their arrival was dreaded by
the elder Miss Bennets, and Jane more especially, who gave
Lydia the feelings which would have attended herself, had
she been the culprit, and was wretched in the thought of
what her sister must endure.
They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast
room to receive them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Ben-
net as the carriage drove up to the door; her husband looked
impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed, anxious, un-
easy.
Lydia’s voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was
thrown open, and she ran into the room. Her mother
stepped forwards, embraced her, and welcomed her with
rapture; gave her hand, with an affectionate smile, to Wick-
ham, who followed his lady; and wished them both joy with
an alacrity which shewed no doubt of their happiness.
Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then
turned, was not quite so cordial. His countenance rather
gained in austerity; and he scarcely opened his lips. The
easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was enough to
provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Ben-

net was shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed,
wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned from sister to sister, de-
manding their congratulations; and when at length they all
sat down, looked eagerly round the room, took notice of
some little alteration in it, and observed, with a laugh, that
it was a great while since she had been there.
Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but
his manners were always so pleasing, that had his character
and his marriage been exactly what they ought, his smiles
and his easy address, while he claimed their relationship,
would have delighted them all. Elizabeth had not before be-
lieved him quite equal to such assurance; but she sat down,
resolving within herself to draw no limits in future to the
impudence of an impudent man. She blushed, and Jane
blushed; but the cheeks of the two who caused their confu-
sion suffered no variation of colour.
There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother
could neither of them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who
happened to sit near Elizabeth, began inquiring after his ac-
quaintance in that neighbourhood, with a good humoured
ease which she felt very unable to equal in her replies. They
seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the
world. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and
Lydia led voluntarily to subjects which her sisters would not
have alluded to for the world.
‘Only think of its being three months,’ she cried, ‘since I
went away; it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there
have been things enough happened in the time. Good gra-
cious! when I went away, I am sure I had no more idea of

being married till I came back again! though I thought it
would be very good fun if I was.’
Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Eliza-
beth looked expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard
nor saw anything of which she chose to be insensible, gaily
continued, ‘Oh! mamma, do the people hereabouts know
I am married to-day? I was afraid they might not; and we
overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was deter-
mined he should know it, and so I let down the side-glass
next to him, and took off my glove, and let my hand just rest
upon the window frame, so that he might see the ring, and
then I bowed and smiled like anything.’
Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran
out of the room; and returned no more, till she heard them
passing through the hall to the dining parlour. She then
joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with anxious parade,
walk up to her mother’s right hand, and hear her say to her
eldest sister, ‘Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must
go lower, because I am a married woman.’
It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that
embarrassment from which she had been so wholly free at
first. Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to see
Mrs. Phillips, the Lucases, and all their other neighbours,
and to hear herself called ‘Mrs. Wickham’ by each of them;
and in the mean time, she went after dinner to show her
ring, and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two
housemaids.
‘Well, mamma,’ said she, when they were all returned to
the breakfast room, ‘and what do you think of my husband?

Is not he a charming man? I am sure my sisters must all
envy me. I only hope they may have half my good luck. They
must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get husbands.
What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go.’
‘Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear
Lydia, I don’t at all like your going such a way off. Must it
be so?’
‘Oh, lord! yes;—there is nothing in that. I shall like it of
all things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down
and see us. We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I
dare say there will be some balls, and I will take care to get
good partners for them all.’
‘I should like it beyond anything!’ said her mother.
‘And then when you go away, you may leave one or two
of my sisters behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands
for them before the winter is over.’
‘I thank you for my share of the favour,’ said Elizabeth;
‘but I do not particularly like your way of getting hus-
bands.’
Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with
them. Mr. Wickham had received his commission before
he left London, and he was to join his regiment at the end
of a fortnight.
No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would
be so short; and she made the most of the time by visiting
about with her daughter, and having very frequent par-
ties at home. These parties were acceptable to all; to avoid
a family circle was even more desirable to such as did think,
than such as did not.

Wickham’s affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth
had expected to find it; not equal to Lydia’s for him. She had
scarcely needed her present observation to be satisfied, from
the reason of things, that their elopement had been brought
on by the strength of her love, rather than by his; and she
would have wondered why, without violently caring for her,
he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain
that his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circum-
stances; and if that were the case, he was not the young man
to resist an opportunity of having a companion.
Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear
Wickham on every occasion; no one was to be put in com-
petition with him. He did every thing best in the world; and
she was sure he would kill more birds on the first of Septem-
ber, than any body else in the country.
One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting
with her two elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth:
‘Lizzy, I never gave YOU an account of my wedding, I be-
lieve. You were not by, when I told mamma and the others
all about it. Are not you curious to hear how it was man-
aged?’
‘No really,’ replied Elizabeth; ‘I think there cannot be too
little said on the subject.’
‘La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went
off. We were married, you know, at St. Clement’s, because
Wickham’s lodgings were in that parish. And it was settled
that we should all be there by eleven o’clock. My uncle and
aunt and I were to go together; and the others were to meet
us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was

in such a fuss! I was so afraid, you know, that something
would happen to put it off, and then I should have gone
quite distracted. And there was my aunt, all the time I was
dressing, preaching and talking away just as if she was read-
ing a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in
ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wick-
ham. I longed to know whether he would be married in his
blue coat.’
‘Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it
would never be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand,
that my uncle and aunt were horrid unpleasant all the time
I was with them. If you’ll believe me, I did not once put
my foot out of doors, though I was there a fortnight. Not
one party, or scheme, or anything. To be sure London was
rather thin, but, however, the Little Theatre was open. Well,
and so just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was
called away upon business to that horrid man Mr. Stone.
And then, you know, when once they get together, there is
no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did not know what
to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we were be-
yond the hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily,
he came back again in ten minutes’ time, and then we all set
out. However, I recollected afterwards that if he had been
prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr.
Darcy might have done as well.’
‘Mr. Darcy!’ repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.
‘Oh, yes!—he was to come there with Wickham, you
know. But gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have
said a word about it. I promised them so faithfully! What

will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!’
‘If it was to be secret,’ said Jane, ‘say not another word on
the subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further.’
‘Oh! certainly,’ said Elizabeth, though burning with curi-
osity; ‘we will ask you no questions.’
‘Thank you,’ said Lydia, ‘for if you did, I should certainly
tell you all, and then Wickham would be angry.’
On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to
put it out of her power, by running away.
But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossi-
ble; or at least it was impossible not to try for information.
Mr. Darcy had been at her sister’s wedding. It was exactly a
scene, and exactly among people, where he had apparently
least to do, and least temptation to go. Conjectures as to
the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her brain;
but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her,
as placing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most
improbable. She could not bear such suspense; and hastily
seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short letter to her aunt, to
request an explanation of what Lydia had dropt, if it were
compatible with the secrecy which had been intended.
‘You may readily comprehend,’ she added, ‘what my curi-
osity must be to know how a person unconnected with any
of us, and (comparatively speaking) a stranger to our fam-
ily, should have been amongst you at such a time. Pray write
instantly, and let me understand it—unless it is, for very co-
gent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to
think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied
with ignorance.’

‘Not that I SHALL, though,’ she added to herself, as she
finished the letter; ‘and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me
in an honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to
tricks and stratagems to find it out.’
Jane’s delicate sense of honour would not allow her to
speak to Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Eliza-
beth was glad of it;—till it appeared whether her inquiries
would receive any satisfaction, she had rather be without a
confidante.

Chapter 52
E lizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer

to her letter as soon as she possibly could. She was no
sooner in possession of it than, hurrying into the little
copse, where she was least likely to be interrupted, she sat
down on one of the benches and prepared to be happy; for
the length of the letter convinced her that it did not contain
a denial.
‘Gracechurch street, Sept. 6.
‘MY DEAR NIECE,
‘I have just received your letter, and shall devote this
whole morning to answering it, as I foresee that a LITTLE
writing will not comprise what I have to tell you. I must
confess myself surprised by your application; I did not ex-
pect it from YOU. Don’t think me angry, however, for I only
mean to let you know that I had not imagined such inqui-
ries to be necessary on YOUR side. If you do not choose to
understand me, forgive my impertinence. Your uncle is as
much surprised as I am—and nothing but the belief of your
being a party concerned would have allowed him to act as
he has done. But if you are really innocent and ignorant, I
must be more explicit.
‘On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn,
your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy
called, and was shut up with him several hours. It was all

over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so dreadful-
ly racked as YOUR’S seems to have been. He came to tell
Mr. Gardiner that he had found out where your sister and
Mr. Wickham were, and that he had seen and talked with
them both; Wickham repeatedly, Lydia once. From what I
can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day after ourselves,
and came to town with the resolution of hunting for them.
The motive professed was his conviction of its being owing
to himself that Wickham’s worthlessness had not been so
well known as to make it impossible for any young woman
of character to love or confide in him. He generously imput-
ed the whole to his mistaken pride, and confessed that he
had before thought it beneath him to lay his private actions
open to the world. His character was to speak for itself. He
called it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and endeavour
to remedy an evil which had been brought on by himself. If
he HAD ANOTHER motive, I am sure it would never dis-
grace him. He had been some days in town, before he was
able to discover them; but he had something to direct his
search, which was more than WE had; and the conscious-
ness of this was another reason for his resolving to follow
us.
‘There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was some
time ago governess to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed from
her charge on some cause of disapprobation, though he did
not say what. She then took a large house in Edward-street,
and has since maintained herself by letting lodgings. This
Mrs. Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with
Wickham; and he went to her for intelligence of him as

soon as he got to town. But it was two or three days before
he could get from her what he wanted. She would not be-
tray her trust, I suppose, without bribery and corruption,
for she really did know where her friend was to be found.
Wickham indeed had gone to her on their first arrival in
London, and had she been able to receive them into her
house, they would have taken up their abode with her. At
length, however, our kind friend procured the wished-for
direction. They were in —— street. He saw Wickham, and
afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia. His first object with her,
he acknowledged, had been to persuade her to quit her pres-
ent disgraceful situation, and return to her friends as soon
as they could be prevailed on to receive her, offering his as-
sistance, as far as it would go. But he found Lydia absolutely
resolved on remaining where she was. She cared for none of
her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not hear
of leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married
some time or other, and it did not much signify when. Since
such were her feelings, it only remained, he thought, to
secure and expedite a marriage, which, in his very first con-
versation with Wickham, he easily learnt had never been
HIS design. He confessed himself obliged to leave the regi-
ment, on account of some debts of honour, which were very
pressing; and scrupled not to lay all the ill-consequences of
Lydia’s flight on her own folly alone. He meant to resign his
commission immediately; and as to his future situation, he
could conjecture very little about it. He must go somewhere,
but he did not know where, and he knew he should have
nothing to live on.

‘Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your sis-
ter at once. Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very
rich, he would have been able to do something for him, and
his situation must have been benefited by marriage. But he
found, in reply to this question, that Wickham still cher-
ished the hope of more effectually making his fortune by
marriage in some other country. Under such circumstances,
however, he was not likely to be proof against the tempta-
tion of immediate relief.
‘They met several times, for there was much to be dis-
cussed. Wickham of course wanted more than he could get;
but at length was reduced to be reasonable.
‘Every thing being settled between THEM, Mr. Darcy’s
next step was to make your uncle acquainted with it, and he
first called in Gracechurch street the evening before I came
home. But Mr. Gardiner could not be seen, and Mr. Darcy
found, on further inquiry, that your father was still with
him, but would quit town the next morning. He did not
judge your father to be a person whom he could so prop-
erly consult as your uncle, and therefore readily postponed
seeing him till after the departure of the former. He did not
leave his name, and till the next day it was only known that
a gentleman had called on business.
‘On Saturday he came again. Your father was gone, your
uncle at home, and, as I said before, they had a great deal of
talk together.
‘They met again on Sunday, and then I saw him too. It
was not all settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the
express was sent off to Longbourn. But our visitor was very

obstinate. I fancy, Lizzy, that obstinacy is the real defect of
his character, after all. He has been accused of many faults
at different times, but THIS is the true one. Nothing was to
be done that he did not do himself; though I am sure (and
I do not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about
it), your uncle would most readily have settled the whole.
‘They battled it together for a long time, which was more
than either the gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved.
But at last your uncle was forced to yield, and instead of
being allowed to be of use to his niece, was forced to put
up with only having the probable credit of it, which went
sorely against the grain; and I really believe your letter this
morning gave him great pleasure, because it required an ex-
planation that would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and
give the praise where it was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no
farther than yourself, or Jane at most.
‘You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done for
the young people. His debts are to be paid, amounting, I be-
lieve, to considerably more than a thousand pounds, another
thousand in addition to her own settled upon HER, and his
commission purchased. The reason why all this was to be
done by him alone, was such as I have given above. It was
owing to him, to his reserve and want of proper consider-
ation, that Wickham’s character had been so misunderstood,
and consequently that he had been received and noticed as
he was. Perhaps there was some truth in THIS; though I
doubt whether HIS reserve, or ANYBODY’S reserve, can be
answerable for the event. But in spite of all this fine talking,
my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured that your un-

cle would never have yielded, if we had not given him credit
for ANOTHER INTEREST in the affair.
‘When all this was resolved on, he returned again to
his friends, who were still staying at Pemberley; but it was
agreed that he should be in London once more when the
wedding took place, and all money matters were then to re-
ceive the last finish.
‘I believe I have now told you every thing. It is a relation
which you tell me is to give you great surprise; I hope at
least it will not afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to
us; and Wickham had constant admission to the house. HE
was exactly what he had been, when I knew him in Hert-
fordshire; but I would not tell you how little I was satisfied
with her behaviour while she staid with us, if I had not per-
ceived, by Jane’s letter last Wednesday, that her conduct on
coming home was exactly of a piece with it, and therefore
what I now tell you can give you no fresh pain. I talked to
her repeatedly in the most serious manner, representing to
her all the wickedness of what she had done, and all the
unhappiness she had brought on her family. If she heard
me, it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not listen. I
was sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my
dear Elizabeth and Jane, and for their sakes had patience
with her.
‘Mr. Darcy was punctual in his return, and as Lydia in-
formed you, attended the wedding. He dined with us the
next day, and was to leave town again on Wednesday or
Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my dear Lizzy,
if I take this opportunity of saying (what I was never bold

enough to say before) how much I like him. His behaviour
to us has, in every respect, been as pleasing as when we were
in Derbyshire. His understanding and opinions all please
me; he wants nothing but a little more liveliness, and THAT,
if he marry PRUDENTLY, his wife may teach him. I thought
him very sly;—he hardly ever mentioned your name. But
slyness seems the fashion.
‘Pray forgive me if I have been very presuming, or at least
do not punish me so far as to exclude me from P. I shall
never be quite happy till I have been all round the park. A
low phaeton, with a nice little pair of ponies, would be the
very thing.
‘But I must write no more. The children have been want-
ing me this half hour.
‘Yours, very sincerely,
‘M. GARDINER.’
The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flut-
ter of spirits, in which it was difficult to determine whether
pleasure or pain bore the greatest share. The vague and un-
settled suspicions which uncertainty had produced of what
Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister’s
match, which she had feared to encourage as an exertion
of goodness too great to be probable, and at the same time
dreaded to be just, from the pain of obligation, were proved
beyond their greatest extent to be true! He had followed
them purposely to town, he had taken on himself all the
trouble and mortification attendant on such a research; in
which supplication had been necessary to a woman whom
he must abominate and despise, and where he was reduced

to meet, frequently meet, reason with, persuade, and finally
bribe, the man whom he always most wished to avoid, and
whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce.
He had done all this for a girl whom he could neither re-
gard nor esteem. Her heart did whisper that he had done
it for her. But it was a hope shortly checked by other con-
siderations, and she soon felt that even her vanity was
insufficient, when required to depend on his affection for
her —for a woman who had already refused him—as able
to overcome a sentiment so natural as abhorrence against
relationship with Wickham. Brother-in-law of Wickham!
Every kind of pride must revolt from the connection. He
had, to be sure, done much. She was ashamed to think how
much. But he had given a reason for his interference, which
asked no extraordinary stretch of belief. It was reasonable
that he should feel he had been wrong; he had liberality, and
he had the means of exercising it; and though she would not
place herself as his principal inducement, she could, per-
haps, believe that remaining partiality for her might assist
his endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be
materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful,
to know that they were under obligations to a person who
could never receive a return. They owed the restoration of
Lydia, her character, every thing, to him. Oh! how heartily
did she grieve over every ungracious sensation she had ever
encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed to-
wards him. For herself she was humbled; but she was proud
of him. Proud that in a cause of compassion and honour,
he had been able to get the better of himself. She read over

her aunt’s commendation of him again and again. It was
hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even sensible of
some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how
steadfastly both she and her uncle had been persuaded that
affection and confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and
herself.
She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by
some one’s approach; and before she could strike into an-
other path, she was overtaken by Wickham.
‘I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sis-
ter?’ said he, as he joined her.
‘You certainly do,’ she replied with a smile; ‘but it does
not follow that the interruption must be unwelcome.’
‘I should be sorry indeed, if it were. We were always good
friends; and now we are better.’
‘True. Are the others coming out?’
‘I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the
carriage to Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our
uncle and aunt, that you have actually seen Pemberley.’
She replied in the affirmative.
‘I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would
be too much for me, or else I could take it in my way to New-
castle. And you saw the old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor
Reynolds, she was always very fond of me. But of course she
did not mention my name to you.’
‘Yes, she did.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid
had —not turned out well. At such a distance as THAT, you

know, things are strangely misrepresented.’
‘Certainly,’ he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped
she had silenced him; but he soon afterwards said:
‘I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We
passed each other several times. I wonder what he can be
doing there.’
‘Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh,’
said Elizabeth. ‘It must be something particular, to take
him there at this time of year.’
‘Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lamb-
ton? 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 circum-
stance, 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 en-
tered the house.

Chapter 53
M r. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this con-

versation 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 twelve-
month.
‘Oh! my dear Lydia,’ she cried, ‘when shall we meet
again?’
‘Oh, lord! I don’t know. Not these two or three years, per-
haps.’
‘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 hap-
pens 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 re-
ceived orders to prepare for the arrival of her master, who
was coming down in a day or two, to shoot there for several
weeks. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She looked at
Jane, and smiled and shook her head by turns.
‘Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister,’
(for Mrs. Phillips first brought her the news). ‘Well, so much
the better. Not that I care about it, though. He is nothing to
us, you know, and I am sure I never want to see him again.
But, however, he is very welcome to come to Netherfield, if
he likes it. And who knows what MAY happen? But that is
nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago never

to mention a word about it. And so, is it quite certain he is
coming?’
‘You may depend on it,’ replied the other, ‘for Mrs. Nich-
olls 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 Thurs-
day 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 ca-
pable 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, Eliza-
beth 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 be-
tween 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 gen-
tlemen, on his returning to Netherfield.
‘Tis an etiquette I despise,’ said he. ‘If he wants our soci-
ety, 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 mortify-
ing to know that her neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley,
in consequence of it, before THEY did. As the day of his ar-
rival 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 in-
difference, 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. Hap-
py shall I be, when his stay at Netherfield is over!’
‘I wish I could say anything to comfort you,’ replied Eliz-
abeth; ‘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 Hert-
fordshire, 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 there-
fore 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 propos-
als she had refused, and whose merit she had undervalued;
but to her own more extensive information, he was the per-
son 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, re-
turned 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 ap-
proaching the door. Jane looked a little paler than usual,
but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the gen-
tlemen’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 un-
necessary 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 embar-

rassed. He was received by Mrs. Bennet with a degree of
civility which made her two daughters ashamed, especially
when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness
of her curtsey and address to his friend.
Elizabeth, particularly, who knew that her mother owed
to the latter the preservation of her favourite daughter from
irremediable infamy, was hurt and distressed to a most
painful degree by a distinction so ill applied.
Darcy, after inquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner
did, a question which she could not answer without con-
fusion, said scarcely anything. He was not seated by her;
perhaps that was the reason of his silence; but it had not
been so in Derbyshire. There he had talked to her friends,
when he could not to herself. But now several minutes
elapsed without bringing the sound of his voice; and when
occasionally, unable to resist the impulse of curiosity, she
raised he eyes to his face, she as often found him looking
at Jane as at herself, and frequently on no object but the
ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please,
than when they last met, were plainly expressed. She was
disappointed, and angry with herself for being so.
‘Could I expect it to be otherwise!’ said she. ‘Yet why did
he come?’
She was in no humour for conversation with anyone but
himself; and to him she had hardly courage to speak.
She inquired after his sister, but could do no more.
‘It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away,’ said
Mrs. Bennet.
He readily agreed to it.

‘I began to be afraid you would never come back again.
People DID say you meant to quit the place entirely at Mich-
aelmas; but, however, I hope it is not true. A great many
changes have happened in the neighbourhood, since you
went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled. And one of
my own daughters. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed,
you must have seen it in the papers. It was in The Times and
The Courier, I know; though it was not put in as it ought
to be. It was only said, ‘Lately, George Wickham, Esq. to
Miss Lydia Bennet,’ without there being a syllable said of
her father, or the place where she lived, or anything. It was
my brother Gardiner’s drawing up too, and I wonder how
he came to make such an awkward business of it. Did you
see it?’
Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratula-
tions. 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 north-
ward, 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 per-
haps 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-kin-
dled 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 add-
ed, ‘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 en-
gagement.’
Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said
something of his concern at having been prevented by busi-
ness. They then went away.
Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to
stay and dine there that day; but, though she always kept a
very good table, she did not think anything less than two
courses could be good enough for a man on whom she had
such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride of
one who had ten thousand a year.

Chapter 54
A s soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to re-

cover her spirits; or in other words, to dwell without
interruption on those subjects that must deaden them more.
Mr. Darcy’s behaviour astonished and vexed her.
‘Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,’
said she, ‘did he come at all?’
She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.
‘He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and
aunt, when he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears
me, why come hither? If he no longer cares for me, why
silent? Teasing, teasing, man! I will think no more about
him.’
Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by
the approach of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful
look, which showed her better satisfied with their visitors,
than Elizabeth.
‘Now,’ said she, ‘that this first meeting is over, I feel per-
fectly 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 po-
liteness of Bingley, in half an hour’s visit, had revived.
On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Long-
bourn; 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, Eliz-
abeth 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 en-
tering the room, he seemed to hesitate; but Jane happened
to look round, and happened to smile: it was decided. He
placed himself by her.
Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards
his friend. He bore it with noble indifference, and she would
have imagined that Bingley had received his sanction to be
happy, had she not seen his eyes likewise turned towards
Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing alarm.
His behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time,
as showed an admiration of her, which, though more guard-
ed than formerly, persuaded Elizabeth, that if left wholly to
himself, Jane’s happiness, and his own, would be speedily se-
cured. Though she dared not depend upon the consequence,

she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It
gave her all the animation that her spirits could boast; for
she was in no cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far
from her as the table could divide them. He was on one side
of her mother. She knew how little such a situation would
give pleasure to either, or make either appear to advantage.
She was not near enough to hear any of their discourse, but
she could see how seldom they spoke to each other, and how
formal and cold was their manner whenever they did. Her
mother’s ungraciousness, made the sense of what they owed
him more painful to Elizabeth’s mind; and she would, at
times, have given anything to be privileged to tell him that
his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole
of the family.
She was in hopes that the evening would afford some
opportunity of bringing them together; that the whole of
the visit would not pass away without enabling them to
enter into something more of conversation than the mere
ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious
and uneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room,
before the gentlemen came, was wearisome and dull to a
degree that almost made her uncivil. She looked forward to
their entrance as the point on which all her chance of plea-
sure 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 con-
federacy that there was not a single vacancy near her which
would admit of a chair. And on the gentlemen’s approach-
ing, one of the girls moved closer to her than ever, and said,
in a whisper:
‘The men shan’t come and part us, I am determined. We
want none of them; do we?’
Darcy had walked away to another part of the room. She
followed him with her eyes, envied everyone to whom he
spoke, had scarcely patience enough to help anybody to cof-
fee; 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 weak-
ness 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 over-
thrown 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 plea-
sure. 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 or-
dered before any of the others, and she had no opportunity
of detaining them.
‘Well girls,’ said she, as soon as they were left to them-
selves, ‘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 Lu-
cases’ 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 ad-
vantage to her family, when in a happy humour, were so far
beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at not see-
ing 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, with-
out 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 gener-
ally 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 indiffer-
ence, do not make me your confidante.’

Chapter 55
A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and
alone. His friend had left him that morning for Lon-
don, 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 else-
where.
‘Next time you call,’ said she, ‘I hope we shall be more
lucky.’
He should be particularly happy at any time, etc. etc.;
and if she would give him leave, would take an early oppor-
tunity 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 pre-
vailed on to go down without one of her sisters.
The same anxiety to get them by themselves was vis-
ible 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 re-
moved, 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 pre-
cious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty,
‘Come here, my love, I want to speak to you,’ took her out
of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth which
spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her entreaty
that SHE would not give in to it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Ben-
net 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. Bing-
ley 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 com-
mand 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 Bing-
ley; 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 gen-
tleman’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 compan-
ion 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 inven-

tion 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 rea-
son 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 awk-
ward 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 con-
fidence 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 de-
serve it. Oh! why is not everybody as happy?’
Elizabeth’s congratulations were given with a sincerity,
a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express.
Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness
to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sis-
ter, 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 al-
low her to hear it from anyone but myself. He is gone to my
father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate
will give such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I
bear so much happiness!’
She then hastened away to her mother, who had pur-
posely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs
with Kitty.
Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the ra-
pidity 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 contriv-
ance! the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!’
In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose con-
ference 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 mo-
ment, 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, be-
cause 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 sup-
per, his voice and manner plainly showed how really happy
he was.
Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till
their visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he
was gone, he turned to his daughter, and said:
‘Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy wom-
an.’
Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him
for his goodness.
‘You are a good girl;’ he replied, ‘and I have great plea-
sure in thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not
a doubt of your doing very well together. Your tempers are
by no means unlike. You are each of you so complying, that
nothing will ever be resolved on; so easy, that every servant
will cheat you; and so generous, that you will always exceed
your income.’
‘I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money

matters would be unpardonable in me.’
‘Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet,’ cried his wife,
‘what are you talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand
a year, and very likely more.’ Then addressing her daughter,
‘Oh! my dear, dear Jane, I am so happy! I am sure I shan’t
get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it would be. I al-
ways 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 in-
terest 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 win-
ter.
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 bar-
barous neighbour, who could not be enough detested, had
given him an invitation to dinner which he thought himself
obliged to accept.
Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with
her sister; for while he was present, Jane had no attention
to bestow on anyone else; but she found herself consider-
ably useful to both of them in those hours of separation that

must sometimes occur. In the absence of Jane, he always at-
tached 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 certain-
ly no friends to his acquaintance with me, which I cannot
wonder at, since he might have chosen so much more ad-
vantageously 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, in-
deed, 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 per-
suasion 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 quali-
ties. 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 ex-
isted!’ 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 my-
self; and, perhaps, if I have very good luck, I may meet with
another Mr. Collins in time.’
The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could
not be long a secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper
it to Mrs. Phillips, and she ventured, without any permis-
sion, 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 56
O ne 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 famil-
iar 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 conjec-
tures 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 un-
gracious, 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 introduc-
tion had been made.
Mrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having
a guest of such high importance, received her with the ut-
most 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 young-
est 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 Cath-
erine 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 Lu-
cas’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 let-
ter for her from Charlotte, as it seemed the only probable

motive for her calling. But no letter appeared, and she was
completely puzzled.
Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to
take some refreshment; but Lady Catherine very resolutely,
and not very politely, declined eating anything; and then,
rising up, said to Elizabeth,
‘Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a lit-
tle wilderness on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to
take a turn in it, if you will favour me with your company.’
‘Go, my dear,’ cried her mother, ‘and show her ladyship
about the different walks. I think she will be pleased with
the hermitage.’
Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for
her parasol, attended her noble guest downstairs. As they
passed through the hall, Lady Catherine opened the doors
into the dining-parlour and drawing-room, and pronounc-
ing 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 si-
lence 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 dis-
agreeable.
‘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 re-
solved 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 lady-
ship 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 founda-
tion 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 mar-
riage?’
‘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 him-
self 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 ac-
customed 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 be-
haviour 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 sup-

pose he will make an offer to me.’
Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then re-
plied:
‘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 ac-
complished 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, for-
bid it. Yes, Miss Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be
noticed by his family or friends, if you wilfully act against
the inclinations of all. You will be censured, slighted, and
despised, by everyone connected with him. Your alliance

will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned
by any of us.’
‘These are heavy misfortunes,’ replied Elizabeth. ‘But the
wife of Mr. Darcy must have such extraordinary sources
of happiness necessarily attached to her situation, that she
could, upon the whole, have no cause to repine.’
‘Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is
this your gratitude for my attentions to you last spring? Is
nothing due to me on that score? Let us sit down. You are
to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came here with the de-
termined 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 daugh-
ter 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 an-
cient—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 wom-
an 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 gentle-
man’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 imag-
ine 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 la-
dyship 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 be-
stow it on his cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that
the arguments with which you have supported this extraor-

dinary 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 im-
portuned 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 young-
est sister’s infamous elopement. I know it all; that the young
man’s marrying her was a patched-up business, at the ex-
pence 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 pol-
luted?’
‘You can now have nothing further to say,’ she resentfully
answered. ‘You have insulted me in every possible method.
I must beg to return to the house.’
And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and
they turned back. Her ladyship was highly incensed.
‘You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of
my nephew! Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider
that a connection with you must disgrace him in the eyes
of everybody?’
‘Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know
my sentiments.’
‘You are then resolved to have him?’

‘I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in
that manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my
happiness, without reference to YOU, or to any person so
wholly unconnected with me.’
‘It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to
obey the claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are de-
termined 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 Eliza-
beth, ‘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 mo-
ment’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, de-
pend 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 com-
pliments 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 qui-
etly 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 par-
ticular 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 57
T he discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary vis-

it 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 pur-
pose of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr.
Darcy. It was a rational scheme, to be sure! but from what
the report of their engagement could originate, Elizabeth
was at a loss to imagine; till she recollected that HIS being
the intimate friend of Bingley, and HER being the sister of
Jane, was enough, at a time when the expectation of one
wedding made everybody eager for another, to supply the
idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the marriage
of her sister must bring them more frequently together. And
her neighbours at Lucas Lodge, therefore (for through their
communication with the Collinses, the report, she conclud-
ed, had reached lady Catherine), had only set that down as
almost certain and immediate, which she had looked for-
ward 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 mar-
riage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she must meditate an

application to her nephew; and how HE might take a simi-
lar representation of the evils attached to a connection with
her, she dared not pronounce. She knew not the exact de-
gree 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 ri-
diculous, contained much good sense and solid reasoning.
If he had been wavering before as to what he should do,
which had often seemed likely, the advice and entreaty of so
near a relation might settle every doubt, and determine him
at once to be as happy as dignity unblemished could make
him. In that case he would return no more. Lady Catherine
might see him in her way through town; and his engage-
ment to Bingley of coming again to Netherfield must give
way.
‘If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise
should come to his friend within a few days,’ she added, ‘I
shall know how to understand it. I shall then give over every
expectation, every wish of his constancy. If he is satisfied
with only regretting me, when he might have obtained my
affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him at all.’
*****
The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who
their visitor had been, was very great; but they obligingly

satisfied it, with the same kind of supposition which had
appeased Mrs. Bennet’s curiosity; and Elizabeth was spared
from much teasing on the subject.
The next morning, as she was going downstairs, she was
met by her father, who came out of his library with a letter
in his hand.
‘Lizzy,’ said he, ‘I was going to look for you; come into
my room.’
She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know
what he had to tell her was heightened by the supposition of
its being in some manner connected with the letter he held.
It suddenly struck her that it might be from Lady Catherine;
and she anticipated with dismay all the consequent expla-
nations.
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 con-
gratulate you on a very important conquest.’
The colour now rushed into Elizabeth’s cheeks in the in-
stantaneous 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 of-
fended 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 be-
gins 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 per-
sonages 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,—splen-
did 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 advan-
tage 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 rea-

son 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 conde-
scension, expressed what she felt on the occasion; when it
become 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 expecta-
tion 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 delight-
fully 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 pref-
erence 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 per-
haps, instead of his seeing too little, she might have fancied
too much.

Chapter 58
I nstead 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 gen-
tlemen 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 out-
strip 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 res-
olution 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 par-
ticulars. 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 mortifica-
tions, 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 awkward-

ness 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 ma-
terial a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to
make her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present
assurances. The happiness which this reply produced, was
such as he had probably never felt before; and he expressed
himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man
violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth been
able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the
expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, be-
came him; but, though she could not look, she could listen,
and he told her of feelings, which, in proving of what im-
portance 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 at-
tention 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 Lon-
don, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive,
and the substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwell-
ing emphatically on every expression of the latter which, in
her ladyship’s apprehension, peculiarly denoted her per-
verseness 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, irre-
vocably 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 an-
nexed 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 recollec-
tion of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my
expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been
many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof,
so well applied, I shall never forget: ‘had you behaved in a
more gentlemanlike manner.’ Those were your words. You
know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tor-
tured 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 be-
ing 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 es-
sential to the preservation of my regard; but, though we
have both reason to think my opinions not entirely unal-
terable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that
implies.’
‘When I wrote that letter,’ replied Darcy, ‘I believed my-
self 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 philoso-
phy. 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 philoso-
phy, but, what is much better, of innocence. But with me,
it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude which can-
not, 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 par-
ents, who, though good themselves (my father, particularly,
all that was benevolent and amiable), allowed, encouraged,
almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing; to care for
none beyond my own family circle; to think meanly of all
the rest of the world; to wish at least to think meanly of their
sense and worth compared with my own. Such I was, from
eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have been
but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe
you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most
advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to
you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how
insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman wor-

thy of being pleased.’
‘Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?’
‘Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I be-
lieved you to be wishing, expecting my addresses.’
‘My manners must have been in fault, but not inten-
tionally, I assure you. I never meant to deceive you, but my
spirits might often lead me wrong. How you must have hat-
ed me after THAT evening?’
‘Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon
began to take a proper direction.’
‘I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me,
when we met at Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?’
‘No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise.’
‘Your surprise could not be greater than MINE in being
noticed by you. My conscience told me that I deserved no
extraordinary politeness, and I confess that I did not expect
to receive MORE than my due.’
‘My object then,’ replied Darcy, ‘was to show you, by ev-
ery 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 acquain-
tance, and of her disappointment at its sudden interruption;
which naturally leading to the cause of that interruption,
she soon learnt that his resolution of following her from
Derbyshire in quest of her sister had been formed before

he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness
there had arisen from no other struggles than what such a
purpose must comprehend.
She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful
a subject to each, to be dwelt on farther.
After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and
too busy to know anything about it, they found at last, on
examining their watches, that it was time to be at home.
‘What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!’ was a won-
der 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 imperti-
nent. His surprise was great. He had never had the slightest
suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself mis-
taken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was
indifferent to him; and as I could easily perceive that his
attachment to her was unabated, I felt no doubt of their
happiness together.’
Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of

directing his friend.
‘Did you speak from your own observation,’ said she,
‘when you told him that my sister loved him, or merely from
my information last spring?’
‘From the former. I had narrowly observed her during
the two visits which I had lately made here; and I was con-
vinced of her affection.’
‘And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate
conviction to him.’
‘It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffi-
dence 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 sis-
ter’s sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me now.’
Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been
a most delightful friend; so easily guided that his worth
was invaluable; but she checked herself. She remembered
that he had yet to learn to be laughed at, and it was rather
too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley,
which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he con-
tinued the conversation till they reached the house. In the
hall they parted.

Chapter 59
‘M y dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?’

was a question which Elizabeth received from Jane
as soon as she entered their room, and from all the others
when they sat down to table. She had only to say in reply,
that they had wandered about, till she was beyond her own
knowledge. She coloured as she spoke; but neither that, nor
anything else, awakened a suspicion of the truth.
The evening passed quietly, unmarked by anything ex-
traordinary. The acknowledged lovers talked and laughed,
the unacknowledged were silent. Darcy was not of a dispo-
sition in which happiness overflows in mirth; and Elizabeth,
agitated and confused, rather KNEW that she was hap-
py than FELT herself to be so; for, besides the immediate
embarrassment, there were other evils before her. She an-
ticipated 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 ab-
solutely 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 im-
possible.’

‘This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole depen-
dence was on you; and I am sure nobody else will believe
me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I am in earnest. I speak noth-
ing 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 for-
got. 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 be-
lieve 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 al-
ready, that we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But
are you pleased, Jane? Shall you like to have such a broth-
er?’
‘Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or
myself more delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as
impossible. And do you really love him quite well enough?
Oh, Lizzy! do anything rather than marry without affection.
Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought to do?’
‘Oh, yes! You will only think I feel MORE than I ought to
do, when I tell you all.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do

Bingley. I am afraid you will be angry.’
‘My dearest sister, now BE serious. I want to talk very se-
riously. 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 see-
ing his beautiful grounds at Pemberley.’
Another entreaty that she would be serious, however,
produced the desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by
her solemn assurances of attachment. When convinced on
that article, Miss Bennet had nothing further to wish.
‘Now I am quite happy,’ said she, ‘for you will be as happy
as myself. I always had a value for him. Were it for noth-
ing 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 win-
dow 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 al-
ways giving him such an epithet.
As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expres-
sively, and shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt
of his good information; and he soon afterwards said aloud,
‘Mrs. Bennet, have you no more lanes hereabouts in which
Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?’
‘I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty,’ said Mrs. Ben-
net, ‘to walk to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice
long walk, and Mr. Darcy has never seen the view.’
‘It may do very well for the others,’ replied Mr. Bingley;
‘but I am sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won’t it, Kitty?’
Kitty owned that she had rather stay at home. Darcy pro-
fessed 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 con-
sent 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; some-
times 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 violent-
ly 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 pre-
tending 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 opin-
ions had been more reasonable, her expressions more

moderate! It would have spared her from explanations and
professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give; but
they were now necessary, and she assured him, with some
confusion, of her attachment to Mr. Darcy.
‘Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He
is rich, to be sure, and you may have more fine clothes and
fine carriages than Jane. But will they make you happy?’
‘Have you any other objection,’ said Elizabeth, ‘than your
belief of my indifference?’
‘None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant
sort of man; but this would be nothing if you really liked
him.’
‘I do, I do like him,’ she replied, with tears in her eyes, ‘I
love him. Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly
amiable. You do not know what he really is; then pray do
not pain me by speaking of him in such terms.’
‘Lizzy,’ said her father, ‘I have given him my consent. He
is the kind of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare
refuse anything, which he condescended to ask. I now give
it to YOU, if you are resolved on having him. But let me ad-
vise you to think better of it. I know your disposition, Lizzy.
I know that you could be neither happy nor respectable, un-
less 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 sus-
pense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities,
she did conquer her father’s incredulity, and reconcile him
to the match.
‘Well, my dear,’ said he, when she ceased speaking, ‘I have
no more to say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could
not have parted with you, my Lizzy, to anyone less worthy.’
To complete the favourable impression, she then told
him what Mr. Darcy had voluntarily done for Lydia. He
heard her with astonishment.
‘This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy
did every thing; made up the match, gave the money, paid
the fellow’s debts, and got him his commission! So much
the better. It will save me a world of trouble and economy.
Had it been your uncle’s doing, I must and WOULD have
paid him; but these violent young lovers carry every thing
their own way. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow; he will
rant and storm about his love for you, and there will be an
end of the matter.’
He then recollected her embarrassment a few days be-
fore, 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 compo-
sure. Every thing was too recent for gaiety, but the evening
passed tranquilly away; there was no longer anything mate-
rial 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 fol-
lowed 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 mar-
ried 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 some-
thing 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 as-
sured her that he was rising every hour in his esteem.
‘I admire all my three sons-in-law highly,’ said he. ‘Wick-
ham, perhaps, is my favourite; but I think I shall like YOUR
husband quite as well as Jane’s.’

Chapter 60
E lizabeth’s spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she

wanted Mr. Darcy to account for his having ever fall-
en 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 man-
ners—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 def-
erence, of officious attention. You were disgusted with the
women who were always speaking, and looking, and think-
ing for YOUR approbation alone. I roused, and interested
you, because I was so unlike THEM. Had you not been re-
ally 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 thorough-

ly 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 pos-
sible; and, in return, it belongs to me to find occasions for
teasing and quarrelling with you as often as may be; and I
shall begin directly by asking you what made you so unwill-
ing 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 en-
couragement.’
‘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 spo-
ken, 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 per-
fectly 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 de-
sire 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 ev-
ery 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 Cath-
erine what is to befall her?’
‘I am more likely to want more time than courage, Eliza-
beth. But it ought to 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 lon-
ger neglected.’
From an unwillingness to confess how much her intima-
cy 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 wel-
come, she was almost ashamed to find that her uncle and
aunt had already lost three days of happiness, and immedi-
ately wrote as follows:
‘I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought

to have done, for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of
particulars; but to say the truth, I was too cross to write. You
supposed more than really existed. But NOW suppose as
much as you choose; give a loose rein to your fancy, indulge
your imagination in every possible flight which the subject
will afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you
cannot greatly err. You must write again very soon, and
praise him a great deal more than you did in your last. I
thank you, again and again, for not going to the Lakes. How
could I be so silly as to wish it! Your idea of the ponies is
delightful. We will go round the Park every day. I am the
happiest creature in the world. Perhaps other people have said
so before, but not one with such justice. I am happier even
than Jane; she only smiles, I laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all
the love in the world that he can spare from me. You are all to
come to Pemberley at Christmas. Yours, etc.’
Mr. Darcy’s letter to Lady Catherine was in a different

style; and still different from either was what Mr. Bennet
sent to Mr. Collins, in reply to his last.
‘DEAR SIR,
‘I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth

will soon be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine
as well as you can. But, if I were you, I would stand by the
nephew. He has more to give.
‘Yours sincerely, etc.’
Miss Bingley’s congratulations to her brother, on his

approaching marriage, were all that was affectionate and
insincere. She wrote even to Jane on the occasion, to ex-
press 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 simi-
lar information, was as sincere as her brother’s in sending it.
Four sides of paper were insufficient to contain all her de-
light, and all her earnest desire of being loved by her sister.
Before any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any
congratulations to Elizabeth from his wife, the Longbourn
family heard that the Collinses were come themselves to
Lucas Lodge. The reason of this sudden removal was soon
evident. Lady Catherine had been rendered so exceedingly
angry by the contents of her nephew’s letter, that Charlotte,

really rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get away till
the storm was blown over. At such a moment, the arrival
of her friend was a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth, though in
the course of their meetings she must sometimes think the
pleasure dearly bought, when she saw Mr. Darcy exposed
to all the parading and obsequious civility of her husband.
He bore it, however, with admirable calmness. He could
even listen to Sir William Lucas, when he complimented
him on carrying away the brightest jewel of the country,
and expressed his hopes of their all meeting frequently at
St. James’s, with very decent composure. If he did shrug his
shoulders, it was not till Sir William was out of sight.
Mrs. Phillips’s vulgarity was another, and perhaps a
greater, tax on his forbearance; and though Mrs. Phillips,
as well as her sister, stood in too much awe of him to speak
with the familiarity which Bingley’s good humour encour-
aged, 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 el-
egance of their family party at Pemberley.

Chapter 61
H appy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which
Mrs. Bennet got rid of her two most deserving daugh-
ters. 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 accomplish-
ment 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, re-
moved from the influence of Lydia’s example, she became,
by proper attention and management, less irritable, less ig-
norant, and less insipid. From the further disadvantage of
Lydia’s society she was of course carefully kept, and though
Mrs. Wickham frequently invited her to come and stay with
her, with the promise of balls and young men, her father
would never consent to her going.
Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; and
she was necessarily drawn from the pursuit of accomplish-
ments 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 pre-
vailed on to make his fortune. The congratulatory letter
which Elizabeth received from Lydia on her marriage, ex-
plained 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 howev-
er, do not speak to Mr. Darcy about it, if you had rather not.
‘Yours, etc.’
As it happened that Elizabeth had MUCH rather not, she
endeavoured in her answer to put an end to every entreaty
and expectation of the kind. Such relief, however, as it was in
her power to afford, by the practice of what might be called
economy in her own private expences, she frequently sent
them. It had always been evident to her that such an income
as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant
in their wants, and heedless of the future, must be very in-
sufficient 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 last-
ed a little longer; and in spite of her youth and her manners,

she retained all the claims to reputation which her marriage
had given her.
Though Darcy could never receive HIM at Pemberley,
yet, for Elizabeth’s sake, he assisted him further in his pro-
fession. 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 pro-
ceeded so far as to talk of giving them a hint to be gone.
Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy’s mar-
riage; 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 Eliza-
beth.
Pemberley was now Georgiana’s home; and the attach-
ment of the sisters was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see.
They were able to love each other even as well as they in-
tended. Georgiana had the highest opinion in the world of
Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with an aston-
ishment 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 mar-
riage 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 per-
suasion, he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and
seek a reconciliation; and, after a little further resistance
on the part of his aunt, her resentment gave way, either to
her affection for him, or her curiosity to see how his wife
conducted herself; and she condescended to wait on them
at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had
received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress,
but the visits of her uncle and aunt from the city.
With the Gardiners, they were always on the most inti-
mate 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.


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