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January 21, 2022/in Uncategorized /by Sharonposts

Pride and Prejudice�0

Chapter 9

Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister’s room, and in the morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the inquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid, and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she 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

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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.

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‘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.

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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

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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

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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

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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.

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Chapter 10

The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing-room. The loo-table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter and repeatedly 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

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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-

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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

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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

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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

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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,

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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

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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.

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‘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.

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Chapter 11

When the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her sister, and seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the drawing-room, where she was welcomed by her two friends with many professions of 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

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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

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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

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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

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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?’

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‘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.

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Chapter 12

In 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

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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

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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.

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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

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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

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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,

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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.—

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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.

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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

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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.

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Chapter 14

During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to shine, by 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

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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

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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-

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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

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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.

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Chapter 15

Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and miserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he had merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it any useful 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

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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.

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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

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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.

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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-

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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

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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.

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Chapter 16

As 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-

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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

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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.’

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‘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

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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

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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

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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.

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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

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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

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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

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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-

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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,

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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.

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Chapter 17

Elizabeth related to Jane the next day what had passed between Mr. Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern; she knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr. Bingley’s regard; and yet, it was not in her nature to question the veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham. The possibility of his having endured such unkindness, was enough to interest all her tender feelings; and nothing 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

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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

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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

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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

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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.

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Chapter 18

Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a doubt of his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty of meeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that might not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than usual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all that remained unsubdued of his heart, 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,

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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

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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

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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

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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-

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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

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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

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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

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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?’

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‘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

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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

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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

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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-

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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

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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.

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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

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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

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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-

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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.

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Chapter 19

The 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

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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

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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-

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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.’

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‘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

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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

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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.

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Chapter 20

Mr. 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-

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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.’

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‘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.’

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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

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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.’

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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

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

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Chapter 21

The 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-

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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:

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‘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

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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,

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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

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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

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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-

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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.

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Chapter 22

The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases and again during the chief of the day was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins. Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. ‘It keeps him in good humour,’ said she, ‘and I am more obliged to you than I can express.’ Charlotte 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

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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

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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

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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

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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!’

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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

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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.

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Chapter 23

Elizabeth 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-

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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!

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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

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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

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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

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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

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

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Chapter 24

Miss Bingley’s letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for the winter, and 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

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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,

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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.

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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.

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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

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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

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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-

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cy was condemned as the worst of men.

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Chapter 25

After 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

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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

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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

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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-

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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

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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.

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Chapter 26

Mrs. Gardiner’s caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given on the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone; after honestly telling her what she thought, she thus went on:

‘You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because you are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve yourself or endeavour to involve him in an affection which the want of fortune would make so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against HIM; he is a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune he ought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is, you must not let your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all expect you to use it. Your father would depend on YOUR resolution and good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father.’

‘My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.’ ‘Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.’ ‘Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take

care of myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I can prevent it.’

‘Elizabeth, you are not serious now.’ ‘I beg your pardon, I will try again. At present I am not

in love with Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he

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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-

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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

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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-

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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

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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

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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

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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

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

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Chapter 27

With no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and sometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very 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.

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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

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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

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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-

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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.’

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Chapter 28

Every 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

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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

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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,

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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

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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

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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.

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https://paper-writers.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/Hnet.com-image-300x134.png 0 0 Sharonposts https://paper-writers.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/Hnet.com-image-300x134.png Sharonposts2022-01-21 11:59:062022-01-21 11:59:06Home>English homework help english Proposal/ Script (2-3 pages) : Prior to writing your Final Life Review Paper, you will need to complete and submit (via Dropbox) the “Proposal / Script”. This submission will be graded, and feedback will be provided shortly after submission. Only after this submission is graded and you receive feedback, should you start working on your interview/ paper. Proposal (1 page): First you are required to submit a proposal of how you will complete this assignment. Compose 1 page on what you know about this person and what you hope to know or understand about this person. In addition, the Proposal should answer the following questions: * Who are you interviewing? (relation to you, age, gender and any other demographic information you would like to include). * Where will this interview take place? (Describe the setting, date and time if you have that information) * Why did you choose this person? * What have you always wondered about this person? * What is your comfort level with this assignment? * What are your concerns and what are you looking forward to in completing this assignment? * Which theory of aging do you foresee your interviewee experiencing and why? (acquaint yourself with the theories prior to the actual interview so you are prepared to assimilate the theory with the older adult. The theories are listed below.) The Script: After your proposal, you will need to come up with a series of questions (script) that you will want to ask the older adult you are interviewing. These questions should cover the history of the person’s life and capture the essence of who they are. These questions should also help you assess the older adult using a theory model (possible theories below). While developing the questions, please have in mind the theoretical approach you will use to assess the older adult. There is not a specific number of questions you should come up with, however, a good set of questions for a paper of this caliber will round to an average about 15 questions. The questions should be derived from our course concepts such as chronic disease, biology of aging, love and intimacy, social interactions, living arrangements, economic security, productive aging, retirement, death and dying, etc. Please stay respectful of any topic your interviewee does not want to discuss. In writing this paper, think of yourself as a qualitative researcher. Meaning, in this process you have the chance to design your research study, conduct your own case study, and later discuss its results. Your Proposal / Script is the first step to designing your case research study! \/ this is for the final paper. It consist of two part. for now I need the first part only and then I will have you do the second part after I get the feedback from the professor.please read the guide paper and do only script/proposal. the first part is Proposal / Script

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