PRIDE and PREJUDICE

by Jane Austen

Volume 1

CHAPTER I

It is a truth universally acknowledged,
that a single man
in possession of a good fortune
must be in want of a wife.

However little known
the feelings or views of such a man
may be
on his first entering a neighbourhood,
this truth
is so well fixed in the minds
of the surrounding families,
that he is considered
as the rightful property
of some one or other of their daughters.

“My dear Mr. Bennet,”
said his lady to him one day,
“have you heard
that Netherfield Park
is let at last?”

Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.

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

Mr. Bennet made no answer.

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

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

This was invitation enough.

“Why,
my dear,
you must know,
Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken
by a young man of large fortune
from the north of England;
that he came down on Monday
in a chaise and four to see the place,
and was so much delighted with it
that he agreed with Mr. Morris
immediately;
that he is to take possession
before Michaelmas,
and some of his servants
are to be in the house
by the end of next week.”

“What is his name?”

“Bingley.”

“Is he married or single?”

“Oh,
single,
my dear,
to be sure!
A single man of large fortune;
four or five thousand a year.
What a fine thing for our girls!”

“How so?
how can it affect them?”

“My dear Mr. Bennet,”
replied his wife,
“how can you be so tiresome?
You must know that I am thinking
of his marrying one of them.”

“Is that his design in settling here?”

“Design?
Nonsense,
how can you talk so!
But it is very likely
that he may fall in love
with one of them,
and therefore you must visit him
as soon as he comes.”

“I see no occasion for that.
You and the girls may go —
or you may send them by themselves,
which perhaps will be still better;
for as you are as handsome
as any of them,
Mr. Bingley
might like you the best of the party.”

“My dear,
you flatter me.
I certainly have had my share of beauty,
but I do not pretend
to be anything extraordinary now.
When a woman
has five grown-up daughters,
she ought to give over
thinking of her own beauty.”

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

“But,
my dear,
you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley
when he comes into the neighbourhood.”

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

“But consider your daughters.
Only think what an establishment
it would be for one of them.
Sir William and Lady Lucas
are determined to go,
merely on that account;
for in general,
you know,
they visit no new comers.
Indeed you must go,
for it will be impossible
for us to visit him,
if you do not.”

“You are over scrupulous,
surely.
I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very glad
to see you;
and I will send a few lines by you
to assure him of my hearty consent
to his marrying
whichever he chooses of the girls —
though I must throw in a good word
for my little Lizzy.”

“I desire you will do no such thing.
Lizzy is not a bit better
than the others:
and I am sure
she is not half so handsome as Jane,
nor half so good-humoured as Lydia.
But you are always giving her
the preference.”

“They have none of them
much to recommend them,”
replied he:
“they are all silly and ignorant
like other girls;
but Lizzy has something more
of quickness than her sisters.”

“Mr. Bennet,
how can you abuse your own children
in such a way?
You take delight in vexing me.
You have no compassion
on my poor nerves.”

“You mistake me,
my dear.
I have a high respect for your nerves.
They are my old friends.
I have heard you mention them
with consideration
these twenty years at least.”

“Ah, you do not know what I suffer.”

“But I hope you will get over it,
and live to see many young men
of four thousand a year
come into the neighbourhood.”

“It will be no use to us,
if twenty such should come,
since you will not visit them.”

“Depend upon it,
my dear,
that when there are twenty,
I will visit them all.”

Mr. Bennet was so odd
a mixture of quick parts,
sarcastic humour,
reserve,
and caprice,
that the experience
of three-and-twenty years
had been insufficient
to make his wife understand
his character.
Her mind was less difficult to develope.
She was a woman of mean understanding,
little information,
and uncertain temper.
When she was discontented,
she fancied herself nervous.
The business of her life
was to get her daughters married:
its solace was visiting and news. 

CHAPTER II

Mr. Bennet
was among the earliest of those
who waited on Mr. Bingley.
He had always intended to visit him,
though to the last
always assuring his wife
that he should not go;
and till the evening
after the visit was paid
she had no knowledge of it.
It was then disclosed
in the following manner.
Observing his second daughter
employed in trimming a hat,
he suddenly addressed her with,—

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

“We are not in a way to know
what Mr. Bingley likes,”
said her mother,
resentfully,
“since we are not to visit.”

“But you forget, mamma,”
said Elizabeth,
“that we shall meet him
at the assemblies,
and that Mrs. Long has promised
to introduce him.”

“I do not believe Mrs. Long
will do any such thing.
She has two nieces of her own.
She is a selfish,
hypocritical woman,
and I have no opinion of her.”

“No more have I,”
said Mr. Bennet;
“and I am glad to find
that you do not depend
on her serving you.”

Mrs. Bennet deigned
not to make any reply;
but,
unable to contain herself,
began scolding one of her daughters.

“Don’t keep coughing so,
Kitty,
for heaven’s sake!
Have a little compassion on my nerves.
You tear them to pieces.”

“Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,”
said her father;
“she times them ill.”

“I do not cough for my own amusement,”
replied Kitty,
fretfully.
“When is your next ball to be,
Lizzy?”

“To-morrow fortnight.”

“Ay, so it is,”
cried her mother,
“and Mrs. Long does not come back
till the day before;
so,
it will be impossible for her
to introduce him,
for she will not know him herself.”

“Then,
my dear,
you may have the advantage
of your friend,
and introduce Mr. Bingley to her.”

“Impossible,
Mr. Bennet,
impossible,
when I am not acquainted
with him myself;
how can you be so teasing?”

“I honour your circumspection.
A fortnight’s acquaintance
is certainly very little.
One cannot know what a man really is
by the end of a fortnight.
But if we do not venture,
somebody else will;
and after all,
Mrs. Long and her nieces
must stand their chance;
and,
therefore,
as she will think it an act of kindness,
if you decline the office,
I will take it on myself.”

The girls stared at their father.
Mrs. Bennet said only,
“Nonsense,
nonsense!”

“What can be the meaning
of that emphatic exclamation?”
cried he.
“Do you consider
the forms of introduction,
and the stress that is laid on them,
as nonsense?
I cannot quite agree with you there.
What say you,
Mary?
For you are a young lady
of deep reflection,
I know,
and read great books,
and make extracts.”

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

“While Mary is adjusting her ideas,”
he continued,
“let us return to Mr. Bingley.”

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

“I am sorry to hear that;
but why did you not tell me so before?
If I had known as much this morning,
I certainly would not
have called on him.
It is very unlucky;
but as I have actually paid the visit,
we cannot escape the acquaintance now.”

The astonishment of the ladies
was just what he wished —
that of Mrs. Bennet
perhaps surpassing the rest;
though when the first tumult of joy
was over,
she began to declare
that it was what she had expected
all the while.

“How good it was in you,
my dear Mr. Bennet!
But I knew
I should persuade you at last.
I was sure you loved your girls too well
to neglect such an acquaintance.
Well,
how pleased I am!
And it is such a good joke,
too,
that you should have gone this morning,
and never said a word about it
till now.”

“Now,
Kitty,
you may cough as much as you choose,”
said Mr. Bennet;
and,
as he spoke,
he left the room,
fatigued with the raptures of his wife.

“What an excellent father you have,
girls,”
said she,
when the door was shut.

“I do not know
how you will ever make him amends
for his kindness;
or me either,
for that matter.
At our time of life,
it is not so pleasant,
I can tell you,
to be making new acquaintances
every day;
but for your sakes we would do anything.
Lydia,
my love,
though you are the youngest,
I dare say
Mr. Bingley will dance with you
at the next ball.”

“Oh,”
said Lydia,
stoutly,
“I am not afraid;
for though I am the youngest,
I’m the tallest.”

The rest of the evening
was spent in conjecturing how soon
he would return Mr. Bennet’s visit,
and determining
when they should ask him to dinner.

CHAPTER III

Not all that Mrs. Bennet,
however,
with the assistance
of her five daughters,
could ask on the subject,
was sufficient to draw from her husband
any satisfactory description
of Mr. Bingley.
They attacked him in various ways,
with barefaced questions,
ingenious suppositions,
and distant surmises;
but he eluded the skill of them all;
and they were at last obliged
to accept the second-hand intelligence
of their neighbour,
Lady Lucas.
Her report was highly favourable.
Sir William had been delighted with him.
He was quite young,
wonderfully handsome,
extremely agreeable,
and,
to crown the whole,
he meant to be at the next assembly
with a large party.
Nothing could be more delightful!
To be fond of dancing
was a certain step
towards falling in love;
and very lively hopes
of Mr. Bingley’s heart
were entertained.

“If I can but see one of my daughters
happily settled at Netherfield,”
said Mrs. Bennet to her husband,
“and all the others
equally well married,
I shall have nothing to wish for.”

In a few days
Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet’s visit,
and sat about ten minutes with him
in his library.
He had entertained hopes
of being admitted to a sight
of the young ladies,
of whose beauty he had heard much;
but he saw only the father.
The ladies were somewhat more fortunate,
for they had the advantage
of ascertaining,
from an upper window,
that he wore a blue coat
and rode a black horse.

An invitation to dinner
was soon afterwards despatched;
and already had Mrs. Bennet planned
the courses that were to do credit
to her housekeeping,
when an answer arrived
which deferred it all.
Mr. Bingley was obliged to be in town
the following day,
and consequently unable to accept
the honour of their invitation,
etc.
Mrs. Bennet was quite disconcerted.

She could not imagine what business
he could have in town so soon
after his arrival in Hertfordshire;
and she began to fear
that he might always be flying about
from one place to another,
and never settled at Netherfield
as he ought to be.
Lady Lucas quieted her fears a little
by starting the idea
of his being gone to London
only to get a large party for the ball;
and a report soon followed
that Mr. Bingley was to bring
twelve ladies and seven gentlemen
with him to the assembly.
The girls grieved
over such a number of ladies;
but were comforted
the day before the ball
by hearing that,
instead of twelve,
he had brought only six with him
from London,
his five sisters and a cousin.
And when the party
entered the assembly-room,
it consisted of only five altogether:
Mr. Bingley,
his two sisters,
the husband of the eldest,
and another young man.

Mr. Bingley was good-looking
and gentlemanlike:
he had a pleasant countenance,
and easy,
unaffected manners.
His sisters were fine women,
with an air of decided fashion.
His brother-in-law,
Mr. Hurst,
merely looked the gentleman;
but his friend Mr. Darcy
soon drew the attention of the room
by his fine,
tall person,
handsome features,
noble mien,
and the report,
which was in general circulation
within five minutes after his entrance,
of his having ten thousand a year.
The gentlemen pronounced him to be
a fine figure of a man,
the ladies declared
he was much handsomer than Mr. Bingley,
and he was looked at
with great admiration
for about half the evening,
till his manners gave a disgust
which turned the tide of his popularity;
for he was discovered to be proud,
to be above his company,
and above being pleased;
and not all his large estate
in Derbyshire could save him
from having a most forbidding,
disagreeable countenance,
and being unworthy
to be compared with his friend.

Mr. Bingley
had soon made himself acquainted
with all the principal people
in the room:
he was lively and unreserved,
danced every dance,
was angry that the ball closed so early,
and talked of giving one himself
at Netherfield.
Such amiable qualities
must speak for themselves.
What a contrast
between him and his friend!
Mr. Darcy danced only once
with Mrs. Hurst
and once with Miss Bingley,
declined being introduced
to any other lady,
and spent the rest of the evening
in walking about the room,
speaking occasionally
to one of his own party.
His character was decided.
He was the proudest,
most disagreeable man in the world,
and everybody hoped
that he would never come there again.
Amongst the most violent against him
was Mrs. Bennet,
whose dislike of his general behaviour
was sharpened into particular resentment
by his having slighted
one of her daughters.

Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged,
by the scarcity of gentlemen,
to sit down for two dances;
and during part of that time,
Mr. Darcy had been standing near enough
for her to overhear a conversation
between him and Mr. Bingley,
who came from the dance
for a few minutes
to press his friend to join it.

“Come, Darcy,”
said he,
“I must have you dance.
I hate to see you standing about
by yourself in this stupid manner.
You had much better dance.”

“I certainly shall not.
You know how I detest it,
unless I am particularly acquainted
with my partner.
At such an assembly as this,
it would be insupportable.
Your sisters are engaged,
and there is not another woman
in the room
whom it would not be a punishment to me
to stand up with.”

“I would not be so fastidious
as you are,”
cried Bingley,
“for a kingdom!
Upon my honour,
I never met with so many pleasant girls
in my life as I have this evening;
and there are several of them,
you see,
uncommonly pretty.”

“You are dancing
with the only handsome girl
in the room,”
said Mr. Darcy,
looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.

“Oh,
she is the most beautiful creature
I ever beheld!
But there is one of her sisters
sitting down just behind you,
who is very pretty,
and I dare say very agreeable.
Do let me ask my partner
to introduce you.”

“Which do you mean?”
and turning round,
he looked for a moment at Elizabeth,
till,
catching her eye,
he withdrew his own,
and coldly said,
“She is tolerable:
but not handsome enough to tempt me;
and I am in no humour at present
to give consequence to young ladies
who are slighted by other men.
You had better return to your partner
and enjoy her smiles,
for you are wasting your time with me.”

Mr. Bingley followed his advice.
Mr. Darcy walked off;
and Elizabeth remained
with no very cordial feelings
towards him.
She told the story,
however,
with great spirit among her friends;
for she had a lively,
playful disposition,
which delighted in anything ridiculous.

The evening
altogether passed off pleasantly
to the whole family.
Mrs. Bennet had seen her eldest daughter
much admired by the Netherfield party.
Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice,
and she had been distinguished
by his sisters.
Jane was as much gratified by this
as her mother could be,
though in a quieter way.
Elizabeth felt Jane’s pleasure.
Mary had heard herself mentioned
to Miss Bingley
as the most accomplished girl
in the neighbourhood;
and Catherine and Lydia
had been fortunate enough
to be never without partners,
which was all
that they had yet learnt
to care for at a ball.

They returned,
therefore,
in good spirits to Longbourn,
the village where they lived,
and of which
they were the principal inhabitants.
They found Mr. Bennet still up.
With a book,
he was regardless of time;
and on the present occasion
he had a good deal of curiosity
as to the event of an evening
which had raised
such splendid expectations.
He had rather hoped
that all his wife’s views
on the stranger
would be disappointed;
but he soon found
that he had a very different story
to hear.

“Oh,
my dear Mr. Bennet,”
as she entered the room,
“we have had a most delightful evening,
a most excellent ball.
I wish you had been there.
Jane was so admired,
nothing could be like it.
Everybody said how well she looked;
and Mr. Bingley
thought her quite beautiful,
and danced with her twice.
Only think of that,
my dear:
he actually danced with her twice;
and she was the only creature
in the room
that he asked a second time.
First of all,
he asked Miss Lucas.
I was so vexed
to see him stand up with her;
but,
however,
he did not admire her at all;
indeed,
nobody can,
you know;
and he seemed quite struck with Jane
as she was going down the dance.
So he inquired who she was,
and got introduced,
and asked her for the two next.
Then,
the two third he danced with Miss King,
and the two fourth with Maria Lucas,
and the two fifth with Jane again,
and the two sixth with Lizzy,
and the Boulanger—”

“If he had had any compassion for me,”
cried her husband impatiently,
“he would not have danced half so much!
For God’s sake,
say no more of his partners.
O that he had sprained his ancle
in the first dance!”

“Oh,
my dear,”
continued Mrs. Bennet,
“I am quite delighted with him.
He is so excessively handsome!
and his sisters are charming women.
I never in my life
saw anything more elegant
than their dresses.
I dare say the lace
upon Mrs. Hurst’s gown—”

Here she was interrupted again.
Mr. Bennet protested
against any description of finery.
She was therefore obliged
to seek another branch of the subject,
and related,
with much bitterness of spirit,
and some exaggeration,
the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.

“But I can assure you,”
she added,
“that Lizzy does not lose much
by not suiting his fancy;
for he is a most disagreeable,
horrid man,
not at all worth pleasing.
So high and so conceited,
that there was no enduring him!
He walked here,
and he walked there,
fancying himself so very great!
Not handsome enough to dance with!
I wish you had been there,
my dear,
to have given him one of your set-downs.
I quite detest the man.”

CHAPTER IV

When Jane and Elizabeth were alone,
the former,
who had been cautious
in her praise of Mr. Bingley before,
expressed to her sister
how very much she admired him.

“He is just
what a young man ought to be,”
said she,
“sensible,
good-humoured,
lively;
and I never saw such happy manners!
so much ease,
with such perfect good breeding!”

“He is also handsome,”
replied Elizabeth,
“which a young man
ought likewise to be
if he possibly can.
His character is thereby complete.”

“I was very much flattered
by his asking me to dance a second time.
I did not expect such a compliment.”

“Did not you?
I did for you.
But that is one great difference
between us.
Compliments always take you by surprise,
and me never.
What could be more natural
than his asking you again?
He could not help seeing
that you were about five times as pretty
as every other woman in the room.
No thanks to his gallantry for that.
Well,
he certainly is very agreeable,
and I give you leave to like him.
You have liked many a stupider person.”

“Dear Lizzy!”

“Oh,
you are a great deal too apt,
you know,
to like people in general.
You never see a fault in anybody.
All the world are good and agreeable
in your eyes.
I never heard you speak ill
of a human being in my life.”

“I would wish not to be hasty
in censuring anyone;
but I always speak what I think.”

“I know you do:
and it is that which makes the wonder.
With your good sense,
to be so honestly blind
to the follies and nonsense of others!
Affectation of candour is common enough;
one meets with it everywhere.
But to be candid
without ostentation or design,—
to take the good
of everybody’s character
and make it still better,
and say nothing of the bad,—
belongs to you alone.
And so,
you like this man’s sisters,
too,
do you?
Their manners are not equal to his.”

“Certainly not,
at first;
but they are very pleasing women
when you converse with them.
Miss Bingley is to live
with her brother,
and keep his house;
and I am much mistaken
if we shall not find
a very charming neighbour in her.”

Elizabeth listened in silence,
but was not convinced:
their behaviour at the assembly
had not been calculated
to please in general;
and with more quickness of observation
and less pliancy of temper
than her sister,
and with a judgment,
too,
unassailed by any attention to herself,
she was very little disposed
to approve them.
They were,
in fact,
very fine ladies;
not deficient in good-humour
when they were pleased,
nor in the power of being agreeable
where they chose it;
but proud and conceited.
They were rather handsome;
had been educated
in one of the first private seminaries
in town;
had a fortune of twenty thousand pounds;
were in the habit
of spending more than they ought,
and of associating with people of rank;
and were,
therefore,
in every respect
entitled to think well of themselves
and meanly of others.
They were of a respectable family
in the north of England;
a circumstance
more deeply impressed on their memories
than that
their brother’s fortune and their own
had been acquired by trade.

Mr. Bingley inherited property
to the amount
of nearly a hundred thousand pounds
from his father,
who had intended to purchase an estate,
but did not live to do it.
Mr. Bingley intended it likewise,
and sometimes made choice of his county;
but,
as he was now provided with a good house
and the liberty of a manor,
it was doubtful to many of those
who best knew
the easiness of his temper,
whether he might not spend the remainder
of his days at Netherfield,
and leave the next generation
to purchase.

His sisters were very anxious
for his having an estate of his own;
but though he was now established
only as a tenant,
Miss Bingley was by no means
unwilling to preside at his table;
nor was Mrs. Hurst,
who had married a man
of more fashion than fortune,
less disposed to consider his house
as her home
when it suited her.
Mr. Bingley
had not been of age two years
when he was tempted,
by an accidental recommendation,
to look at Netherfield House.
He did look at it,
and into it,
for half an hour;
was pleased with the situation
and the principal rooms,
satisfied with what the owner said
in its praise,
and took it immediately.

Between him and Darcy
there was a very steady friendship,
in spite of a great opposition
of character.
Bingley was endeared to Darcy
by the easiness,
openness,
and ductility of his temper,
though no disposition could offer
a greater contrast to his own,
and though with his own
he never appeared dissatisfied.
On the strength of Darcy’s regard,
Bingley had the firmest reliance,
and of his judgment the highest opinion.
In understanding,
Darcy was the superior.
Bingley was by no means deficient;
but Darcy was clever.
He was at the same time haughty,
reserved,
and fastidious;
and his manners,
though well bred,
were not inviting.
In that respect
his friend had greatly the advantage.
Bingley was sure of being liked
wherever he appeared;
Darcy was continually giving offence.

The manner in which they spoke
of the Meryton assembly
was sufficiently characteristic.
Bingley had never met
with pleasanter people or prettier girls
in his life;
everybody had been
most kind and attentive to him;
there had been no formality,
no stiffness;
he had soon felt acquainted
with all the room;
and as to Miss Bennet,
he could not conceive
an angel more beautiful.
Darcy,
on the contrary,
had seen a collection of people in whom
there was little beauty and no fashion,
for none of whom
he had felt the smallest interest,
and from none
received either attention or pleasure.
Miss Bennet he acknowledged
to be pretty;
but she smiled too much.

Mrs. Hurst and her sister
allowed it to be so;
but still they admired her
and liked her,
and pronounced her to be a sweet girl,
and one whom they should not object
to know more of.
Miss Bennet was therefore established
as a sweet girl;
and their brother
felt authorized by such commendation
to think of her as he chose.

CHAPTER V

Within a short walk of Longbourn
lived a family
with whom the Bennets
were particularly intimate.
Sir William Lucas
had been formerly in trade
in Meryton,
where he had made a tolerable fortune,
and risen to the honour of knighthood
by an address to the king
during his mayoralty.
The distinction had,
perhaps,
been felt too strongly.
It had given him a disgust
to his business
and to his residence
in a small market town;
and,
quitting them both,
he had removed with his family
to a house
about a mile from Meryton,
denominated from that period
Lucas Lodge;
where he could think with pleasure
of his own importance,
and,
unshackled by business,
occupy himself solely in being civil
to all the world.
For,
though elated by his rank,
it did not render him supercilious;
on the contrary,
he was all attention to everybody.
By nature inoffensive,
friendly,
and obliging,
his presentation at St. James’s
had made him courteous.

Lady Lucas
was a very good kind of woman,
not too clever
to be a valuable neighbour
to Mrs. Bennet.
They had several children.
The eldest of them,
a sensible,
intelligent young woman,
about twenty-seven,
was Elizabeth’s intimate friend.

That the Miss Lucases
and the Miss Bennets
should meet to talk over a ball
was absolutely necessary;
and the morning after the assembly
brought the former to Longbourn
to hear and to communicate.

“You began the evening well,
Charlotte,”
said Mrs. Bennet,
with civil self-command,
to Miss Lucas.
“You were Mr. Bingley’s first choice.”

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

“Oh,
you mean Jane,
I suppose,
because he danced with her twice.
To be sure that did seem
as if he admired her —
indeed,
I rather believe he did —
I heard something about it —
but I hardly know what —
something about Mr. Robinson.”

“Perhaps you mean what I overheard
between him and Mr. Robinson:
did not I mention it to you?
Mr. Robinson’s asking him
how he liked our Meryton assemblies,
and whether he did not think
there were a great many pretty women
in the room,
and which he thought the prettiest?
and his answering immediately
to the last question,
‘Oh,
the eldest Miss Bennet,
beyond a doubt:
there cannot be two opinions
on that point.’”

“Upon my word!
Well,
that was very decided,
indeed —
that does seem as if —
but,
however,
it may all come to nothing,
you know.”

“My overhearings
were more to the purpose than yours,
Eliza,”
said Charlotte.
“Mr. Darcy
is not so well worth listening
to as his friend,
is he?
Poor Eliza!
to be only just tolerable.”

“I beg you will not put it
into Lizzy’s head
to be vexed by his ill-treatment,
for he is such a disagreeable man
that it would be quite a misfortune
to be liked by him.
Mrs. Long told me last night
that he sat close to her
for half an hour
without once opening his lips.”

“Are you quite sure,
ma’am?
Is not there a little mistake?”
said Jane.
“I certainly saw Mr. Darcy
speaking to her.”

“Ay,
because she asked him at last
how he liked Netherfield,
and he could not help answering her;
but she said he seemed very angry
at being spoke to.”

“Miss Bingley told me,”
said Jane,
“that he never speaks much
unless among his intimate acquaintance.
With them he is remarkably agreeable.”

“I do not believe a word of it,
my dear.
If he had been so very agreeable,
he would have talked to Mrs. Long.
But I can guess how it was;
everybody says
that he is eat up with pride,
and I dare say he had heard somehow
that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage,
and had to come to the ball
in a hack chaise.”

“I do not mind his not talking
to Mrs. Long,”
said Miss Lucas,
“but I wish he had danced with Eliza.”

“Another time,
Lizzy,”
said her mother,
“I would not dance with him,
if I were you.”

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

“His pride,”
said Miss Lucas,
“does not offend me so much
as pride often does,
because there is an excuse for it.
One cannot wonder
that so very fine a young man,
with family,
fortune,
everything in his favour,
should think highly of himself.
If I may so express it,
he has a right to be proud.”

“That is very true,”
replied Elizabeth,
“and I could easily forgive his pride,
if he had not mortified mine.”

“Pride,”
observed Mary,
who piqued herself
upon the solidity of her reflections,
“is a very common failing,
I believe.
By all that I have ever read,
I am convinced
that it is very common indeed;
that human nature
is particularly prone to it,
and that there are very few of us
who do not cherish
a feeling of self-complacency
on the score of some quality or other,
real or imaginary.
Vanity and pride are different things,
though the words
are often used synonymously.
A person may be proud
without being vain.
Pride relates more
to our opinion of ourselves;
vanity to what
we would have others think of us.”

“If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,”
cried a young Lucas,
who came with his sisters,
“I should not care how proud I was.
I would keep a pack of foxhounds,
and drink a bottle of wine every day.”

“Then you would drink
a great deal more than you ought,”
said Mrs. Bennet;
“and if I were to see you at it,
I should take away your bottle
directly.”

The boy protested that she should not;
she continued to declare that she would;
and the argument
ended only with the visit.

CHAPTER VI

The ladies of Longbourn soon waited
on those of Netherfield.
The visit was returned in due form.
Miss Bennet’s pleasing manners
grew on the good-will
of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley;
and though the mother
was found to be intolerable,
and the younger sisters
not worth speaking to,
a wish of being better acquainted
with them was expressed
towards the two eldest.
By Jane this attention was received
with the greatest pleasure;
but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness
in their treatment of everybody,
hardly excepting even her sister,
and could not like them;
though their kindness to Jane,
such as it was,
had a value,
as arising,
in all probability,
from the influence
of their brother’s admiration.

It was generally evident,
whenever they met,
that he did admire her;
and to her it was equally evident
that Jane was yielding to the preference
which she had begun to entertain for him
from the first,
and was in a way
to be very much in love;
but she considered with pleasure
that it was not likely to be discovered
by the world in general,
since Jane united
with great strength of feeling,
a composure of temper
and an uniform cheerfulness of manner,
which would guard her
from the suspicions of the impertinent.
She mentioned this to her friend,
Miss Lucas.

“It may,
perhaps,
be pleasant,”
replied Charlotte,
“to be able to impose on the public
in such a case;
but it is sometimes a disadvantage
to be so very guarded.
If a woman conceals her affection
with the same skill
from the object of it,
she may lose the opportunity
of fixing him;
and it will then be but poor consolation
to believe the world
equally in the dark.

There is so much of gratitude or vanity
in almost every attachment,
that it is not safe
to leave any to itself.
We can all begin freely —
a slight preference is natural enough;
but there are very few of us
who have heart enough
to be really in love
without encouragement.
In nine cases out of ten,
a woman had better show more affection
than she feels.
Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly;
but he may never do more than like her,
if she does not help him on.”

“But she does help him on,
as much as her nature will allow.
If I can perceive her regard for him,
he must be a simpleton indeed
not to discover it too.”

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

“But if a woman is partial to a man,
and does not endeavor to conceal it,
he must find it out.”

“Perhaps he must,
if he sees enough of her.
But though Bingley and Jane
meet tolerably often,
it is never for many hours together;
and as they always see each other
in large mixed parties,
it is impossible
that every moment should be employed
in conversing together.
Jane should therefore make the most
of every half hour
in which she can command his attention.
When she is secure of him,
there will be leisure
for falling in love
as much as she chooses.”

“Your plan is a good one,”
replied Elizabeth,
“where nothing is in question
but the desire of being well married;
and if I were determined
to get a rich husband,
or any husband,
I dare say I should adopt it.
But these are not Jane’s feelings;
she is not acting by design.
As yet she cannot even be certain
of the degree of her own regard,
nor of its reasonableness.
She has known him only a fortnight.
She danced four dances with him
at Meryton;
she saw him one morning
at his own house,
and has since dined in company with him
four times.
This is not quite enough
to make her understand his character.”

“Not as you represent it.
Had she merely dined with him,
she might only have discovered
whether he had a good appetite;
but you must remember that four evenings
have been also spent together —
and four evenings may do a great deal.”

“Yes:
these four evenings
have enabled them to ascertain
that they both like
Vingt-un better than Commerce,
but with respect
to any other leading characteristic,
I do not imagine
that much has been unfolded.”

“Well,”
said Charlotte,
“I wish Jane success with all my heart;
and if she were married to him
to-morrow,
I should think
she had as good a chance of happiness
as if she were to be studying
his character for a twelvemonth.
Happiness in marriage
is entirely a matter of chance.
If the dispositions of the parties
are ever so well known to each other,
or ever so similar beforehand,
it does not advance their felicity
in the least.
They always continue to grow
sufficiently unlike afterwards
to have their share of vexation;
and it is better to know
as little as possible
of the defects of the person
with whom you are to pass your life.”

“You make me laugh,
Charlotte;
but it is not sound.
You know it is not sound,
and that you would never act
in this way yourself.”

Occupied in observing
Mr. Bingley’s attention to her sister,
Elizabeth was far from suspecting
that she was herself becoming an object
of some interest
in the eyes of his friend.
Mr. Darcy had at first
scarcely allowed her to be pretty:
he had looked at her
without admiration at the ball;
and when they next met,
he looked at her only to criticise.
But no sooner had he made it clear
to himself and his friends
that she had hardly a good feature
in her face,
than he began to find
it was rendered uncommonly intelligent
by the beautiful expression
of her dark eyes.
To this discovery succeeded some others
equally mortifying.
Though he had detected
with a critical eye
more than one failure
of perfect symmetry in her form,
he was forced to acknowledge her figure
to be light and pleasing;
and in spite of his asserting
that her manners
were not those of the fashionable world,
he was caught by their easy playfulness.
Of this she was perfectly unaware:
to her he was only the man
who made himself agreeable nowhere,
and who had not thought her
handsome enough to dance with.

He began to wish to know more of her;
and,
as a step towards conversing
with her himself,
attended to her conversation
with others.
His doing so drew her notice.
It was at Sir William Lucas’s,
where a large party were assembled.

“What does Mr. Darcy mean,”
said she to Charlotte,
“by listening to my conversation
with Colonel Forster?”

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

“But if he does it any more,
I shall certainly let him know
that I see what he is about.
He has a very satirical eye,
and if I do not begin
by being impertinent myself,
I shall soon grow afraid of him.”

On his approaching them soon afterwards,
though without seeming
to have any intention of speaking,
Miss Lucas defied her friend
to mention such a subject to him,
which immediately provoking Elizabeth
to do it,
she turned to him and said,—

“Did not you think,
Mr. Darcy,
that I expressed myself uncommonly well
just now,
when I was teasing Colonel Forster
to give us a ball at Meryton?”

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

“You are severe on us.”

“It will be her turn soon to be teased,”
said Miss Lucas.
“I am going to open the instrument,
Eliza,
and you know what follows.”

“You are a very strange creature
by way of a friend!—
always wanting me to play and sing
before anybody and everybody!
If my vanity had taken a musical turn,
you would have been invaluable;
but as it is,
I would really rather not sit down
before those who must be in the habit
of hearing the very best performers.”
On Miss Lucas’s persevering,
however,
she added,
“Very well;
if it must be so,
it must.”
And gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy,
“There is a very fine old saying,
which everybody here
is of course familiar with—
‘Keep your breath
to cool your porridge,’—
and I shall keep mine
to swell my song.”

Her performance was pleasing,
though by no means capital.
After a song or two,
and before she could reply
to the entreaties of several
that she would sing again,
she was eagerly succeeded
at the instrument
by her sister Mary,
who having,
in consequence
of being the only plain one
in the family,
worked hard
for knowledge and accomplishments,
was always impatient for display.

Mary had neither genius nor taste;
and though
vanity had given her application,
it had given her likewise
a pedantic air
and conceited manner,
which would have injured
a higher degree of excellence
than she had reached.
Elizabeth,
easy and unaffected,
had been listened to
with much more pleasure,
though not playing half so well;
and Mary,
at the end of a long concerto,
was glad
to purchase praise and gratitude
by Scotch and Irish airs,
at the request of her younger sisters,
who with some of the Lucases,
and two or three officers,
joined eagerly in dancing
at one end of the room.

Mr. Darcy stood near them
in silent indignation
at such a mode of passing the evening,
to the exclusion of all conversation,
and was too much engrossed
by his own thoughts
to perceive that Sir William Lucas
was his neighbour,
till Sir William thus began:—

“What a charming amusement
for young people this is,
Mr. Darcy!
There is nothing like dancing,
after all.
I consider it
as one of the first refinements
of polished societies.”

“Certainly,
sir;
and it has the advantage also
of being in vogue
amongst the less polished societies
of the world:
every savage can dance.”

Sir William only smiled.
“Your friend performs delightfully,”
he continued,
after a pause,
on seeing Bingley join the group;
“and I doubt not that you are an adept
in the science yourself,
Mr. Darcy.”

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

“Yes,
indeed,
and received no inconsiderable pleasure
from the sight.
Do you often dance at St. James’s?”

“Never,
sir.”

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

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

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

Mr. Darcy bowed.

“I had once some thoughts
of fixing in town myself,
for I am fond of superior society;
but I did not feel quite certain
that the air of London
would agree with Lady Lucas.”

He paused in hopes of an answer:
but his companion
was not disposed to make any;
and Elizabeth at that instant
moving towards them,
he was struck with the notion
of doing a very gallant thing,
and called out to her,—

“My dear Miss Eliza,
why are not you dancing?
Mr. Darcy,
you must allow me to present
this young lady to you
as a very desirable partner.
You cannot refuse to dance,
I am sure,
when so much beauty is before you.”
And,
taking her hand,
he would have given it to Mr. Darcy,
who,
though extremely surprised,
was not unwilling to receive it,
when she instantly drew back,
and said with some discomposure
to Sir William,—

“Indeed,
sir,
I have not the least intention
of dancing.
I entreat you not to suppose
that I moved this way
in order to beg for a partner.”

Mr. Darcy,
with grave propriety,
requested to be allowed
the honour of her hand,
but in vain.
Elizabeth was determined;
nor did Sir William at all
shake her purpose
by his attempt at persuasion.

“You excel so much in the dance,
Miss Eliza,
that it is cruel to deny me
the happiness of seeing you;
and though this gentleman
dislikes the amusement in general,
he can have no objection,
I am sure,
to oblige us for one half hour.”

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

“He is,
indeed:
but considering the inducement,
my dear Miss Eliza,
we cannot wonder at his complaisance;
for who would object to such a partner?”

Elizabeth looked archly,
and turned away.
Her resistance had not injured her
with the gentleman,
and he was thinking of her
with some complacency,
when thus accosted by Miss Bingley,—

“I can guess
the subject of your reverie.”

“I should imagine not.”

“You are considering how insupportable
it would be to pass many evenings
in this manner,—
in such society;
and,
indeed,
I am quite of your opinion.
I was never more annoyed!
The insipidity,
and yet the noise —
the nothingness,
and yet the self-importance,
of all these people!
What would I give to hear
your strictures on them!”

“Your conjecture is totally wrong,
I assure you.
My mind was more agreeably engaged.
I have been meditating
on the very great pleasure
which a pair of fine eyes
in the face of a pretty woman
can bestow.”

Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes
on his face,
and desired he would tell her
what lady had the credit
of inspiring such reflections.
Mr. Darcy replied,
with great intrepidity,—

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet!”
repeated Miss Bingley.
“I am all astonishment.
How long has she been such a favourite?
and pray when am I to wish you joy?”

“That is exactly the question
which I expected you to ask.
A lady’s imagination is very rapid;
it jumps from admiration to love,
from love to matrimony,
in a moment.
I knew you would be wishing me joy.”

“Nay,
if you are so serious about it,
I shall consider the matter
as absolutely settled.
You will have a charming mother-in-law,
indeed,
and of course she will be always
at Pemberley with you.”

He listened to her
with perfect indifference,
while she chose to entertain herself
in this manner;
and as his composure convinced her
that all was safe,
her wit flowed along.

CHAPTER VII

Mr. Bennet's property
consisted almost entirely in an estate
of two thousand a year,
which,
unfortunately for his daughters,
was entailed,
in default of heirs male,
on a distant relation;
and their mother’s fortune,
though ample for her situation in life,
could but ill supply
the deficiency of his.
Her father had been an attorney
in Meryton,
and had left her four thousand pounds.

She had a sister
married to a Mr. Philips,
who had been a clerk to their father
and succeeded him in the business,
and a brother settled in London
in a respectable line of trade.

The village of Longbourn
was only one mile from Meryton;
a most convenient distance
for the young ladies,
who were usually tempted thither
three or four times a week,
to pay their duty to their aunt,
and to a milliner’s shop
just over the way.
The two youngest of the family,
Catherine and Lydia,
were particularly frequent
in these attentions:
their minds were more vacant
than their sisters’,
and when nothing better offered,
a walk to Meryton was necessary
to amuse their morning hours
and furnish conversation
for the evening;
and,
however bare of news
the country in general might be,
they always contrived
to learn some from their aunt.
At present,
indeed,
they were well supplied both
with news and happiness
by the recent arrival
of a militia regiment
in the neighbourhood;
it was to remain the whole winter,
and Meryton was the head-quarters.

Their visits to Mrs. Philips
were now productive
of the most interesting intelligence.
Every day added something
to their knowledge
of the officers’ names and connections.
Their lodgings were not long a secret,
and at length
they began to know
the officers themselves.
Mr. Philips visited them all,
and this opened to his nieces
a source of felicity unknown before.
They could talk of nothing but officers;
and Mr. Bingley’s large fortune,
the mention of which
gave animation to their mother,
was worthless in their eyes
when opposed to the regimentals
of an ensign.

After listening one morning
to their effusions on this subject,
Mr. Bennet coolly observed,—

“From all that I can collect
by your manner of talking,
you must be two of the silliest girls
in the country.
I have suspected it some time,
but I am now convinced.”

Catherine was disconcerted,
and made no answer;
but Lydia,
with perfect indifference,
continued to express her admiration
of Captain Carter,
and her hope of seeing him
in the course of the day,
as he was going the next morning
to London.

“I am astonished, my dear,”
said Mrs. Bennet,
“that you should be so ready
to think your own children silly.
If I wished to think slightingly
of anybody’s children,
it should not be of my own,
however.”

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

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

“This is the only point,
I flatter myself,
on which we do not agree.
I had hoped
that our sentiments
coincided in every particular,
but I must so far differ from you
as to think our two youngest daughters
uncommonly foolish.”

“My dear Mr. Bennet,
you must not expect such girls
to have the sense
of their father and mother.
When they get to our age,
I dare say
they will not think about officers
any more than we do.
I remember the time
when I liked a red coat myself
very well —
and,
indeed,
so I do still at my heart;
and if a smart young colonel,
with five or six thousand a year,
should want one of my girls,
I shall not say nay to him;
and I thought Colonel Forster
looked very becoming the other night
at Sir William’s in his regimentals.”

“Mamma,”
cried Lydia,
“my aunt says
that Colonel Forster and Captain Carter
do not go so often to Miss Watson’s
as they did when they first came;
she sees them now very often
standing in Clarke’s library.”

Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying
by the entrance of the footman
with a note for Miss Bennet;
it came from Netherfield,
and the servant waited for an answer.
Mrs. Bennet’s eyes
sparkled with pleasure,
and she was eagerly calling out,
while her daughter read,—

“Well,
Jane,
who is it from?
What is it about?
What does he say?
Well,
Jane,
make haste and tell us;
make haste,
my love.”

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

“My dear friend,
“If you are not so compassionate
as to dine to-day with Louisa and me,
we shall be in danger
of hating each other
for the rest of our lives;
for a whole day’s tête-à-tête
between two women
can never end without a quarrel.
Come as soon as you can
on the receipt of this.
My brother and the gentlemen
are to dine with the officers.
Yours ever,
“Caroline Bingley.”

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

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

“Can I have the carriage?”
said Jane.

“No,
my dear,
you had better go on horseback,
because it seems likely to rain;
and then you must stay all night.”

“That would be a good scheme,”
said Elizabeth,
“if you were sure
that they would not offer
to send her home.”

“Oh,
but the gentlemen will have
Mr. Bingley’s chaise to go to Meryton;
and the Hursts
have no horses to theirs.”

“I had much rather go in the coach.”

“But,
my dear,
your father cannot spare the horses,
I am sure.
They are wanted in the farm,
Mr. Bennet,
are not they?”

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

“But if you have got them to-day,”
said Elizabeth,
“my mother’s purpose will be answered.”

She did at last extort from her father
an acknowledgment
that the horses were engaged;
Jane was therefore obliged
to go on horseback,
and her mother attended her to the door
with many cheerful prognostics
of a bad day.
Her hopes were answered;
Jane had not been gone long
before it rained hard.
Her sisters were uneasy for her,
but her mother was delighted.
The rain continued the whole evening
without intermission;
Jane certainly could not come back.

“This was a lucky idea of mine,
indeed!”
said Mrs. Bennet,
more than once,
as if the credit of making it rain
were all her own.
Till the next morning,
however,
she was not aware
of all the felicity of her contrivance.
Breakfast was scarcely over
when a servant from Netherfield
brought the following note
for Elizabeth:—

“My dearest Lizzie,
“I find myself very unwell this morning,
which,
I suppose,
is to be imputed
to my getting wet through yesterday.
My kind friends
will not hear of my returning home
till I am better.
They insist also
on my seeing Mr. Jones —
therefore do not be alarmed
if you should hear
of his having been to me —
and,
excepting a sore throat and a headache,
there is not much the matter with me.
Yours, etc.”

“Well,
my dear,”
said Mr. Bennet,
when Elizabeth had read the note aloud,
“if your daughter should have
a dangerous fit of illness —
if she should die —
it would be a comfort to know
that it was all
in pursuit of Mr. Bingley,
and under your orders.”

“Oh,
I am not at all afraid of her dying.
People do not die
of little trifling colds.
She will be taken good care of.
As long as she stays there,
it is all very well.
I would go and see her
if I could have the carriage.”

Elizabeth,
feeling really anxious,
determined to go to her,
though the carriage was not to be had;
and as she was no horsewoman,
walking was her only alternative.
She declared her resolution.

“How can you be so silly,”
cried her mother,
“as to think of such a thing,
in all this dirt!
You will not be fit to be seen
when you get there.”

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

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

“No,
indeed.
I do not wish to avoid the walk.
The distance is nothing,
when one has a motive;
only three miles.
I shall be back by dinner.”

“I admire the activity
of your benevolence,”
observed Mary,
“but every impulse of feeling
should be guided by reason;
and,
in my opinion,
exertion should always be in proportion
to what is required.”

“We will go as far as Meryton with you,”
said Catherine and Lydia.
Elizabeth accepted their company,
and the three young ladies
set off together.

“If we make haste,”
said Lydia,
as they walked along,
“perhaps
we may see something of Captain Carter,
before he goes.”

In Meryton they parted:
the two youngest
repaired to the lodgings
of one of the officers’ wives,
and Elizabeth continued her walk alone,
crossing field after field
at a quick pace,
jumping over stiles
and springing over puddles,
with impatient activity,
and finding herself at last
within view of the house,
with weary ancles,
dirty stockings,
and a face glowing
with the warmth of exercise.

She was shown
into the breakfast parlour,
where all but Jane were assembled,
and where her appearance
created a great deal of surprise.
That she should have walked three miles
so early in the day
in such dirty weather,
and by herself,
was almost incredible
to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley;
and Elizabeth was convinced
that they held her
in contempt for it.
She was received,
however,
very politely by them;
and in their brother’s manners
there was something
better than politeness —
there was good humour and kindness.
Mr. Darcy said very little,
and Mr. Hurst nothing at all.
The former was divided
between admiration of the brilliancy
which exercise had given
to her complexion
and doubt
as to the occasion’s justifying
her coming so far alone.
The latter was thinking
only of his breakfast.

Her inquiries after her sister
were not very favourably answered.
Miss Bennet had slept ill,
and though up,
was very feverish,
and not well enough to leave her room.
Elizabeth was glad
to be taken to her immediately;
and Jane,
who had only been withheld by the fear
of giving alarm or inconvenience,
from expressing in her note
how much she longed for such a visit,
was delighted at her entrance.
She was not equal,
however,
to much conversation;
and when Miss Bingley
left them together,
could attempt little
beside expressions of gratitude
for the extraordinary kindness
she was treated with.
Elizabeth silently attended her.

When breakfast was over,
they were joined by the sisters;
and Elizabeth
began to like them herself,
when she saw
how much affection and solicitude
they showed for Jane.
The apothecary came;
and having examined his patient,
said,
as might be supposed,
that she had caught a violent cold,
and that they must endeavour
to get the better of it;
advised her to return to bed,
and promised her some draughts.
The advice was followed readily,
for the feverish symptoms increased,
and her head ached acutely.
Elizabeth did not quit her room
for a moment,
nor were the other ladies often absent;
the gentlemen being out,
they had in fact nothing to do
elsewhere.

When the clock struck three,
Elizabeth felt that she must go,
and very unwillingly said so.
Miss Bingley offered her the carriage,
and she only wanted a little pressing
to accept it,
when Jane testified such concern
at parting with her
that Miss Bingley was obliged to convert
the offer of the chaise
into an invitation to remain
at Netherfield for the present.
Elizabeth most thankfully consented,
and a servant
was despatched to Longbourn,
to acquaint the family with her stay,
and bring back a supply of clothes.

CHAPTER VIII

At five o’clock
the two ladies retired to dress,
and at half-past six
Elizabeth was summoned to dinner.
To the civil inquiries
which then poured in,
and amongst which
she had the pleasure of distinguishing
the much superior solicitude
of Mr. Bingley,
she could not make
a very favourable answer.
Jane was by no means better.
The sisters,
on hearing this,
repeated three or four times
how much they were grieved,
how shocking it was to have a bad cold,
and how excessively
they disliked being ill themselves;
and then thought no more of the matter:
and their indifference towards Jane,
when not immediately before them,
restored Elizabeth to the enjoyment
of all her original dislike.

Their brother,
indeed,
was the only one of the party
whom she could regard
with any complacency.
His anxiety for Jane was evident,
and his attentions to herself
most pleasing;
and they prevented her feeling herself
so much an intruder
as she believed she was considered
by the others.
She had very little notice
from any but him.
Miss Bingley was engrossed by Mr. Darcy,
her sister scarcely less so;
and as for Mr. Hurst,
by whom Elizabeth sat,
he was an indolent man,
who lived only to eat,
drink,
and play at cards,
who,
when he found her prefer a plain dish
to a ragout,
had nothing to say to her.

When dinner was over,
she returned directly to Jane,
and Miss Bingley began abusing her
as soon as she was out of the room.
Her manners were pronounced
to be very bad indeed,—
a mixture of pride and impertinence:
she had no conversation,
no style,
no taste,
no beauty.
Mrs. Hurst thought the same,
and added,—

“She has nothing,
in short,
to recommend her,
but being an excellent walker.
I shall never forget her appearance
this morning.
She really looked almost wild.”

“She did indeed,
Louisa.
I could hardly keep my countenance.
Very nonsensical to come at all!
Why must she be scampering
about the country,
because her sister had a cold?
Her hair so untidy,
so blowzy!”

“Yes,
and her petticoat;
I hope you saw her petticoat,
six inches deep in mud,
I am absolutely certain,
and the gown which had been let down
to hide it not doing its office.”

“Your picture may be very exact,
Louisa,”
said Bingley;
“but this was all lost upon me.
I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet
looked remarkably well
when she came into the room
this morning.
Her dirty petticoat
quite escaped my notice.”

“You observed it,
Mr. Darcy,
I am sure,”
said Miss Bingley;
“and I am inclined to think
that you would not wish to see
your sister make such an exhibition.”

“Certainly not.”

“To walk three miles,
or four miles,
or five miles,
or whatever it is,
above her ancles in dirt,
and alone,
quite alone!
what could she mean by it?
It seems to me
to show an abominable sort
of conceited independence,
a most country-town indifference
to decorum.”

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

“I am afraid,
Mr. Darcy,”
observed Miss Bingley,
in a half whisper,
“that this adventure has rather affected
your admiration of her fine eyes.”

“Not at all,”
he replied:
“they were brightened by the exercise.”
A short pause followed this speech,
and Mrs. Hurst began again,—

“I have an excessive regard
for Jane Bennet,—
she is really a very sweet girl,—
and I wish with all my heart
she were well settled.
But with such a father and mother,
and such low connections,
I am afraid there is no chance of it.”

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

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

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

“If they had uncles enough
to fill all Cheapside,”
cried Bingley,
“it would not make them
one jot less agreeable.”

“But it must very materially
lessen their chance of marrying men
of any consideration in the world,”
replied Darcy.

To this speech Bingley made no answer;
but his sisters gave it
their hearty assent,
and indulged their mirth for some time
at the expense
of their dear friend’s vulgar relations.

With a renewal of tenderness,
however,
they repaired to her room
on leaving the dining-parlour,
and sat with her
till summoned to coffee.
She was still very poorly,
and Elizabeth would not quit her at all,
till late in the evening,
when she had the comfort
of seeing her asleep,
and when it appeared to her
rather right than pleasant
that she should go down stairs herself.
On entering the drawing-room,
she found the whole party at loo,
and was immediately invited
to join them;
but suspecting them to be playing high,
she declined it,
and making her sister the excuse,
said she would amuse herself,
for the short time she could stay below,
with a book.
Mr. Hurst looked at her
with astonishment.

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

“Miss Eliza Bennet,”
said Miss Bingley,
“despises cards.
She is a great reader,
and has no pleasure in anything else.”

“I deserve neither such praise
nor such censure,”
cried Elizabeth;
“I am not a great reader,
and I have pleasure in many things.”

“In nursing your sister
I am sure you have pleasure,”
said Bingley;
“and I hope it will soon be increased
by seeing her quite well.”

Elizabeth thanked him from her heart,
and then walked towards a table
where a few books were lying.
He immediately offered
to fetch her others;
all that his library afforded.

“And I wish my collection were larger
for your benefit and my own credit;
but I am an idle fellow;
and though I have not many,
I have more than I ever looked into.”

Elizabeth assured him
that she could suit herself perfectly
with those in the room.

“I am astonished,”
said Miss Bingley,
“that my father should have left
so small a collection of books.
What a delightful library
you have at Pemberley,
Mr. Darcy!”

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

“And then
you have added so much to it yourself—
you are always buying books.”

“I cannot comprehend
the neglect of a family library
in such days as these.”

“Neglect!
I am sure you neglect nothing
that can add to the beauties
of that noble place.
Charles,
when you build your house,
I wish it may be half as delightful
as Pemberley.”

“I wish it may.”

“But I would really advise you
to make your purchase
in that neighbourhood,
and take Pemberley for a kind of model.
There is not a finer county in England
than Derbyshire.”

“With all my heart:
I will buy Pemberley itself,
if Darcy will sell it.”

“I am talking of possibilities,
Charles.”

“Upon my word,
Caroline,
I should think it more possible
to get Pemberley
by purchase than by imitation.”

Elizabeth was so much caught
by what passed,
as to leave her very little attention
for her book;
and,
soon laying it wholly aside,
she drew near the card-table,
and stationed herself
between Mr. Bingley
and his eldest sister,
to observe the game.

“Is Miss Darcy much grown
since the spring?”
said Miss Bingley:
“will she be as tall as I am?”

“I think she will.
She is now
about Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s height,
or rather taller.”

“How I long to see her again!
I never met with anybody
who delighted me so much.
Such a countenance,
such manners,
and so extremely accomplished
for her age!
Her performance on the pianoforte
is exquisite.”

“It is amazing to me,”
said Bingley,
“how young ladies can have patience
to be so very accomplished
as they all are.”

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

“Yes,
all of them,
I think.
They all paint tables,
cover screens,
and net purses.
I scarcely know any one
who cannot do all this;
and I am sure
I never heard a young lady
spoken of for the first time,
without being informed
that she was very accomplished.”

“Your list of the common extent
of accomplishments,”
said Darcy,
“has too much truth.
The word is applied to many a woman
who deserves it no otherwise
than by netting a purse
or covering a screen;
but I am very far
from agreeing with you
in your estimation of ladies in general.
I cannot boast of knowing
more than half-a-dozen
in the whole range of my acquaintance
that are really accomplished.”

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

“Then,”
observed Elizabeth,
“you must comprehend a great deal
in your idea of an accomplished woman.”

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

“Oh,
certainly,”
cried his faithful assistant,
“no one
can be really esteemed accomplished
who does not greatly surpass
what is usually met with.
A woman must have
a thorough knowledge of music,
singing,
drawing,
dancing,
and the modern languages,
to deserve the word;
and,
besides all this,
she must possess a certain something
in her air and manner of walking,
the tone of her voice,
her address and expressions,
or the word will be but half deserved.”

“All this she must possess,”
added Darcy;
“and to all she must yet add
something more substantial
in the improvement of her mind
by extensive reading.”

“I am no longer surprised
at your knowing
only six accomplished women.
I rather wonder now
at your knowing any.”

“Are you so severe upon your own sex
as to doubt the possibility
of all this?”

“I never saw such a woman.
I never saw such capacity,
and taste,
and application,
and elegance,
as you describe,
united.”

Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley
both cried out against the injustice
of her implied doubt,
and were both protesting
that they knew many women
who answered this description,
when Mr. Hurst called them to order,
with bitter complaints
of their inattention
to what was going forward.
As all conversation
was thereby at an end,
Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room.

“Eliza Bennet,”
said Miss Bingley,
when the door was closed on her,
“is one of those young ladies
who seek to recommend themselves
to the other sex
by undervaluing their own;
and with many men,
I dare say,
it succeeds;
but,
in my opinion,
it is a paltry device,
a very mean art.”

“Undoubtedly,”
replied Darcy,
to whom this remark
was chiefly addressed,
“there is meanness in all the arts
which ladies sometimes condescend
to employ for captivation.
Whatever bears affinity to cunning
is despicable.”

Miss Bingley
was not so entirely satisfied
with this reply
as to continue the subject.

Elizabeth joined them again
only to say that her sister was worse,
and that she could not leave her.
Bingley urged
Mr. Jones’s being sent for immediately;
while his sisters,
convinced that no country advice
could be of any service,
recommended an express to town
for one of the most eminent physicians.

This she would not hear of;
but she was not so unwilling
to comply with their brother’s proposal;
and it was settled
that Mr. Jones should be sent
for early in the morning,
if Miss Bennet
were not decidedly better.
Bingley was quite uncomfortable;
his sisters declared
that they were miserable.
They solaced their wretchedness,
however,
by duets after supper;
while he could find no better relief
to his feelings than by giving
his housekeeper directions
that every possible attention
might be paid
to the sick lady and her sister.

CHAPTER IX

Elizabeth passed the chief of the night
in her sister’s room,
and in the morning had the pleasure
of being able to send a tolerable answer
to the inquiries
which she very early received
from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid,
and some time afterwards
from the two elegant ladies
who waited on his sisters.
In spite of this amendment,
however,
she requested to have a note
sent to Longbourn,
desiring her mother to visit Jane,
and form her own judgment
of her situation.
The note was immediately despatched,
and its contents
as quickly complied with.
Mrs. Bennet,
accompanied by her two youngest girls,
reached Netherfield
soon after the family breakfast.

Had she found
Jane in any apparent danger,
Mrs. Bennet
would have been very miserable;
but being satisfied on seeing her
that her illness
was not alarming,
she had no wish
of her recovering immediately,
as her restoration to health
would probably remove her
from Netherfield.
She would not listen,
therefore,
to her daughter’s proposal
of being carried home;
neither did the apothecary,
who arrived about the same time,
think it at all advisable.
After sitting a little while with Jane,
on Miss Bingley’s appearance
and invitation,
the mother and three daughters
all attended her
into the breakfast parlour.
Bingley met them with hopes
that Mrs. Bennet had not found
Miss Bennet worse than she expected.

“Indeed I have,
sir,”
was her answer.
“She is a great deal too ill
to be moved.
Mr. Jones says
we must not think of moving her.
We must trespass a little longer
on your kindness.”

“Removed!”
cried Bingley.
“It must not be thought of.
My sister,
I am sure,
will not hear of her removal.”

“You may depend upon it,
madam,”
said Miss Bingley,
with cold civility,
“that Miss Bennet
shall receive every possible attention
while she remains with us.”

Mrs. Bennet was profuse
in her acknowledgments.

“I am sure,”
she added,
“if it was not for such good friends,
I do not know what would become of her,
for she is very ill indeed,
and suffers a vast deal,
though with the greatest patience
in the world,
which is always the way with her,
for she has,
without exception,
the sweetest temper I 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 that gravel walk.
I do not know a place in the country
that is equal to Netherfield.
You will not think of quitting it
in a hurry,
I hope,
though you have but a short lease.”

“Whatever I do is done in a hurry,”
replied he;
“and therefore if I should resolve
to quit Netherfield,
I should probably be off
in five minutes.
At present,
however,
I consider myself as quite fixed here.”

“That is exactly
what I should have supposed of you,”
said Elizabeth.

“You begin to comprehend me,
do you?”
cried he,
turning towards her.

“Oh yes —
I understand you perfectly.”

“I wish I might take this
for a compliment;
but to be so easily seen through,
I am afraid,
is pitiful.”

“That is as it happens.
It does not necessarily follow
that a deep,
intricate character is more or less
estimable than such a one as yours.”

“Lizzy,”
cried her mother,
“remember where you are,
and do not run on in the wild manner
that you are suffered to do at home.”

“I did not know before,”
continued Bingley,
immediately,
“that you were a studier of character.
It must be an amusing study.”

“Yes;
but intricate characters
are the most amusing.
They have at least that advantage.”

“The country,”
said Darcy,
“can in general supply but few subjects
for such a study.
In a country neighbourhood
you move in a very confined
and unvarying society.”

“But people themselves alter so much,
that there is something new
to be observed in them for ever.”

“Yes,
indeed,”
cried Mrs. Bennet,
offended by his manner
of mentioning a country neighbourhood.
“I assure you
there is quite as much of that
going on in the country as in town.”

Everybody was surprised;
and Darcy,
after looking at her for a moment,
turned silently away.
Mrs. Bennet,
who fancied she had gained
a complete victory over him,
continued her triumph,—

“I cannot see
that London has any great advantage
over the country,
for my part,
except the shops and public places.
The country is a vast deal pleasanter,
is not it,
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.”

“Ay,
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 town,
which you must acknowledge to be true.”

“Certainly,
my dear,
nobody said there were;
but as to not meeting with many people
in this neighbourhood,
I believe
there are few neighbourhoods larger.
I know we dine
with four-and-twenty families.”

Nothing but concern for Elizabeth
could enable Bingley
to keep his countenance.
His sister was less delicate,
and directed her eye towards Mr. Darcy
with a very expressive smile.
Elizabeth,
for the sake of saying something
that might turn her mother’s thoughts,
now asked her
if Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn
since her coming away.

“Yes,
she called yesterday with her father.
What an agreeable man Sir William is,
Mr. Bingley—
is not he?
so much the man of fashion!
so genteel and easy!
He has always something to say
to everybody.
That is my idea of good breeding;
and those persons
who fancy themselves very important
and never open their mouths
quite mistake the matter.”

“Did Charlotte dine with you?”

“No,
she would go home.
I fancy she was wanted
about the mince-pies.
For my part,
Mr. Bingley,
I always keep servants
that can do their own work;
my daughters are brought up 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,”
said Bingley.

“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 gentleman
at my brother Gardiner’s in town
so much in love with her,
that my sister-in-law was sure
he would make her an offer
before we came away.
But,
however,
he did not.
Perhaps he thought her too young.
However,
he wrote some verses on her,
and very pretty they were.”

“And so ended his affection,”
said Elizabeth,
impatiently.
“There has been many a one,
I fancy,
overcome in the same way.
I wonder who first discovered
the efficacy of poetry
in driving away love!”

“I have been used to consider poetry
as the food of love,”
said Darcy.

“Of a fine,
stout,
healthy love it may.
Everything nourishes
what is strong already.
But if it be only a slight,
thin sort of inclination,
I am convinced that one good sonnet
will starve it entirely away.”

Darcy only smiled;
and the general pause which ensued
made Elizabeth tremble lest her mother
should be exposing herself again.
She longed to speak,
but could think of nothing to say;
and after a short silence
Mrs. Bennet began repeating her thanks
to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to Jane,
with an apology
for troubling him also with Lizzy.
Mr. Bingley was unaffectedly civil
in his answer,
and forced his younger sister
to be civil also,
and say what the occasion required.
She performed her part,
indeed,
without much graciousness,
but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied,
and soon afterwards
ordered her carriage.
Upon this signal,
the youngest of her daughters
put herself forward.
The two girls
had been whispering to each other
during the whole visit;
and the result of it was,
that the youngest should tax Mr. Bingley
with having promised
on his first coming into the country
to give a ball at Netherfield.

Lydia was a stout,
well-grown girl of fifteen,
with a fine complexion and good-humoured
countenance;
a favourite with her mother,
whose affection
had brought her into public
at an early age.
She had high animal spirits,
and a sort of natural self-consequence,
which the attentions of the officers,
to whom her uncle’s good dinners
and her own easy manners
recommended her,
had increased into assurance.
She was very equal,
therefore,
to address Mr. Bingley
on the subject of the ball,
and abruptly reminded him
of his promise;
adding,
that it would be
the most shameful thing in the world
if he did not keep it.
His answer to this sudden attack
was delightful to her mother’s ear.

“I am perfectly ready,
I assure you,
to keep my engagement;
and,
when your sister is recovered,
you shall,
if you please,
name the very day of the ball.
But you would not wish to be dancing
while she is ill?”

Lydia declared herself satisfied.
“Oh yes—
it would be much better to wait
till Jane was well;
and by that time,
most likely,
Captain Carter
would be at Meryton again.
And when you have given your ball,”
she added,
“I shall insist
on their giving one also.
I shall tell Colonel Forster
it will be quite a shame
if he does not.”

Mrs. Bennet and her daughters
then departed,
and Elizabeth returned
instantly to Jane,
leaving her own
and her relations’ behaviour
to the remarks
of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy;
the latter of whom,
however,
could not be prevailed on
to join in their censure of her,
in spite of all
Miss Bingley’s witticisms on fine eyes.

CHAPTER X

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

Elizabeth took up some needlework,
and was sufficiently amused
in attending to what passed
between Darcy and his companion.
The perpetual commendations of the lady
either on his hand-writing,
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 unison
with her opinion of each.

“How delighted Miss Darcy will be
to receive such a letter!”

He made no answer.

“You write uncommonly fast.”

“You are mistaken.
I write rather slowly.”

“How many letters
you must have occasion to write
in the course of a year!
Letters of business,
too!
How odious I should think them!”

“It is fortunate,
then,
that they fall to my lot
instead of to yours.”

“Pray tell your sister
that I long to see her.”

“I have already told her so once,
by your desire.”

“I am afraid you do not like your pen.
Let me mend it for you.
I mend pens remarkably well.”

“Thank you —
but I always mend my own.”

“How can you contrive to write so even?”

He was silent.

“Tell your sister I am delighted to hear
of her improvement on the harp,
and pray let her know
that I am quite in raptures
with her beautiful little design
for a table,
and I think it infinitely superior
to Miss Grantley’s.”

“Will you give me leave
to defer your raptures
till I write again?
At present
I have not room to do them justice.”

“Oh,
it is of no consequence.
I shall see her in January.
But do you always write
such charming long letters to her,
Mr. Darcy?”

“They are generally long;
but whether always charming,
it is not for me to determine.”

“It is a rule with me,
that a person
who can write a long letter with ease
cannot write ill.”

“That will not do
for a compliment to Darcy,
Caroline,”
cried her brother,
“because he does not write with ease.
He studies too much
for words of four syllables.
Do not you,
Darcy?”

“My style of writing
is very different from yours.”

“Oh,”
cried Miss Bingley,
“Charles writes
in the most careless way imaginable.
He leaves out half his words,
and blots the rest.”

“My ideas flow so rapidly
that I have not time to express them;
by which means my letters
sometimes convey no ideas at all
to my correspondents.”

“Your humility,
Mr. Bingley,”
said Elizabeth,
“must disarm reproof.”

“Nothing is more deceitful,”
said Darcy,
“than the appearance of humility.
It is often
only carelessness of opinion,
and sometimes an indirect boast.”

“And which of the two do you call
my little recent piece of modesty?”

“The indirect boast;
for you are really proud
of your defects in writing,
because you consider them
as proceeding from a rapidity of thought
and carelessness of execution,
which,
if not estimable,
you think at least highly interesting.
The power of doing anything
with quickness
is always much prized by the possessor,
and often without any attention
to the imperfection of the performance.
When you told Mrs. Bennet this morning,
that if you ever resolved
on quitting Netherfield
you should be gone in five minutes,
you meant it to be a sort of panegyric,
of compliment to yourself;
and yet what is there
so very laudable in a precipitance
which must leave
very necessary business undone,
and can be of no real advantage
to yourself or anyone else?”

“Nay,”
cried Bingley,
“this is too much,
to remember at night
all the foolish things
that were said in the morning.
And yet,
upon my honour,
I believed what I said of myself
to be true,
and I believe it at this moment.
At least,
therefore,
I did not assume
the character of needless precipitance
merely to show off before the ladies.”

“I dare say you believed it;
but I am by no means convinced
that you would be gone
with such celerity.
Your conduct
would be quite as dependent on chance
as that of any man I know;
and if,
as you were mounting your horse,
a friend were to say,
‘Bingley,
you had better stay till next week,’
you would probably do it —
you would probably not go —
and at another word,
might stay a month.”

“You have only proved by this,”
cried Elizabeth,
“that Mr. Bingley did not do justice
to his own disposition.
You have shown him off now
much more than he did himself.”

“I am exceedingly gratified,”
said Bingley,
“by your converting
what my friend says into a compliment
on the sweetness of my temper.
But I am afraid you are giving it a turn
which that gentleman
did by no means intend;
for he would certainly think
the better of me if,
under such a circumstance,
I were to give a flat denial,
and ride off as fast as I could.”

“Would Mr. Darcy then consider
the rashness of your original intention
as atoned for by your obstinacy
in adhering to it?”

“Upon my word,
I cannot exactly explain the matter —
Darcy must speak for himself.”

“You expect me to account for opinions
which you choose to call mine,
but which I have never acknowledged.
Allowing the case,
however,
to stand
according to your representation,
you must remember,
Miss Bennet,
that the friend
who is supposed to desire
his return to the house,
and the delay of his plan,
has merely desired it,
asked it without offering one argument
in favour of its propriety.”

“To yield readily —
easily —
to the persuasion of a friend
is no merit with you.”

“To yield without conviction
is no compliment
to the understanding of either.”

“You appear to me,
Mr. Darcy,
to allow nothing for the influence
of friendship and affection.
A regard for the requester
would often make
one readily yield to a request,
without waiting
for arguments to reason one into it.
I am not particularly speaking
of such a case
as you have supposed about Mr. Bingley.
We may as well wait,
perhaps,
till the circumstance occurs,
before we discuss the discretion
of his behaviour thereupon.
But in general and ordinary cases,
between friend and friend,
where one of them is desired
by the other to change
a resolution of no very great moment,
should you think ill of that person
for complying with the desire,
without waiting to be argued into it?”

“Will it not be advisable,
before we proceed on this subject,
to arrange with rather more precision
the degree of importance
which is to appertain to this request,
as well as the degree of intimacy
subsisting between the parties?”

“By all means,”
cried Bingley;
“let us hear all the particulars,
not forgetting
their comparative height and size,
for that will have more weight
in the argument,
Miss Bennet,
than you may be aware of.
I assure you that if Darcy were not
such a great tall fellow,
in comparison with myself,
I should not pay him
half so much deference.
I declare I do not know
a more awful object than Darcy
on particular occasions,
and in particular places;
at his own house especially,
and of a Sunday evening,
when he has nothing to do.”

Mr. Darcy smiled;
but Elizabeth thought she could perceive
that he was rather offended,
and therefore checked her laugh.
Miss Bingley warmly resented
the indignity he had received,
in an expostulation with her brother
for talking such nonsense.

“I see your design,
Bingley,”
said his friend.
“You dislike an argument,
and want to silence this.”

“Perhaps I do.
Arguments are too much like disputes.
If you and Miss Bennet
will defer yours
till I am out of the room,
I shall be very thankful;
and then you may say
whatever you like of me.”

“What you ask,”
said Elizabeth,
“is no sacrifice on my side;
and Mr. Darcy
had much better finish his letter.”

Mr. Darcy took her advice,
and did finish his letter.

When that business was over,
he applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth
for the indulgence of some music.
Miss Bingley moved with alacrity
to the pianoforte,
and after a polite request
that Elizabeth would lead the way,
which the other as politely
and more earnestly negatived,
she seated herself.

Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister;
and while they were thus employed,
Elizabeth could not help observing,
as she turned over some music-books
that lay on the instrument,
how frequently
Mr. Darcy’s eyes were fixed on her.
She hardly knew how to suppose
that she could be
an object of admiration
to so great a man,
and yet that he should look at her
because he disliked her
was still more strange.
She could only imagine, however,
at last,
that she drew his notice
because there was something about her
more wrong and reprehensible,
according to his ideas of right,
than in any other person present.
The supposition did not pain her.
She liked him too little
to care for his approbation.

After playing some Italian songs,
Miss Bingley varied the charm
by a lively Scotch air;
and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy,
drawing near Elizabeth,
said to her,—

“Do you not feel a great inclination,
Miss Bennet,
to seize such an opportunity
of dancing a reel?”

She smiled,
but made no answer.
He repeated the question,
with some surprise at her silence.

“Oh,”
said she,
“I heard you before;
but I could not immediately determine
what to say in reply.
You wanted me,
I know,
to say ‘Yes,’
that you might have the pleasure
of despising my taste;
but I always delight
in overthrowing those kind of schemes,
and cheating a person
of their premeditated contempt.
I have,
therefore,
made up my mind to tell you
that I do not want to dance a reel
at all;
and now despise me if you dare.”

“Indeed I do not dare.”

Elizabeth,
having rather expected to affront him,
was amazed at his gallantry;
but there was a mixture
of sweetness and archness in her manner
which made it difficult for her
to affront anybody,
and Darcy
had never been so bewitched by any woman
as he was by her.
He really believed that,
were it not for the inferiority
of her connections,
he should be in some danger.

Miss Bingley saw,
or suspected,
enough to be jealous;
and her great anxiety
for the recovery of her dear friend Jane
received some assistance from her desire
of getting rid of Elizabeth.

She often tried to provoke Darcy
into disliking her guest,
by talking of their supposed marriage,
and planning his happiness
in such an alliance.

“I hope,”
said she,
as they were walking together
in the shrubbery
the next day,
“you will give your mother-in-law
a few hints,
when this desirable event takes place,
as to the advantage
of holding her tongue;
and if you can compass it,
to cure the younger girls
of running after the officers.
And,
if I may mention so delicate a subject,
endeavour to check
that little something,
bordering on conceit and impertinence,
which your lady possesses.”

“Have you anything else to propose
for my domestic felicity?”

“Oh yes.
Do let the portraits
of your uncle and aunt Philips
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 attempt to have it taken,
for what painter could do justice
to those beautiful eyes?”

“It would not be easy,
indeed,
to catch their expression;
but their colour and shape,
and the eyelashes,
so remarkably fine,
might be copied.”

At that moment
they were met from another walk
by Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth herself.

“I did not know
that you intended to walk,”
said Miss Bingley,
in some confusion,
lest they had been overheard.

“You used us abominably ill,”
answered Mrs. Hurst,
“running away without telling us
that you were coming out.”

Then taking the disengaged arm
of Mr. Darcy,
she left Elizabeth to walk by herself.
The path just admitted three.
Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness,
and immediately said,—

“This walk
is not wide enough for our party.
We had better go into the avenue.”

But Elizabeth,
who had not the least inclination
to remain with them,
laughingly answered,—

“No, no;
stay where you are.
You are charmingly grouped,
and appear to uncommon advantage.
The picturesque would be spoilt
by admitting a fourth.
Good-bye.”

She then ran gaily off,
rejoicing,
as she rambled about,
in the hope of being at home again
in a day or two.
Jane was already so much recovered
as to intend leaving her room
for a couple of hours that evening.

CHAPTER XI

When the ladies removed after dinner
Elizabeth ran up to her sister,
and seeing her well guarded from cold,
attended her into the drawing-room,
where she was welcomed
by her two friends
with many professions of pleasure;
and Elizabeth had never seen
them so agreeable as they were
during the hour which passed
before the gentlemen appeared.
Their powers of conversation
were considerable.
They could describe an entertainment
with accuracy,
relate an anecdote with humour,
and laugh
at their acquaintance with spirit.

But when the gentlemen entered,
Jane was no longer the first object;
Miss Bingley’s eyes
were instantly turned towards Darcy,
and she had something to say to him
before he had advanced many steps.
He addressed himself directly
to Miss Bennet
with a polite congratulation;
Mr. Hurst also made her a slight bow,
and said he was “very glad;”
but diffuseness and warmth
remained for Bingley’s salutation.
He was full of joy and attention.
The first half hour was spent
in piling up the fire,
lest she should suffer
from the change of room;
and she removed,
at his desire,
to the other side of the fireplace,
that she might be farther from the door.
He then sat down by her,
and talked scarcely to anyone else.
Elizabeth,
at work in the opposite corner,
saw it all with great delight.

When tea was over
Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law
of the card-table —
but in vain.
She had obtained private intelligence
that Mr. Darcy did not wish for cards,
and Mr. Hurst soon found
even his open petition rejected.
She assured him
that no one intended to play,
and the silence of the whole party
on the subject
seemed to justify her.
Mr. Hurst had,
therefore,
nothing to do but to stretch himself
on one of the sofas
and go to sleep.
Darcy took up a book.
Miss Bingley did the same;
and Mrs. Hurst,
principally occupied in playing
with her bracelets and rings,
joined now and then
in her brother’s conversation
with Miss Bennet.

Miss Bingley’s attention
was quite as much engaged
in watching Mr. Darcy’s progress
through his book,
as in reading her own;
and she was perpetually
either making some inquiry,
or looking at his page.
She could not win him,
however,
to any conversation;
he merely answered her question
and read on.
At length,
quite exhausted by the attempt
to be amused with her own book,
which she had only chosen
because it was the second volume of his,
she gave a great yawn and said,
“How pleasant it is
to spend an evening in this way!
I declare,
after all,
there is no enjoyment like reading!
How much sooner
one tires of anything than of a book!
When I have a house of my own,
I shall be miserable
if I have not an excellent library.”

No one made any reply.
She then yawned again,
threw aside her book,
and cast her eyes round the room
in quest of some amusement;
when,
hearing her brother mentioning a ball
to Miss Bennet,
she turned suddenly towards him
and said,—

“By the bye Charles,
are you really serious
in meditating a dance at Netherfield?
I would advise you,
before you determine on it,
to consult the wishes
of the present party;
I am much mistaken
if there are not some among us
to whom a ball would be
rather a punishment than a pleasure.”

“If you mean Darcy,”
cried her brother,
“he may go to bed,
if he chooses,
before it begins;
but as for the ball,
it is quite a settled thing,
and as soon
as Nicholls has made white soup enough
I shall send round my cards.”

“I should like balls infinitely better,”
she replied,
“if they were carried on
in a different manner;
but there is something
insufferably tedious
in the usual process of such a meeting.
It would surely be much more rational
if conversation instead of dancing
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
got up and walked about the room.
Her figure was elegant,
and she walked well;
but Darcy,
at whom it was all aimed,
was still inflexibly studious.
In the desperation of her feelings,
she resolved on one effort more;
and,
turning to Elizabeth,
said,—

“Miss Eliza Bennet,
let me persuade you
to follow my example,
and take a turn about the room.
I assure you it is very refreshing
after sitting so long in one attitude.”

Elizabeth was surprised,
but agreed to it immediately.
Miss Bingley succeeded no less
in the real object of her civility:
Mr. Darcy looked up.
He was as much awake
to the novelty of attention
in that quarter
as Elizabeth herself could be,
and unconsciously closed his book.
He was directly invited
to join their party,
but he declined it,
observing that he could imagine
but two motives for their choosing
to walk up and down the room together,
with either of which motives
his joining them
would interfere.
What could he mean?
She was dying to know
what could be his meaning —
and asked Elizabeth
whether she could at all understand him.

“Not at all,”
was her answer;
“but,
depend upon it,
he means to be severe on us,
and our surest way of disappointing him
will be to ask nothing about it.”

Miss Bingley,
however,
was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy
in anything,
and persevered,
therefore,
in requiring an explanation
of his two motives.

“I have not the smallest objection
to explaining them,”
said he,
as soon as she allowed him to speak.
“You either choose this method
of passing the evening
because you are
in each other’s confidence,
and have secret affairs to discuss,
or because you are conscious
that your figures appear
to the greatest advantage in walking:
if the first,
I should be completely in your way;
and if the second,
I can admire you much better
as I sit by the fire.”

“Oh,
shocking!”
cried Miss Bingley.
“I never heard anything so abominable.
How shall we punish him
for such a speech?”

“Nothing so easy,
if you have but the inclination,”
said Elizabeth.
“We can all plague and punish
one another.
Tease him —
laugh at him.
Intimate as you are,
you must know how it is to be done.”

“But upon my honour I do not.
I do assure you
that my intimacy
has not yet taught me that.
Tease calmness of temper
and presence of mind!
No, no;
I feel he may defy us there.
And as to laughter,
we will not expose ourselves,
if you please,
by attempting to laugh
without a subject.
Mr. Darcy may hug himself.”

“Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!”
cried Elizabeth.
“That is an uncommon advantage,
and uncommon I hope it will continue,
for it would be a great loss to me
to have many such acquaintance.
I dearly love a laugh.”

“Miss Bingley,”
said he,
“has given me credit
for more than can be.
The wisest and best of men,—
nay,
the wisest and best of their actions—
may be rendered ridiculous by a person
whose first object in life is a joke.”

“Certainly,”
replied Elizabeth,
“there are such people,
but I hope I am not one of them.
I hope I never ridicule
what is wise or good.
Follies and nonsense,
whims and inconsistencies,
do divert me,
I own,
and I laugh at them whenever I can.
But these,
I suppose,
are precisely what you are without.”

“Perhaps that is not possible
for anyone.
But it has been the study of my life
to avoid those weaknesses
which often expose
a strong understanding to ridicule.”

“Such as vanity and pride.”

“Yes,
vanity is a weakness indeed.
But pride —
where there is
a real superiority of mind —
pride will be always
under good regulation.”

Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.

“Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over,
I presume,”
said Miss Bingley;
“and pray what is the result?”

“I am perfectly convinced by it
that Mr. Darcy has no defect.
He owns it himself without disguise.”

“No,”
said Darcy,
“I have made no such pretension.
I have faults enough,
but they are not,
I hope,
of understanding.
My temper I dare not vouch for.
It is,
I believe,
too little yielding;
certainly too little
for the convenience of the world.
I cannot forget
the follies and vices of others
so soon as I ought,
nor their offences 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 for ever.”

“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 a propensity
to hate everybody.”

“And yours,”
he replied,
with a smile,
“is wilfully to misunderstand them.”

“Do let us have a little music,”
cried Miss Bingley,
tired of a conversation
in which she had no share.
“Louisa,
you will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst.”

Her sister
made not the smallest objection,
and the pianoforte was opened;
and Darcy,
after a few moments’ recollection,
was not sorry for it.
He began to feel the danger
of paying Elizabeth too much attention.

CHAPTER XII

In consequence of an agreement
between the sisters,
Elizabeth wrote the next morning
to her mother,
to beg that the carriage
might be sent for them
in the course of the day.
But Mrs. Bennet,
who had calculated on her daughters
remaining at Netherfield
till the following Tuesday,
which would exactly finish Jane’s week,
could not bring herself to receive them
with pleasure before.
Her answer,
therefore,
was not propitious,
at least not to Elizabeth’s wishes,
for she was impatient to get home.
Mrs. Bennet sent them word
that they could not possibly
have the carriage before Tuesday;
and in her postscript it was added,
that if Mr. Bingley and his sister
pressed them to stay longer,
she could spare them very well.
Against staying longer,
however,
Elizabeth was positively resolved —
nor did she much expect
it would be asked;
and fearful,
on the contrary,
of being considered
as intruding themselves needlessly long,
she urged Jane
to borrow Mr. Bingley’s carriage
immediately,
and at length it was settled
that their original design
of leaving Netherfield that morning
should be mentioned,
and the request made.

The communication
excited many professions of concern;
and enough was said
of wishing them to stay at least
till the following day to work on Jane;
and till the morrow
their going was deferred.
Miss Bingley was then sorry
that she had proposed the delay;
for her jealousy and dislike
of one sister
much exceeded her affection
for the other.

The master of the house
heard with real sorrow
that they were to go so soon,
and repeatedly tried
to persuade Miss Bennet
that it would not be safe for her —
that she was not enough recovered;
but Jane was firm
where she felt herself to be right.

To Mr. Darcy
it was welcome intelligence:
Elizabeth had been at Netherfield
long enough.
She attracted him more than he liked;
and Miss Bingley was uncivil to her
and more teasing than usual to himself.
He wisely resolved
to be particularly careful
that no sign of admiration
should now escape him —
nothing that could elevate her
with the hope
of influencing his felicity;
sensible that,
if such an idea had been suggested,
his behaviour during the last day
must have material weight
in confirming or crushing it.

Steady to his purpose,
he scarcely spoke ten words to her
through the whole of Saturday:
and though they were at one time
left by themselves for half an hour,
he adhered most conscientiously
to his book,
and would not even look at her.

On Sunday,
after morning service,
the separation,
so agreeable to almost all,
took place.
Miss Bingley’s civility to Elizabeth
increased at last very rapidly,
as well as her affection for Jane;
and when they parted,
after assuring the latter
of the pleasure it would always give her
to see her
either at Longbourn or Netherfield,
and embracing her most tenderly,
she even shook hands with the former.
Elizabeth took leave of the whole party
in the liveliest spirits.

They were not welcomed home
very cordially by their mother.
Mrs. Bennet wondered at their coming,
and thought them very wrong
to give so much trouble,
and was sure
Jane would have caught cold again.
But their father,
though very laconic
in his expressions of pleasure,
was really glad to see them;
he had felt their importance
in the family circle.
The evening conversation,
when they were all assembled,
had lost much of its animation,
and almost all its sense,
by the absence of Jane and Elizabeth.

They found Mary,
as usual,
deep in the study
of thorough bass and human nature;
and had some new extracts to admire
and some new observations
of threadbare morality to listen to.
Catherine and Lydia
had information for them
of a different sort.
Much had been done,
and much had been said in the regiment
since the preceding Wednesday;
several of the officers had dined lately
with their uncle;
a private had been flogged;
and it had actually been hinted
that Colonel Forster
was going to be married.

CHAPTER XIII

“I hope,
my dear,”
said Mr. Bennet to his wife,
as they were at breakfast
the next morning,
“that you have ordered
a good dinner to-day,
because I have reason to expect
an addition to our family party.”

“Who do you mean,
my dear?
I know of nobody that is coming,
I am sure,
unless Charlotte Lucas
should happen to call in;
and I hope my dinners
are good enough for her.
I do not believe
she often sees such at home.”

“The person of whom I speak
is a gentleman and a stranger.”

Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled.
“A gentleman and a stranger!
It is Mr. Bingley,
I am sure.
Why,
Jane —
you never dropped a word of this —
you sly thing!
Well,
I am sure I shall be extremely glad
to see Mr. Bingley.
But —
good Lord!
how unlucky!
There is not a bit of fish
to be got to-day.
Lydia,
my love,
ring the bell.
I must speak to Hill this moment.”

“It is not Mr. Bingley,”
said her husband;
“it is a person whom I never saw
in the whole course of my life.”

This roused a general astonishment;
and he had the pleasure
of being eagerly questioned
by his wife and five daughters at once.

After amusing himself some time
with their curiosity,
he thus explained,—
"About a month ago
I received this letter,
and about a fortnight ago
I answered it;
for I thought it a case
of some delicacy,
and requiring early attention.
It is from my cousin,
Mr. Collins,
who,
when I am dead,
may turn you all out of this house
as soon as he pleases.”

“Oh,
my dear,”
cried his wife,
“I cannot bear to hear that mentioned.
Pray do not talk of that odious man.
I do think it is
the hardest thing in the world,
that your estate should be entailed away
from your own children;
and I am sure,
if I had been you,
I should have tried long ago
to do something or other about it.”

Jane and Elizabeth
attempted to explain to her
the nature of an entail.
They had often attempted it before:
but it was a subject
on which Mrs. Bennet
was beyond the reach of reason;
and she continued to rail bitterly
against the cruelty
of settling an estate away
from a family of five daughters,
in favour of a man
whom nobody cared anything about.

“It certainly is
a most iniquitous affair,”
said Mr. Bennet;
“and nothing can clear Mr. Collins
from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn.
But if you will listen to his letter,
you may,
perhaps,
be a little softened
by his manner of expressing himself.”

“No,
that I am sure I shall not;
and I think it was very impertinent
of him to write to you at all,
and very hypocritical.
I hate such false friends.
Why could not he keep on
quarrelling with you,
as his father did before him?”

“Why,
indeed,
he does seem to have had
some filial scruples on that head,
as you will hear.”

“Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent,
15th October.

“Dear Sir,
“The disagreement subsisting
between yourself
and my late honoured father
always gave me much uneasiness;
and,
since I have had the misfortune
to lose him,
I have frequently wished
to heal the breach:
but,
for some time,
I was kept back by my own doubts,
fearing lest it might seem disrespectful
to his memory
for me to be on good terms with anyone
with whom it had always pleased him
to be at variance.”—
‘There, Mrs. Bennet.’—
“My mind,
however,
is now made up on the subject;
for,
having received ordination at Easter,
I have been so fortunate
as to be distinguished
by the patronage of the Right Honourable
Lady Catherine de Bourgh,
widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh,
whose bounty and beneficence
has preferred me
to the valuable rectory of this parish,
where it shall be my earnest endeavour
to demean myself with grateful respect
towards her Ladyship,
and be ever ready
to perform those rites and ceremonies
which are instituted
by the Church of England.
As a clergyman,
moreover,
I feel it my duty
to promote and establish
the blessing of peace in all families
within the reach of my influence;
and on these grounds I flatter myself
that my present overtures of good-will
are highly commendable,
and that the circumstance
of my being next
in the entail of Longbourn estate
will be kindly overlooked on your side,
and not lead you
to reject the offered olive branch.
I cannot be otherwise than concerned
at being the means
of injuring your amiable daughters,
and beg leave to apologize for it,
as well as to assure you of my readiness
to make them every possible amends;
but of this hereafter.
If you should have no objection
to receive me into your house,
I propose myself the satisfaction
of waiting on you and your family,
Monday, November 18th,
by four o’clock,
and shall probably trespass
on your hospitality
till the Saturday se’nnight following,
which I can do
without any inconvenience,
as Lady Catherine is far from objecting
to my occasional absence on a Sunday,
provided that some other clergyman
is engaged to do the duty of the day.
I remain,
dear sir,
with respectful compliments
to your lady and daughters,
your well-wisher and friend,
“William Collins.”

“At four o’clock,
therefore,
we may expect
this peace-making gentleman,”
said Mr. Bennet,
as he folded up the letter.
“He seems to be a most conscientious
and polite young man,
upon my word;
and,
I doubt not,
will prove a valuable acquaintance,
especially if Lady Catherine
should be so indulgent
as to let him come to us again.”

“There is some sense
in what he says about the girls,
however;
and,
if he is disposed
to make them any amends,
I shall not be the person
to discourage him.”

“Though it is difficult,”
said Jane,
“to guess in what way
he can mean to make us the atonement
he thinks our due,
the wish is certainly to his credit.”

Elizabeth was chiefly struck
with his extraordinary deference
for Lady Catherine,
and his kind intention of christening,
marrying,
and burying his parishioners
whenever it were required.

“He must be an oddity,
I think,”
said she.
“I cannot make him out.
There is something very pompous
in his style.
And what can he mean by apologizing
for being next in the entail?
We cannot suppose he would help it,
if he could.
Can he be a sensible man,
sir?”

“No,
my dear;
I think not.
I have great hopes of finding him
quite the reverse.
There is a mixture
of servility and self-importance
in his letter
which promises well.
I am impatient to see him.”

“In point of composition,”
said Mary,
“his letter does not seem defective.
The idea of the olive branch
perhaps is not wholly new,
yet I think it is well expressed.”

To Catherine and Lydia
neither the letter nor its writer
were in any degree interesting.
It was next to impossible
that their cousin
should come in a scarlet coat,
and it was now some weeks
since they had received pleasure
from the society of a man
in any other colour.
As for their mother,
Mr. Collins’s letter
had done away much of her ill-will,
and she was preparing to see him
with a degree of composure
which astonished
her husband and daughters.

Mr. Collins was punctual to his time,
and was received with great politeness
by the whole family.
Mr. Bennet indeed said little;
but the ladies were ready enough
to talk,
and Mr. Collins seemed
neither in need of encouragement,
nor inclined to be silent himself.
He was a tall,
heavy-looking young man
of five-and-twenty.
His air was grave and stately,
and his manners were very formal.
He had not been long seated
before he complimented Mrs. Bennet
on having so fine a family of daughters,
said he had heard much of their beauty,
but that,
in this instance,
fame had fallen short of the truth;
and added,
that he did not doubt her seeing them
all in due time
well disposed of in marriage.
This gallantry was not much to the taste
of some of his hearers;
but Mrs. Bennet,
who quarrelled with no compliments,
answered most readily,—

“You are very kind,
sir,
I am sure;
and I wish with all my heart
it may prove so;
for else they will be destitute enough.
Things are settled so oddly.”

“You allude,
perhaps,
to the entail of this estate.”

“Ah,
sir,
I do indeed.
It is a grievous affair
to my poor girls,
you must confess.
Not that I mean to find fault with you,
for such things,
I know,
are all chance in this world.
There is no knowing how estates will go
when once they come to be entailed.”

“I am very sensible,
madam,
of the hardship to my fair cousins,
and could say much on the subject,
but that I am cautious
of appearing forward and precipitate.
But I can assure the young ladies
that I come prepared to admire them.
At present I will not say more,
but,
perhaps,
when we are better acquainted—”

He was interrupted
by a summons to dinner;
and the girls smiled on each other.
They were not the only objects
of Mr. Collins’s admiration.
The hall,
the dining-room,
and all its furniture,
were examined and praised;
and his commendation of everything
would have touched Mrs. Bennet’s heart,
but for the mortifying supposition
of his viewing it all
as his own future property.
The dinner,
too,
in its turn,
was highly admired;
and he begged to know
to which of his fair cousins
the excellence of its cookery was owing.
But here he was set right
by Mrs. Bennet,
who assured him,
with some asperity,
that they were very well able
to keep a good cook,
and that her daughters
had nothing to do in the kitchen.
He begged pardon
for having displeased her.
In a softened tone
she declared herself
not at all offended;
but he continued to apologize
for about a quarter of an hour.

CHAPTER XIV

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

She had even condescended to advise him
to marry as soon as he could,
provided he chose with discretion;
and had once paid him a visit
in his humble parsonage,
where she had perfectly approved
all the alterations he had been making,
and had even vouchsafed
to suggest some herself,—
some shelves in the closets 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 separated only by a lane
from Rosings Park,
her Ladyship’s residence.”

“I think you said she was a widow,
sir?
has she any family?”

“She has one only daughter,
the heiress of Rosings,
and of very extensive property.”

“Ah,”
cried Mrs. Bennet,
shaking her head,
“then she is better off than many girls.
And what sort of young lady is she?
Is she handsome?”

“She is a most charming young lady,
indeed.
Lady Catherine herself says that,
in point of true beauty,
Miss de Bourgh is far superior
to the handsomest of her sex;
because there is that in her features
which marks the young woman
of distinguished birth.
She is unfortunately
of a sickly constitution,
which has prevented her
making that progress
in many accomplishments
which she could not
otherwise have failed of,
as I am informed by the lady
who superintended her education,
and who still resides with them.
But she is perfectly amiable,
and often condescends to drive
by my humble abode
in her little phaeton and ponies.”

“Has she been presented?
I do not remember her name
among the ladies at court.”

“Her indifferent state of health
unhappily prevents her being in town;
and by that means,
as I told Lady Catherine myself one day,
has deprived the British Court
of its brightest ornament.
Her Ladyship seemed pleased
with the idea;
and you may imagine that I am happy
on every occasion to offer
those little delicate compliments
which are always acceptable to ladies.
I have more than once observed
to Lady Catherine,
that her charming daughter
seemed born to be a duchess;
and that the most elevated rank,
instead of giving her consequence,
would be adorned by her.
These are the kind of little things
which please her Ladyship,
and it is a sort of attention
which I conceive
myself peculiarly bound to pay.”

“You judge very properly,”
said Mr. Bennet;
“and it is happy for you
that you possess the talent
of flattering with delicacy.
May I ask
whether these pleasing attentions
proceed from the impulse of the moment,
or are the result of previous study?”

“They arise chiefly
from what is passing at the time;
and though I sometimes amuse myself
with suggesting and arranging
such little elegant compliments
as may be adapted to ordinary occasions,
I always wish to give them
as unstudied an air as possible.”

Mr. Bennet’s expectations
were fully answered.
His cousin was as absurd
as he had hoped;
and he listened to him
with the keenest enjoyment,
maintaining at the same time
the most resolute composure
of countenance,
and,
except in an occasional glance
at Elizabeth,
requiring no partner in his pleasure.

By tea-time,
however,
the dose had been enough,
and Mr. Bennet was glad
to take his guest
into the drawing-room again,
and when tea was over,
glad to invite him
to read aloud to the ladies.
Mr. Collins readily assented,
and a book was produced;
but on beholding it
(for everything announced it
to be from a circulating library)
he started back,
and,
begging pardon,
protested that he never read novels.
Kitty stared at him,
and Lydia exclaimed.
Other books were produced,
and after some deliberation
he chose “Fordyce’s Sermons.”
Lydia gaped as he opened the volume;
and before he had,
with very monotonous solemnity,
read three pages,
she interrupted him with,—

“Do you know,
mamma,
that my uncle Philips
talks of turning away Richard?
and if he does,
Colonel Forster will hire him.
My aunt told me so herself on Saturday.
I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow
to hear more about it,
and to ask
when Mr. Denny comes back from town.”

Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters
to hold her tongue;
but Mr. Collins,
much offended,
laid aside his book,
and said,—

“I have often observed
how little young ladies are interested
by books of a serious stamp,
though written solely for their benefit.
It amazes me,
I confess;
for certainly there can be nothing
so advantageous to them as instruction.
But I will no longer importune
my young cousin.”

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

CHAPTER XV

Mr. Collins was not a sensible man,
and the deficiency of nature
had been but little assisted
by education or society;
the greatest part of his life
having been spent under the guidance
of an illiterate and miserly father;
and though he belonged
to one of the universities,
he had merely kept the necessary terms
without forming at it
any useful acquaintance.
The subjection
in which his father had brought him up
had given him originally
great humility of manner;
but it was now a good deal counteracted
by the self-conceit of a weak head,
living in retirement,
and the consequential feelings
of early and unexpected prosperity.
A fortunate chance had recommended him
to Lady Catherine de Bourgh
when the living of Hunsford was vacant;
and the respect which he felt
for her high rank,
and his veneration for her
as his patroness,
mingling
with a very good opinion of himself,
of his authority as a clergyman,
and his right as a rector,
made him altogether a mixture
of pride and obsequiousness,
self-importance and humility.

Having now a good house
and a very sufficient income,
he intended to marry;
and in seeking a reconciliation
with the Longbourn family
he had a wife in view,
as he meant to choose
one of the daughters,
if he found them as handsome and amiable
as they were represented
by common report.
This was his plan of amends —
of atonement —
for inheriting their father’s estate;
and he thought it an excellent one,
full of eligibility and suitableness,
and excessively generous
and disinterested
on his own part.

His plan did not vary on seeing them.
Miss Bennet’s lovely face
confirmed his views,
and established
all his strictest notions
of what was due to seniority;
and for the first evening
she was his settled choice.
The next morning,
however,
made an alteration;
for in a quarter
of an hour’s tête-à-tête
with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast,
a conversation beginning
with his parsonage-house,
and leading naturally
to the avowal of his hopes,
that a mistress for it
might be found at Longbourn,
produced from her,
amid very complaisant smiles
and general encouragement,
a caution against the very Jane
he had fixed on.
“As to her younger daughters,
she could not take upon her to say —
she could not positively answer —
but she did not know
of any prepossession;—
her eldest daughter
she must just mention —
she felt it incumbent on her to hint,
was likely to be very soon engaged.”

Mr. Collins had only to change
from Jane to Elizabeth —
and it was soon done —
done while Mrs. Bennet
was stirring the fire.
Elizabeth,
equally next to Jane
in birth and beauty,
succeeded her of course.

Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint,
and trusted that she might soon have
two daughters married;
and the man whom she could not bear
to speak of the day before,
was now high in her good graces.

Lydia’s intention of walking to Meryton
was not forgotten:
every sister except Mary
agreed to go with her;
and Mr. Collins was to attend them,
at the request of Mr. Bennet,
who was most anxious to get rid of him,
and have his library to himself;
for thither Mr. Collins
had followed him after breakfast,
and there he would continue,
nominally engaged
with one of the largest folios
in the collection,
but really talking to Mr. Bennet,
with little cessation,
of his house and garden at Hunsford.
Such doings
discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly.
In his library he had been always sure
of leisure and tranquillity;
and though prepared,
as he told Elizabeth,
to meet with folly and conceit
in every other room in 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 well pleased
to close his large book,
and go.

In pompous nothings on his side,
and civil assents
on that of his cousins,
their time passed
till they entered Meryton.
The attention of the younger ones
was then no longer to be gained by him.
Their eyes were immediately wandering
up the street
in quest of the officers,
and nothing less
than a very smart bonnet,
indeed,
or a really new muslin in a shop window,
could recall them.

But the attention of every lady
was soon caught by a young man,
whom they had never seen before,
of most gentlemanlike appearance,
walking with an officer
on the other side of the way.
The officer was the very Mr. Denny
concerning whose return from London
Lydia came to inquire,
and he bowed as they passed.
All were struck with the stranger’s air,
all wondered who he could be;
and Kitty and Lydia,
determined if possible to find out,
led the way across the street,
under pretence of wanting something
in an opposite shop,
and fortunately
had just gained the pavement,
when the two gentlemen,
turning back,
had reached the same spot.
Mr. Denny addressed them directly,
and entreated permission
to introduce his friend,
Mr. Wickham,
who had returned with him
the day before from town,
and,
he was happy to say,
had accepted a commission
in their corps.
This was exactly as it should be;
for the young man
wanted only regimentals
to make him completely charming.

His appearance
was greatly in his favour:
he had all the best parts of beauty,
a fine countenance,
a good figure,
and very pleasing address.
The introduction
was followed up on his side
by a happy readiness of conversation —
a readiness at the same time
perfectly correct and unassuming;
and the whole party
were still standing and talking together
very agreeably,
when the sound of horses
drew their notice,
and Darcy and Bingley
were seen riding down the street.
On distinguishing the ladies
of the group
the two gentlemen
came directly towards them,
and began the usual civilities.
Bingley was the principal spokesman,
and Miss Bennet the principal object.
He was then,
he said,
on his way to Longbourn
on purpose to inquire after her.
Mr. Darcy corroborated it with a bow,
and was beginning to determine
not to fix his eyes on Elizabeth,
when they were suddenly arrested
by the sight of the stranger;
and Elizabeth happening to see
the countenance of both
as they looked at each other,
was all astonishment
at the effect of the meeting.
Both changed colour,
one looked white,
the other red.
Mr. Wickham,
after a few moments,
touched his hat —
a salutation which Mr. Darcy
just deigned to return.
What could be the meaning of it?
It was impossible to imagine;
it was impossible not to long to know.

In another minute Mr. Bingley,
but without seeming to have noticed
what passed,
took leave and rode on with his friend.

Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham
walked with the young ladies
to the door of Mr. Philips’s house,
and then made their bows,
in spite of Miss Lydia’s pressing
entreaties that they would come in,
and even in spite of Mrs. Philips’s
throwing up the parlour window,
and loudly seconding the invitation.

Mrs. Philips was always glad
to see her nieces;
and the two eldest,
from their recent absence,
were particularly welcome;
and she was eagerly expressing
her surprise
at their sudden return home,
which,
as their own carriage
had not fetched them,
she should have known nothing about,
if she had not happened
to see Mr. Jones’s shopboy
in the street,
who had told her
that they were not to send
any more draughts to Netherfield,
because the Miss Bennets were come away,
when her civility
was claimed towards Mr. Collins
by Jane’s introduction of him.
She received him
with her very best politeness,
which he returned with as much more,
apologizing 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. Philips was quite awed
by such an excess of good breeding;
but her contemplation of one stranger
was soon put an end to
by exclamations and inquiries
about the other,
of whom,
however,
she could only tell her nieces
what they already knew,
that Mr. Denny had brought him
from London,
and that he was to have
a lieutenant’s commission
in the ——shire.
She had been watching him the last hour,
she said,
as he walked up and down the street,—
and had Mr. Wickham appeared,
Kitty and Lydia would certainly
have continued the occupation;
but unluckily
no one passed the windows now
except a few of the officers,
who,
in comparison with the stranger,
were become “stupid,
disagreeable fellows.”
Some of them were to dine
with the Philipses
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. Philips protested
that they would have
a nice comfortable noisy game
of lottery tickets,
and a little bit of hot supper
afterwards.
The prospect of such delights
was very cheering,
and they parted in mutual good spirits.
Mr. Collins repeated his apologies
in quitting the room,
and was assured,
with unwearying civility,
that they were perfectly needless.

As they walked home,
Elizabeth related to Jane
what she had seen
pass between the two gentlemen;
but though Jane
would have defended either or both,
had they appeared to be wrong,
she could no more explain such behaviour
than her sister.

Mr. Collins on his return
highly gratified Mrs. Bennet
by admiring
Mrs. Philips’s manners and politeness.
He protested that,
except Lady Catherine and her daughter,
he had never seen a more elegant woman;
for she had not only received him
with the utmost civility,
but had even pointedly included him
in her invitation for the next evening,
although utterly unknown to her before.
Something,
he supposed,
might be attributed
to his connection with them,
but yet he had never met
with so much attention
in the whole course of his life.

CHAPTER XVI

As no objection was made
to the young people’s engagement
with their aunt,
and all Mr. Collins’s scruples
of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet
for a single evening during his visit
were most steadily resisted,
the coach conveyed him
and his five cousins
at a suitable hour to Meryton;
and the girls
had the pleasure of hearing,
as they entered the drawing-room,
that Mr. Wickham
had accepted their uncle’s invitation,
and was then in the house.

When this information was given,
and they had all taken their seats,
Mr. Collins was at leisure
to look around him
and admire,
and he was so much struck
with the size and furniture
of the apartment,
that he declared
he might almost have supposed himself
in the small summer breakfast parlour
at Rosings;
a comparison that did not at first
convey much gratification;
but when Mrs. Philips understood
from him what Rosings was,
and who was its proprietor,
when she had listened to the description
of only one
of Lady Catherine’s drawing-rooms,
and found that the chimney-piece alone
had cost eight hundred pounds,
she felt
all the force of the compliment,
and would hardly have resented
a comparison
with the housekeeper’s room.

In describing to her all the grandeur
of Lady Catherine and her mansion,
with occasional digressions in praise
of his own humble abode,
and the improvements it was receiving,
he was happily employed
until the gentlemen joined them;
and he found in Mrs. Philips
a very attentive listener,
whose opinion of his consequence
increased with what she heard,
and who was resolving to retail it
all among her neighbours
as soon as she could.
To the girls,
who could not listen to their cousin,
and who had nothing to do
but to wish for an instrument,
and examine
their own indifferent imitations
of china on the mantel-piece,
the interval of waiting
appeared very long.
It was over at last,
however.
The gentlemen did approach:
and when Mr. Wickham
walked into the room,
Elizabeth felt that
she had neither been seeing him before,
nor thinking of him since,
with the smallest degree
of unreasonable admiration.
The officers of the ——shire
were in general a very creditable,
gentlemanlike set
and the best of them
were of the present party;
but Mr. Wickham
was as far beyond them all in person,
countenance,
air,
and walk,
as they were superior
to the broad-faced stuffy uncle Philips,
breathing port wine,
who followed them into the room.

Mr. Wickham was the happy man
towards whom almost every female eye
was turned,
and Elizabeth was the happy woman
by whom he finally seated himself;
and the agreeable manner in which
he immediately fell into conversation,
though it was only on its being
a wet night,
and on the probability
of a rainy season,
made her feel that the commonest,
dullest,
most threadbare topic
might be rendered interesting
by the skill of the speaker.

With such rivals
for the notice of the fair
as Mr. Wickham and the officers,
Mr. Collins seemed to sink
into insignificance;
to the young ladies
he certainly was nothing;
but he had still at intervals
a kind listener in Mrs. Philips,
and was,
by her watchfulness,
most abundantly supplied
with coffee and muffin.

When the card tables were placed,
he had an opportunity of obliging her,
in return,
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 of life ——”
Mrs. Philips was very thankful
for his compliance,
but could not wait for his reason.

Mr. Wickham did not play at whist,
and with ready delight
was he received at the other table
between Elizabeth and Lydia.
At first
there seemed danger of Lydia’s
engrossing him entirely,
for she was a most determined talker;
but being likewise extremely fond
of lottery tickets,
she soon grew too much interested
in the game,
too eager in making bets
and exclaiming after prizes,
to have attention
for anyone in particular.
Allowing for the common demands
of the game,
Mr. Wickham was therefore at leisure
to talk to Elizabeth,
and she was very willing to hear him,
though what she chiefly wished to hear
she could not hope to be told,
the history of his acquaintance
with Mr. Darcy.
She dared not even mention
that gentleman.
Her curiosity,
however,
was unexpectedly relieved.
Mr. Wickham began the subject himself.
He inquired
how far Netherfield was from Meryton;
and,
after receiving her answer,
asked in a hesitating manner how long
Mr. Darcy had been staying there.

“About a month,”
said Elizabeth;
and then,
unwilling to let the subject drop,
added,
“he is a man of very large property
in Derbyshire,
I understand.”

“Yes,”
replied Wickham;
“his estate there is a noble one.
A clear ten thousand per annum.
You could not have met
with a person more capable
of giving you certain information
on that head than myself —
for I have been connected
with his family,
in a particular manner,
from my infancy.”

Elizabeth could not but look surprised.

“You may well be surprised,
Miss Bennet,
at such an assertion,
after seeing,
as you probably might,
the very cold manner
of our meeting yesterday.
Are you much acquainted
with Mr. Darcy?”

“As much as I ever wish to be,”
cried Elizabeth,
warmly.
“I have spent four days
in the same house with him,
and I think him very disagreeable.”

“I have no right to give my opinion,”
said Wickham,
“as to his being agreeable or otherwise.
I am not qualified to form one.
I have known him too long and too well
to be a fair judge.
It is impossible for me to be impartial.
But I believe your opinion of him
would in general astonish —
and,
perhaps,
you would not express it
quite so strongly anywhere else.
Here you are in your own family.”

“Upon my word
I say no more here than I might say
in any house in the neighbourhood,
except Netherfield.
He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire.
Everybody is disgusted with his pride.
You will not find him
more favourably spoken of by anyone.”

“I cannot pretend to be sorry,”
said Wickham,
after a short interruption,
“that he or that any man
should not be estimated
beyond their deserts;
but with him
I believe it does not often happen.
The world is blinded
by his fortune and consequence,
or frightened
by his high and imposing manners,
and sees him only
as he chooses to be seen.”

“I should take him,
even on my slight acquaintance,
to be an ill-tempered man.”

Wickham only shook his head.

“I wonder,”
said he,
at the next opportunity of speaking,
“whether he is likely
to be in this country much longer.”

“I do not at all know;
but I heard nothing of his going away
when I was at Netherfield.
I hope your plans
in favour of the ——shire
will not be affected
by his being in the neighbourhood.”

“Oh no —
it is not for me to be driven away
by Mr. Darcy.
If he wishes to avoid seeing me
he must go.
We are not on friendly terms,
and it always gives me pain to meet him,
but I have no reason for avoiding him
but what I might proclaim
to all the world —
a sense of very great ill-usage,
and most painful regrets
at his being what he is.
His father,
Miss Bennet,
the late Mr. Darcy,
was one of the best men
that ever breathed,
and the truest friend I ever had;
and I can never be in company
with this Mr. Darcy
without being grieved to the soul
by a thousand tender recollections.
His behaviour to myself
has been scandalous;
but I verily believe
I could forgive him
anything and everything,
rather than his disappointing the hopes
and disgracing the memory
of his father.”

Elizabeth found the interest
of the subject increase,
and listened with all her heart;
but the delicacy of it
prevented further inquiry.

Mr. Wickham began to speak
on more general topics,
Meryton,
the neighbourhood,
the society,
appearing highly pleased
with all that he had yet seen,
and speaking of the latter,
especially,
with gentle but very intelligible
gallantry.

“It was the prospect
of constant society,
and good society,”
he added,
“which was my chief inducement
to enter the ——shire.
I know it to be a most respectable,
agreeable corps;
and my friend Denny tempted me further
by his account
of their present quarters,
and the very great attentions
and excellent acquaintance
Meryton had procured them.
Society,
I own,
is necessary to me.
I have been a disappointed man,
and my spirits will not bear solitude.
I must have employment and society.
A military life
is not what I was intended for,
but circumstances
have now made it eligible.

The church
ought to have been my profession —
I was brought up for the church;
and I should at this time
have been in possession
of a most valuable living,
had it pleased the gentleman
we were speaking of just now.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes —
the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me
the next presentation of the best living
in his gift.
He was my godfather,
and excessively attached to me.
I cannot do justice to his kindness.
He meant to provide for me amply,
and thought he had done it;
but when the living fell,
it was given elsewhere.”

“Good heavens!”
cried Elizabeth;
“but how could that be?
How could his will be disregarded?
Why did not you seek legal redress?”

“There was just such an informality
in the terms of the bequest
as to give me no hope from law.
A man of honour
could not have doubted the intention,
but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it —
or to treat it
as a merely conditional recommendation,
and to assert
that I had forfeited all claim to it
by extravagance,
imprudence,
in short,
anything or nothing.
Certain it is that the living
became vacant two years ago,
exactly as I was of an age to hold it,
and that it was given to another man;
and no less certain is it,
that I cannot accuse myself
of having really done anything
to deserve to lose it.
I have a warm unguarded temper,
and I may perhaps have sometimes spoken
my opinion of him,
and to him,
too freely.
I can recall nothing worse.
But the fact is,
that we are very different sort of men,
and that he hates me.”

“This is quite shocking!
He deserves to be publicly disgraced.”

“Some time or other he will be —
but it shall not be by me.
Till I can forget his father,
I can never defy or expose him.”

Elizabeth honoured him
for such feelings,
and thought him handsomer than ever
as he expressed them.

“But what,”
said she,
after a pause,
“can have been his motive?
what can have induced him
to behave so cruelly?”

“A thorough,
determined dislike of me —
a dislike which I cannot but attribute
in some measure to jealousy.
Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less,
his son might have borne with me better;
but his father’s uncommon attachment
to me irritated him,
I believe,
very early in life.
He had not a temper
to bear the sort of competition
in which we stood —
the sort of preference
which was often given me.”

“I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad
as this —
though I have never liked him,
I had not thought so very ill of him —
I had supposed him to be despising
his fellow-creatures in general,
but did not suspect him
of descending to such malicious revenge,
such injustice,
such inhumanity as this!”

After a few minutes’ reflection,
however,
she continued,
“I do remember his boasting one day,
at Netherfield,
of the implacability of his resentments,
of his having an unforgiving temper.
His disposition must be dreadful.”

“I will not trust myself
on the subject,”
replied Wickham;
“I can hardly be just to him.”

Elizabeth was again deep in thought,
and after a time exclaimed,
“To treat in such a manner the godson,
the friend,
the favourite of his father!”
She could have added,
“A young man,
too,
like you,
whose very countenance may vouch
for your being amiable.”
But she contented herself with—
“And one,
too,
who had probably been his own companion
from childhood,
connected together,
as I think you said,
in the closest manner.”

“We were born in the same parish,
within the same park;
the greatest part of our youth
was passed together:
inmates of the same house,
sharing the same amusements,
objects of the same parental care.
My father began life in the profession
which your uncle,
Mr. Philips,
appears to do so much credit to;
but he gave up everything to be of use
to the late Mr. Darcy,
and devoted all his time
to the care of the Pemberley property.
He was most highly esteemed
by Mr. Darcy,
a most intimate,
confidential friend.
Mr. Darcy
often acknowledged himself
to be under the greatest obligations
to my father’s active superintendence;
and when,
immediately before my father’s death,
Mr. Darcy gave him a voluntary promise
of providing for me,
I am convinced that he felt it to be
as much a debt of gratitude to him
as of affection to myself.”

“How strange!”
cried Elizabeth.
“How abominable!
I wonder
that the very pride of this Mr. Darcy
has not made him just to you.
If from no better motive,
that he should not have been too proud
to be dishonest,—
for dishonesty I must call it.”

“It is wonderful,”
replied Wickham;
“for almost all his actions
may be traced to pride;
and pride
has often been his best friend.
It has connected him nearer with virtue
than any other feeling.
But we are none of us consistent;
and in his behaviour to me
there were stronger impulses
even than pride.”

“Can such abominable pride as his
have ever done him good?”

“Yes;
it has often led him
to be liberal and generous;
to give his money freely,
to display hospitality,
to assist his tenants,
and relieve the poor.
Family pride,
and filial pride,
for he is very proud
of what his father was,
have done this.
Not to appear to disgrace his family,
to degenerate
from the popular qualities,
or lose the influence
of the Pemberley House,
is a powerful motive.

He has also brotherly pride,
which,
with some brotherly affection,
makes him a very kind and careful
guardian of his sister;
and you will hear him generally cried up
as the most attentive
and best of brothers.”

“What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?”

He shook his head.
“I wish I could call her amiable.
It gives me pain
to speak ill of a Darcy;
but she is too much
like her brother,—
very,
very proud.
As a child,
she was affectionate and pleasing,
and extremely fond of me;
and I have devoted hours and hours
to her amusement.
But she is nothing to me now.
She is a handsome girl,
about fifteen or sixteen,
and,
I understand,
highly accomplished.
Since her father’s death
her home has been London,
where a lady lives with her,
and superintends her education.”

After many pauses and many trials
of other subjects,
Elizabeth could not help
reverting once more to the first,
and saying,—

“I am astonished
at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley.
How can Mr. Bingley,
who seems good-humour itself,
and is,
I really believe,
truly amiable,
be in friendship with such a man?
How can they suit each other?
Do you know Mr. Bingley?”

“Not at all.”

“He is a sweet-tempered,
amiable,
charming man.
He cannot know what Mr. Darcy is.”

“Probably not;
but Mr. Darcy can please
where he chooses.
He does not want abilities.
He can be a conversible companion
if he thinks it worth his while.
Among those who are at all his equals
in consequence,
he is a very different man
from what he is to the less prosperous.
His pride never deserts him;
but with the rich he is liberal-minded,
just,
sincere,
rational,
honourable,
and,
perhaps,
agreeable,—
allowing something
for fortune and figure.”

The whist party
soon afterwards breaking up,
the players gathered
round the other table,
and Mr. Collins took his station
between his cousin Elizabeth
and Mrs. Philips.
The usual inquiries as to his success
were made by the latter.
It had not been very great;
he had lost every point;
but when Mrs. Philips
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
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 chance
of these things,—
and happily I am not
in such circumstances
as to make five shillings any object.
There are,
undoubtedly,
many who could not say the same;
but,
thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh,
I am removed far beyond the necessity
of regarding little matters.”

Mr. Wickham’s attention was caught;
and after observing Mr. Collins
for a few moments,
he asked Elizabeth in a low voice
whether her relations
were very intimately acquainted
with the family of De Bourgh.

“Lady Catherine de Bourgh,”
she replied,
“has very lately given him a living.
I hardly know
how Mr. Collins
was first introduced to her notice,
but he certainly
has not known her long.”

“You know of course
that Lady Catherine de Bourgh
and Lady Anne Darcy
were sisters;
consequently that she is aunt
to the present Mr. Darcy.”

“No,
indeed,
I did not.
I knew nothing at all
of Lady Catherine’s connections.
I never heard of her existence
till the day before yesterday.”

“Her daughter,
Miss de Bourgh,
will have a very large fortune,
and it is believed
that she and her cousin
will unite the two estates.”

This information made Elizabeth smile,
as she thought of poor Miss Bingley.
Vain indeed must be all her attentions,
vain and useless
her affection for his sister
and her praise of himself,
if he were already self-destined
to another.

“Mr. Collins,”
said she,
“speaks highly
both of Lady Catherine and her daughter;
but,
from some particulars
that he has related of her Ladyship,
I suspect his gratitude misleads him;
and that,
in spite of her being his patroness,
she is an arrogant,
conceited woman.”

“I believe her to be both
in a great degree,”
replied Wickham;
“I have not seen her for many years;
but I very well remember
that I never liked her,
and that her manners
were dictatorial and insolent.
She has the reputation
of being remarkably sensible and clever;
but I rather believe
she derives part of her abilities
from her rank and fortune,
part from her authoritative manner,
and the rest
from the pride of her nephew,
who chooses
that everyone connected with him
should have an understanding
of the first class.”

Elizabeth allowed that he had given
a very rational account of it,
and they continued talking together
with mutual satisfaction
till supper put an end to cards,
and gave the rest of the ladies
their share of Mr. Wickham’s attentions.
There could be no conversation
in the noise
of Mrs. Philips’s supper party,
but his manners
recommended him to everybody.
Whatever he said,
was said well;
and whatever he did,
done gracefully.
Elizabeth went away
with her head full of him.
She could think of nothing
but of Mr. Wickham,
and of what he had told her,
all the way home;
but there was not time for her
even to mention his name as they went,
for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins
were once silent.

Lydia talked incessantly
of lottery tickets,
of the fish she had lost
and the fish she had won;
and Mr. Collins,
in describing the civility
of Mr. and Mrs. Philips,
protesting that he did not in the least
regard his losses at whist,
enumerating all the dishes at supper,
and repeatedly fearing
that he crowded his cousins,
had more to say
than he could well manage
before the carriage stopped
at Longbourn House.

CHAPTER XVII

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 really endured
such unkindness
was enough
to interest all her tender feelings;
and nothing therefore remained
to be done
but to think well of them both,
to defend the conduct of each,
and throw into the account
of accident or mistake
whatever could not
be otherwise explained.

“They have both,”
said she,
“been deceived,
I dare say,
in some way or other,
of which we can form no idea.
Interested people
have perhaps misrepresented
each to the other.
It is,
in short,
impossible for us to conjecture
the causes or circumstances
which may have alienated them,
without actual blame on either side.”

“Very true,
indeed;
and now,
my dear Jane,
what have you got to say
in behalf of the interested people
who have probably been concerned
in the business?
Do clear them,
too,
or we shall be obliged
to think ill of somebody.”

“Laugh as much as you choose,
but you will not laugh me
out of my opinion.
My dearest Lizzy,
do but consider
in what a disgraceful light
it places Mr. Darcy,
to be treating his father’s favourite
in such a manner,—
one whom his father
had promised to provide for.
It is impossible.
No man of common humanity,
no man who had any value
for his character,
could be capable of it.
Can his most intimate friends
be so excessively deceived in him?
Oh no.”

“I can much more easily believe
Mr. Bingley’s being imposed on
than that Mr. Wickham
should invent such a history of himself
as he gave me last night;
names,
facts,
everything mentioned without ceremony.
If it be not so,
let Mr. Darcy contradict it.
Besides,
there was truth in his looks.”

“It is difficult,
indeed—
it is distressing.
One does not know what to think.”

“I beg your pardon;—
one knows exactly what to think.”

But Jane could think with certainty
on only one point,—
that Mr. Bingley,
if he had been imposed on,
would have much to suffer
when the affair became public.

The two young ladies were summoned
from the shrubbery,
where this conversation passed,
by the arrival
of some of the very persons
of whom they had been speaking;
Mr. Bingley and his sisters
came to give their personal invitation
for the long expected ball
at Netherfield,
which was fixed
for the following Tuesday.
The two ladies were delighted
to see their dear friend again,
called it an age since they had met,
and repeatedly asked
what she had been doing with herself
since their separation.
To the rest of the family
they paid little attention;
avoiding Mrs. Bennet
as much as possible,
saying not much to Elizabeth,
and nothing at all to the others.
They were soon gone again,
rising from their seats with an activity
which took their brother by surprise,
and hurrying off
as if eager to escape
from Mrs. Bennet’s civilities.

The prospect of the Netherfield ball
was extremely agreeable
to every female of the family.
Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it
as given in compliment
to her eldest daughter,
and was particularly flattered
by receiving the invitation
from Mr. Bingley himself,
instead of a ceremonious card.
Jane pictured to herself a happy evening
in the society of her two friends,
and the attentions of their brother;
and Elizabeth thought with pleasure
of dancing a great deal
with Mr. Wickham,
and of seeing
a confirmation of everything
in Mr. Darcy’s look and behaviour.
The happiness anticipated
by Catherine and Lydia
depended less on any single event,
or any particular person;
for though they each,
like Elizabeth,
meant to dance half the evening
with Mr. Wickham,
he was by no means the only partner
who could satisfy them,
and a ball was,
at any rate,
a ball.
And even Mary could assure her family
that she had no disinclination for it.

“While I can have my mornings
to myself,”
said she,
“it is enough.
I think it is no sacrifice
to join occasionally
in evening engagements.
Society has claims on us all;
and I profess myself one of those
who consider intervals
of recreation and amusement
as desirable for everybody.”

Elizabeth’s spirits were so high
on the occasion,
that though
she did not often speak unnecessarily
to Mr. Collins,
she could not help asking him
whether he intended
to accept Mr. Bingley’s invitation,
and if he did,
whether he would think it proper
to join in the evening’s amusement;
and she was rather surprised to find
that he entertained no scruple whatever
on that head,
and was very far from dreading a rebuke,
either from the Archbishop
or Lady Catherine de Bourgh,
by venturing to dance.

“I am by no means of opinion,
I assure you,”
said he,
“that a ball of this kind,
given by a young man of character,
to respectable people,
can have any evil tendency;
and I am so far from objecting
to dancing myself,
that I shall hope to be honoured
with the hands of all my fair cousins
in the course of the evening;
and I take this opportunity
of soliciting yours,
Miss Elizabeth,
for the two first dances especially;
a preference
which I trust my cousin Jane
will attribute to the right cause,
and not to any disrespect for her.”

Elizabeth felt herself
completely taken in.
She had fully proposed
being engaged by Wickham
for those very dances;
and to have Mr. Collins instead!—
her liveliness
had been never worse timed.
There was no help for it,
however.
Mr. Wickham’s happiness and her own
was perforce delayed a little longer,
and Mr. Collins’s proposal accepted
with as good a grace as she could.
She was not the better pleased
with his gallantry,
from the idea
it suggested of something more.
It now first struck her,
that she was selected
from among her sisters
as worthy of being the mistress
of Hunsford Parsonage,
and of assisting
to form a quadrille table
at Rosings,
in the absence
of more eligible visitors.
The idea soon reached to conviction,
as she observed
his increasing civilities
towards herself,
and heard his frequent attempt
at a compliment
on her wit and vivacity;
and though more astonished
than gratified herself
by this effect of her charms,
it was not long
before her mother
gave her to understand
that the probability of their marriage
was exceedingly agreeable to her.
Elizabeth,
however,
did not choose to take the hint,
being well aware that a serious dispute
must be the consequence of any reply.
Mr. Collins might never make the offer,
and,
till he did,
it was useless to quarrel about him.

If there had not been a Netherfield ball
to prepare for and talk of,
the younger Miss Bennets
would have been in a pitiable state
at this time;
for,
from the day of the invitation
to the day of the ball,
there was such a succession of rain
as prevented their walking
to Meryton once.
No aunt,
no officers,
no news could be sought after;
the very shoe-roses for Netherfield
were got by proxy.
Even Elizabeth might have found
some trial of her patience in weather
which totally suspended the improvement
of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham;
and nothing less than a dance on Tuesday
could have made such a Friday,
Saturday,
Sunday,
and Monday
endurable to Kitty and Lydia.

CHAPTER XVIII

Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room
at Netherfield,
and looked in vain for Mr. Wickham
among the cluster of red coats
there assembled,
a doubt of his being present
had never occurred to her.
The certainty of meeting him
had not been checked
by any of those recollections
that might not
unreasonably have alarmed her.
She had dressed
with more than usual care,
and prepared in the highest spirits
for the conquest
of all that remained
unsubdued of his heart,
trusting that it was not more
than might be won
in the course of the evening.
But in an instant arose
the dreadful suspicion
of his being purposely omitted,
for Mr. Darcy’s pleasure,
in the Bingleys’ invitation
to the officers;
and though this was not
exactly the case,
the absolute fact of his absence
was pronounced by his friend Mr. Denny,
to whom Lydia eagerly applied,
and who told them
that Wickham had been obliged
to go to town on business
the day before,
and was not yet returned;
adding,
with a significant smile,—

“I do not imagine his business
would have called him away just now,
if he had not wished to avoid
a certain gentleman here.”

This part of his intelligence,
though unheard by Lydia,
was caught by Elizabeth;
and,
as it assured her
that Darcy was not less answerable
for Wickham’s absence
than if her first surmise had been just,
every feeling of displeasure
against the former
was so sharpened
by immediate disappointment,
that she could hardly reply
with tolerable civility
to the polite inquiries
which he directly afterwards
approached to make.
Attention,
forbearance,
patience with Darcy,
was injury to Wickham.
She was resolved
against any sort of conversation
with him,
and turned away
with a degree of ill-humour
which she could not wholly surmount
even in speaking to Mr. Bingley,
whose blind partiality provoked her.

But Elizabeth was not formed
for ill-humour;
and though every prospect of her own
was destroyed for the evening,
it could not dwell long on her spirits;
and,
having told all her griefs
to Charlotte Lucas,
whom she had not seen for a week,
she was soon able
to make a voluntary transition
to the oddities of her cousin,
and to point him out
to her particular notice.
The two first dances,
however,
brought a return of distress:
they were dances of mortification.

Mr. Collins,
awkward and solemn,
apologizing instead of attending,
and often moving wrong
without being aware of it,
gave her all the shame and misery
which a disagreeable partner
for a couple of dances can give.
The moment of her release from him
was ecstasy.

She danced next with an officer,
and had the refreshment
of talking of Wickham,
and of hearing
that he was universally liked.
When those dances were over,
she returned to Charlotte Lucas,
and was in conversation with her,
when she found herself
suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy,
who took her so much by surprise
in his application for her hand,
that,
without knowing what she did,
she accepted him.
He walked away again immediately,
and she was left to fret
over her own want of presence of mind:
Charlotte tried to console her.

“I dare say
you will find him very agreeable.”

“Heaven forbid!
That would be
the greatest misfortune of all!
To find a man agreeable
whom one is determined to hate!
Do not wish me such an evil.”

When the dancing recommenced,
however,
and Darcy approached to claim her hand,
Charlotte could not help cautioning her,
in a whisper,
not to be a simpleton,
and allow her fancy for Wickham
to make her appear unpleasant
in the eyes of a man
often times his consequence.
Elizabeth made no answer,
and took her place in the set,
amazed at the dignity
to which she was arrived
in being allowed
to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy,
and reading in her neighbours’ looks
their equal amazement
in beholding it.
They stood for some time
without speaking a word;
and she began to imagine
that their silence
was to last through the two dances,
and,
at first,
was resolved not to break it;
till suddenly fancying
that it would be the greater punishment
to her partner to oblige him to talk,
she made some slight observation
on the dance.
He replied,
and was again silent.
After a pause of some minutes,
she addressed him a second time,
with—

“It is your turn to say something now,
Mr. Darcy.
I talked about the dance,
and you ought to make
some kind of remark
on the size of the room,
or the number of couples.”

He smiled,
and assured her
that whatever she wished him to say
should be said.

“Very well;
that reply will do for the present.
Perhaps,
by-and-by,
I may observe that private balls
are much pleasanter than public ones;
but now we may be silent.”

“Do you talk by rule,
then,
while you are dancing?”

“Sometimes.
One must speak a little,
you know.
It would look odd to be entirely silent
for half an hour together;
and yet,
for the advantage of some,
conversation ought to be so arranged
as that they may have the trouble
of saying as little as possible.”

“Are you consulting your own feelings
in the present case,
or do you imagine
that you are gratifying mine?”

“Both,”
replied Elizabeth archly;
“for I have always seen
a great similarity
in the turn of our minds.
We are each of an unsocial,
taciturn disposition,
unwilling to speak,
unless we expect to say something
that will amaze the whole room,
and be handed down to posterity
with all the éclat of a proverb.”

“This is no very striking resemblance
of your own character,
I am sure,”
said he.
“How near it may be to mine,
I cannot pretend to say.
You think it a faithful portrait,
undoubtedly.”

“I must not decide
on my own performance.”

He made no answer;
and they were again silent
till they had gone down the dance,
when he asked her
if she and her sisters
did not very often walk to Meryton.
She answered in the affirmative;
and,
unable to resist the temptation,
added,
“When you met us there the other day,
we had just been forming
a new acquaintance.”

The effect was immediate.
A deeper shade of hauteur
overspread his features,
but he said not a word;
and Elizabeth,
though blaming herself
for her own weakness,
could not go on.
At length Darcy spoke,
and in a constrained manner said,—

“Mr. Wickham is blessed
with such happy manners
as may insure his making friends;
whether he may be equally capable
of retaining them,
is less certain.”

“He has been so unlucky
as to lose your friendship,”
replied Elizabeth,
with emphasis,
“and in a manner which he is likely
to suffer from all his life.”

Darcy made no answer,
and seemed desirous
of changing the subject.
At that moment Sir William Lucas
appeared close to them,
meaning to pass through the set
to the other side of the room;
but,
on perceiving Mr. Darcy,
he stopped,
with a bow of superior courtesy,
to compliment him
on his dancing and his partner.

“I have been most highly gratified,
indeed,
my dear sir;
such very superior dancing
is not often seen.
It is evident
that you belong to the first circles.
Allow me to say,
however,
that your fair partner
does not disgrace you:
and that I must hope to have
this pleasure often repeated,
especially when
a certain desirable event,
my dear Miss Eliza
(glancing at her sister and Bingley),
shall take place.
What congratulations will then flow in!
I appeal to Mr. Darcy;—
but let me not interrupt you,
sir.
You will not thank me for detaining you
from the bewitching converse
of that young lady,
whose bright eyes
are also upbraiding me.”

The latter part of this address
was scarcely heard by Darcy;
but Sir William’s allusion to his friend
seemed to strike him forcibly,
and his eyes were directed,
with a very serious expression,
towards Bingley and Jane,
who were dancing together.
Recovering himself,
however,
shortly,
he turned to his partner,
and said,—

“Sir William’s interruption
has made me forget
what we were talking of.”

“I do not think we were speaking at all.
Sir William could not have interrupted
any two people in the room
who had less to say for themselves.
We have tried two or three subjects
already without success,
and what we are to talk of next
I cannot imagine.”

“What think you of books?”
said he,
smiling.

“Books—
oh no!—
I am sure we never read the same,
or not with the same feelings.”

“I am sorry you think so;
but if that be the case,
there can at least be
no want of subject.
We may compare our different opinions.”

“No—
I cannot talk of books in a ball-room;
my head is always full
of something else.”

“The present always occupies you
in such scenes—
does it?”
said he,
with a look of doubt.

“Yes,
always,”
she replied,
without knowing what she said;
for her thoughts
had wandered far from the subject,
as soon afterwards appeared
by her suddenly exclaiming,
“I remember hearing you once say,
Mr. Darcy,
that you hardly ever forgave;—
that your resentment,
once created,
was unappeasable.
You are very cautious,
I suppose,
as to its being created?”

“I am,”
said he,
with a firm voice.

“And never allow yourself
to be blinded by prejudice?”

“I hope not.”

“It is particularly incumbent on those
who never change their opinion,
to be secure
of judging properly at first.”

“May I ask
to what these questions tend?”

“Merely to the illustration
of your character,”
said she,
endeavouring to shake off her gravity.
“I am trying to make it out.”

“And what is your success?”

She shook her head.
“I do not get on at all.
I hear such different accounts of you
as puzzle me exceedingly.”

“I can readily believe,”
answered he,
gravely,
“that reports may vary greatly
with respect to me;
and I could wish,
Miss Bennet,
that you were not to sketch my character
at the present moment,
as there is reason to fear
that the performance
would reflect no credit on either.”

“But if I do not take your likeness now,
I may never have another opportunity.”

“I would by no means
suspend any pleasure of yours,”
he coldly replied.

She said no more,
and they went down the other dance
and parted in silence;
on each side dissatisfied,
though not to an equal degree;
for in Darcy’s breast
there was a tolerably powerful feeling
towards her,
which soon procured her pardon,
and directed all his anger
against another.

They had not long separated
when Miss Bingley came towards her,
and,
with an expression of civil disdain,
thus accosted her,—

“So,
Miss Eliza,
I hear you are quite delighted
with George Wickham?
Your sister has been talking to me
about him,
and asking me a thousand questions;
and I find
that the young man forgot to tell you,
among his other communications,
that he was the son of old Wickham,
the late Mr. Darcy’s steward.
Let me recommend you,
however,
as a friend,
not to give implicit confidence
to all his assertions;
for,
as to Mr. Darcy’s using him ill,
it is perfectly false:
for,
on the contrary,
he has been always
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
he could not well avoid including him
in his invitation to the officers,
he was excessively glad to find
that he had taken himself
out of the way.
His coming into the country at all
is a most insolent thing,
indeed,
and I wonder
how he could presume to do it.
I pity you,
Miss Eliza,
for this discovery
of your favourite’s guilt;
but really,
considering his descent,
one could not expect much better.”

“His guilt and his descent appear,
by your account,
to be the same,”
said Elizabeth,
angrily;
“for I have heard you accuse him
of nothing worse than of being
the son of Mr. Darcy’s steward,
and of that,
I can assure you,
he informed me himself.”

“I beg your pardon,”
replied Miss Bingley,
turning away with a sneer.
“Excuse my interference;
it was kindly meant.”

“Insolent girl!”
said Elizabeth to herself.
“You are much mistaken
if you expect to influence me
by such a paltry attack as this.
I see nothing in it
but your own wilful ignorance
and the malice of Mr. Darcy.”
She then sought her eldest sister,
who had undertaken to make inquiries
on the same subject of Bingley.
Jane met her with a smile
of such sweet complacency,
a glow of such happy expression,
as sufficiently marked
how well she was satisfied
with the occurrences of the evening.
Elizabeth instantly read her feelings;
and,
at that moment,
solicitude for Wickham,
resentment against his enemies,
and everything else,
gave way
before the hope
of Jane’s being
in the fairest way for happiness.

“I want to know,”
said she,
with a countenance no less smiling
than her sister’s,
“what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham.
But perhaps
you have been too pleasantly engaged
to think of any third person,
in which case
you may be sure of my pardon.”

“No,”
replied Jane,
“I have not forgotten him;
but I have nothing satisfactory
to tell you.
Mr. Bingley does not know
the whole of his history,
and is quite ignorant
of the circumstances which have
principally offended Mr. Darcy;
but he will vouch for the good conduct,
the probity and honour,
of his friend,
and is perfectly convinced
that Mr. Wickham has deserved
much less attention from Mr. Darcy
than he has received;
and I am sorry to say
that by his account,
as well as his sister’s,
Mr. Wickham is by no means
a respectable young man.
I am afraid he has been very imprudent,
and has deserved
to lose Mr. Darcy’s regard.”

“Mr. Bingley does not know
Mr. Wickham himself.”

“No;
he never saw him
till the other morning at Meryton.”

“This account then
is what he has received
from Mr. Darcy.
I am perfectly satisfied.
But what does he say of the living?”

“He does not exactly recollect
the circumstances,
though he has heard them
from Mr. Darcy
more than once,
but he believes that it was left to him
conditionally only.”

“I have not a doubt
of Mr. Bingley’s sincerity,”
said Elizabeth warmly,
“but you must excuse
my not being convinced
by assurances only.
Mr. Bingley’s defence 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 still
to think of both gentlemen
as I did before.”

She then changed the discourse
to one more gratifying to each,
and on which there could be
no difference of sentiment.
Elizabeth listened with delight
to the happy though modest hopes
which Jane entertained
of Bingley’s regard,
and said all in her power
to heighten her confidence in it.
On their being joined
by Mr. Bingley himself,
Elizabeth withdrew to Miss Lucas;
to whose inquiry
after the pleasantness
of her last partner
she had scarcely replied,
before Mr. Collins came up to them,
and told her with great exultation,
that he had just been so fortunate
as to make a most important discovery.

“I have found out,”
said he,
“by a singular accident,
that there is now in the room
a near relation to my patroness.
I happened to overhear
the gentleman himself
mentioning to the young lady
who does the honours of this house
the names of his cousin Miss De Bourgh,
and of her mother,
Lady Catherine.
How wonderfully
these sort of things occur!
Who would have thought
of my meeting with —
perhaps —
a nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh
in this assembly!

I am most thankful
that the discovery is made in time
for me to pay my respects to him,
which I am now going to do,
and trust he will excuse
my not having done it before.
My total ignorance of the connection
must plead my apology.”

“You are not going to introduce yourself
to Mr. Darcy?”

“Indeed I am.
I shall entreat his pardon
for not having done it earlier.
I believe him to be
Lady Catherine’s nephew.
It will be in my power to assure him
that her Ladyship was quite well
yesterday se’nnight.”

Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him
from such a scheme;
assuring him
that Mr. Darcy would consider
his addressing him without introduction
as an impertinent freedom,
rather than a compliment to his aunt;
that it was not in the least necessary
there should be any notice
on either side,
and that if it were,
it must belong to Mr. Darcy,
the superior in consequence,
to begin the acquaintance.
Mr. Collins listened to her
with the determined air
of following his own inclination,
and when she ceased speaking,
replied thus,—

“My dear Miss Elizabeth,
I have the highest opinion in the world
of your excellent judgment
in all matters
within the scope of your understanding,
but permit me to say
that there must be a wide difference
between the established forms
of ceremony
amongst the laity
and those which regulate the clergy;
for,
give me leave to observe
that I consider the clerical office
as equal in point of dignity
with the highest rank in the kingdom —
provided that
a proper humility of behaviour
is at the same time maintained.
You must,
therefore,
allow me to follow
the dictates of my conscience
on this occasion,
which lead me to perform what I look on
as a point of duty.
Pardon me for neglecting to profit
by your advice,
which on every other subject
shall be my constant guide,
though in the case before us
I consider myself more fitted
by education and habitual study
to decide on what is right
than a young lady like yourself;”
and with a low bow
he left her to attack Mr. Darcy,
whose reception of his advances
she eagerly watched,
and whose astonishment
at being so addressed
was very evident.
Her cousin prefaced his speech
with a solemn bow,
and though she could not hear
a word of it,
she felt as if hearing it all,
and saw in the motion of his lips
the words “apology,”
“Hunsford,”
and “Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
It vexed her
to see him expose himself
to such a man.
Mr. Darcy was eyeing him
with unrestrained wonder;
and when at last
Mr. Collins allowed him to speak,
replied with an air of distant civility.
Mr. Collins,
however,
was not discouraged
from speaking again,
and Mr. Darcy’s contempt
seemed abundantly increasing
with the length of his second speech;
and at the end of it
he only made him a slight bow,
and moved another way:
Mr. Collins then returned to Elizabeth.

“I have no reason,
I assure you,”
said he,
“to be dissatisfied with my reception.
Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased
with the attention.
He answered me with the utmost civility,
and even paid me the compliment
of saying,
that he was so well convinced
of Lady Catherine’s discernment
as to be certain she could never bestow
a favour unworthily.
It was really a very handsome thought.
Upon the whole,
I am much pleased with him.”

As Elizabeth had no longer
any interest of her own to pursue,
she turned her attention almost entirely
on her sister and Mr. Bingley;
and the train of agreeable reflections
which her observations gave birth to
made her perhaps
almost as happy as Jane.
She saw her in idea
settled in that very house,
in all the felicity
which a marriage of true affection
could bestow;
and she felt capable,
under such circumstances,
of endeavouring
even to like Bingley’s two sisters.
Her mother’s thoughts she plainly saw
were bent the same way,
and she determined
not to venture near her,
lest she might hear too much.
When they sat down to supper,
therefore,
she considered it
a most unlucky perverseness
which placed them
within one of each other;
and deeply was she vexed to find
that her mother was talking to
that one person
(Lady Lucas)
freely,
openly,
and of nothing else
but of her expectation
that Jane would be soon married
to Mr. Bingley.
It was an animating subject,
and Mrs. Bennet
seemed incapable of fatigue
while enumerating
the advantages of the match.
His being such a charming young man,
and so rich,
and living but three miles from them,
were the first points
of self-gratulation;
and then it was such a comfort to think
how fond the two sisters were of Jane,
and to be certain
that they must desire the connection
as much as she could do.
It was,
moreover,
such a promising thing
for her younger daughters,
as Jane’s marrying
so greatly must throw them
in the way of other rich men;
and,
lastly,
it was so pleasant at her time of life
to be able
to consign her single daughters
to the care of their sister,
that she might not be obliged
to go into company more than she liked.
It was necessary
to make this circumstance
a matter of pleasure,
because on such occasions
it is the etiquette;
but no one was less likely
than Mrs. Bennet
to find comfort in staying at home
at any period of her life.
She concluded with many good wishes
that Lady Lucas
might soon be equally fortunate,
though evidently and triumphantly
believing there was no chance of it.

In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check
the rapidity of her mother’s words,
or persuade her to describe her felicity
in a less audible whisper;
for to her inexpressible vexation
she could perceive that the chief of it
was overheard by Mr. Darcy,
who sat opposite to them.
Her mother only scolded her
for being nonsensical.

“What is Mr. Darcy to me,
pray,
that I should be afraid of him?
I am sure we owe him
no such particular civility
as to be obliged to say nothing
he may not like to hear.”

“For heaven’s sake,
madam,
speak lower.
What advantage can it be to you
to offend Mr. Darcy?
You will never recommend yourself
to his friend
by so doing.”

Nothing that she could say,
however,
had any influence.
Her mother would talk of her views
in the same intelligible tone.
Elizabeth blushed and blushed again
with shame and vexation.
She could not help
frequently glancing her eye
at Mr. Darcy,
though every glance convinced her
of what she dreaded;
for though
he was not always looking at her mother,
she was convinced that his attention
was invariably fixed by her.
The expression of his face
changed gradually
from indignant contempt
to a composed and steady gravity.

At length,
however,
Mrs. Bennet had no more to say;
and Lady Lucas,
who had been long yawning
at the repetition of delights
which she saw no likelihood of sharing,
was left to the comforts
of cold ham and chicken.
Elizabeth now began to revive.
But not long
was the interval of tranquillity;
for when supper was over,
singing was talked of,
and she had the mortification
of seeing Mary,
after very little entreaty,
preparing to oblige the company.
By many significant looks
and silent entreaties
did she endeavour
to prevent such a proof
of complaisance,—
but in vain;
Mary would not understand them;
such an opportunity of exhibiting
was delightful to her,
and she began her song.
Elizabeth’s eyes were fixed on her,
with most painful sensations;
and she watched her progress
through the several stanzas
with an impatience
which was very ill rewarded
at their close;
for Mary,
on receiving
amongst the thanks of the table
the hint of a hope
that she might be prevailed on
to favour them again,
after the pause of half a minute
began another.
Mary’s powers were by no means
fitted for such a display;
her voice was weak,
and her manner affected.
Elizabeth was in agonies.
She looked at Jane
to see how she bore it;
but Jane was very composedly
talking to Bingley.
She looked at his two sisters,
and saw them making signs of derision
at each other,
and at Darcy,
who continued,
however,
impenetrably grave.
She looked at her father
to entreat his interference,
lest Mary should be singing all night.
He took the hint,
and,
when Mary had finished her second song,
said aloud,—

“That will do extremely well,
child.
You have delighted us long enough.
Let the other young ladies
have time to exhibit.”

Mary,
though pretending not to hear,
was somewhat disconcerted;
and Elizabeth,
sorry for her,
and sorry for her father’s speech,
was afraid her anxiety had done no good.
Others of the party were now applied to.

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

To Elizabeth it appeared,
that had her family made an agreement
to expose themselves
as much as they could
during the evening,
it would have been impossible
for them to play their parts
with more spirit,
or finer success;
and happy did she think it
for Bingley and her sister
that some of the exhibition
had escaped his notice,
and that his feelings
were not of a sort
to be much distressed
by the folly
which he must have witnessed.
That his two sisters and Mr. Darcy,
however,
should have such an opportunity
of ridiculing her relations
was bad enough;
and she could not determine whether
the silent contempt of the gentleman,
or the insolent smiles of the ladies,
were more intolerable.

The rest of the evening
brought her little amusement.
She was teased by Mr. Collins,
who continued most perseveringly
by her side;
and though he could not prevail with her
to dance with him again,
put it out of her power
to dance with others.

In vain did she entreat him
to stand up with somebody else,
and offered to introduce him
to any young lady in the room.
He assured her that,
as to dancing,
he was perfectly indifferent to it;
that his chief object was,
by delicate attentions,
to recommend himself to her;
and that he should therefore
make a point
of remaining close to her
the whole evening.
There was no arguing
upon such a project.
She owed her greatest relief
to her friend Miss Lucas,
who often joined them,
and good-naturedly engaged
Mr. Collins’s conversation to herself.

She was at least free from the offence
of Mr. Darcy’s further notice:
though often standing
within a very short distance of her,
quite disengaged,
he never came near enough to speak.
She felt it to be
the probable consequence
of her allusions to Mr. Wickham,
and rejoiced in it.

The Longbourn party
were the last of all the company
to depart;
and by a manœuvre of Mrs. Bennet
had to wait for their carriage
a quarter of an hour
after everybody else was gone,
which gave them time to see
how heartily they were wished away
by some of the family.
Mrs. Hurst and her sister
scarcely opened their mouths
except to complain of fatigue,
and were evidently impatient
to have the house to themselves.
They repulsed every attempt
of Mrs. Bennet at conversation,
and,
by so doing,
threw a languor over the whole party,
which was very little relieved
by the long speeches of Mr. Collins,
who was complimenting
Mr. Bingley and his sisters
on the elegance of their entertainment,
and the hospitality and politeness
which had marked their behaviour
to their guests.
Darcy said nothing at all.
Mr. Bennet,
in equal silence,
was enjoying the scene.
Mr. Bingley and Jane
were standing together
a little detached from the rest,
and talked only to each other.
Elizabeth preserved as steady a silence
as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley;
and even Lydia was too much fatigued
to utter more
than the occasional exclamation
of “Lord,
how tired I am!”
accompanied by a violent yawn.

When at length they arose to take leave,
Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly civil
in her hope of seeing the whole family
soon at Longbourn;
and addressed herself
particularly to Mr. Bingley,
to assure him
how happy he would make them,
by eating a family dinner with them
at any time,
without the ceremony
of a formal invitation.
Bingley was all grateful pleasure;
and he readily engaged
for taking the earliest opportunity
of waiting on her
after his return from London,
whither he was obliged
to go the next day
for a short time.

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

CHAPTER XIX

The next day
opened a new scene at Longbourn.
Mr. Collins
made his declaration in form.
Having resolved to do it
without loss of time,
as his leave of absence
extended only to the following Saturday,
and having no feelings of diffidence
to make it distressing to himself
even at the moment,
he set about it
in a very orderly manner,
with all the observances
which he supposed
a regular part of the business.
On finding Mrs. Bennet,
Elizabeth,
and one of the younger girls together,
soon after breakfast,
he addressed the mother in these words,—

“May I hope,
madam,
for your interest
with your fair daughter Elizabeth,
when I solicit for the honour
of a private audience with her
in the course of this morning?”

Before Elizabeth had time for anything
but a blush of surprise,
Mrs. Bennet instantly answered,—
“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 ma’am,
do not go.
I beg you will not go.
Mr. Collins must excuse me.
He can have nothing to say to me
that anybody need not hear.
I am going away myself.”

“No, no,
nonsense,
Lizzy.
I desire you will stay where you are.”
And upon Elizabeth’s seeming really,
with vexed and embarrassed looks,
about to escape,
she added,
“Lizzy,
I insist upon your staying and hearing
Mr. Collins.”

Elizabeth would not oppose
such an injunction;
and a moment’s consideration
making her also sensible
that it would be wisest to get it over
as soon and as quietly as possible,
she sat down again,
and tried to conceal,
by incessant employment,
the feelings which were divided
between distress and diversion.
Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off,
and as soon as they were gone,
Mr. Collins began,—

“Believe me,
my dear Miss Elizabeth,
that your modesty,
so far from doing you any disservice,
rather adds to your other perfections.
You would have been less amiable
in my eyes
had there not been
this little unwillingness;
but allow me to assure you
that I have
your respected mother’s permission
for this address.
You can hardly doubt
the purport of my discourse,
however your natural delicacy
may lead you to dissemble;
my attentions have been too marked
to be mistaken.
Almost as soon as I entered the house
I singled you out
as the companion of my future life.
But before I am run away with
by my feelings on this subject,
perhaps it will be advisable
for me to state my reasons for marrying —
and,
moreover,
for coming into Hertfordshire
with the design of selecting a wife,
as I certainly did.”

The idea of Mr. Collins,
with all his solemn composure,
being run away with by his feelings,
made Elizabeth so near laughing
that she could not use the short pause
he allowed in any attempt
to stop him farther,
and he continued,—

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

But the fact is,
that being,
as I am,
to inherit this estate
after the death of your honoured father
(who,
however,
may live many years longer),
I could not satisfy myself
without resolving to choose a wife
from among his daughters,
that the loss to them
might be as little as possible
when the melancholy event takes place —
which,
however,
as I have already said,
may not be for several years.
This has been my motive,
my fair cousin,
and I flatter myself
it will not sink me in your esteem.
And now nothing remains for me
but to assure you
in the most animated language
of the violence of my affection.
To fortune I am perfectly indifferent,
and shall make no demand of that nature
on your father,
since I am well aware
that it could not be complied with;
and that one thousand pounds
in the 4 per cents,
which will not be yours
till after your mother’s decease,
is all that you may ever be entitled to.
On that head,
therefore,
I shall be uniformly silent:
and you may assure yourself
that no ungenerous reproach
shall ever pass my lips
when we are married.”

It was absolutely necessary
to interrupt him now.

“You are too hasty,
sir,”
she cried.
“You forget that I have made no answer.
Let me do it
without further loss of time.
Accept my thanks
for the compliment you are paying me.
I am very sensible
of the honour of your proposals,
but it is impossible for me
to do otherwise than decline them.”

“I am not now to learn,”
replied Mr. Collins,
with a formal wave of the hand,
“that it is usual with young ladies
to reject the addresses of the man
whom they secretly mean to accept,
when he first applies for their favour;
and that sometimes
the refusal is repeated
a second or even a third time.
I am,
therefore,
by no means discouraged
by what you have just said,
and shall hope to lead you to the altar
ere long.”

“Upon my word,
sir,”
cried Elizabeth,
“your hope
is rather an extraordinary one
after my declaration.
I do assure you
that I am not one of those young ladies
(if such young ladies there are)
who are so daring
as to risk their happiness on the chance
of being asked a second time.
I am perfectly serious in my refusal.
You could not make me happy,
and I am convinced
that I am the last woman in the world
who would 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
that when I have the honour
of seeing her again
I shall speak
in the highest terms of your modesty,
economy,
and other amiable qualifications.”

“Indeed,
Mr. Collins,
all praise of me will be unnecessary.
You must give me leave
to judge for myself,
and pay me the compliment
of believing what I say.
I wish you very happy and very rich,
and by refusing your hand,
do all in my power
to prevent your being otherwise.
In making me the offer,
you must have satisfied
the delicacy of your feelings
with regard to my family,
and may take possession
of Longbourn estate
whenever it falls,
without any self-reproach.
This matter may be considered,
therefore,
as finally settled.”
And rising as she thus spoke,
she would have quitted the room,
had not Mr. Collins thus addressed her,—

“When I do myself the honour
of speaking to you next on the subject,
I shall hope
to receive a more favourable answer
than you have now given me;
though I am far from accusing you
of cruelty at present,
because I know it to be
the established custom of your sex
to reject a man
on the first application,
and,
perhaps,
you have even now said
as much to encourage my suit
as would be consistent
with the true delicacy
of the female character.”

“Really,
Mr. Collins,”
cried Elizabeth,
with some warmth,
“you puzzle me exceedingly.
If what I have hitherto said
can appear to you
in the form of encouragement,
I know not how to express my refusal
in such a way
as may convince you of its being one.”

“You must give me leave
to flatter myself,
my dear cousin,
that your refusal of my addresses
are merely words of course.
My reasons for believing it
are briefly these:—
It does not appear to me
that my hand
is unworthy your acceptance,
or that the establishment I can offer
would be any other
than highly desirable.
My situation in life,
my connections
with the family of De Bourgh,
and my relationship to your own,
are circumstances highly in my favour;
and you should take it
into further consideration that,
in spite of your manifold attractions,
it is by no means certain
that another offer of marriage
may ever be made you.
Your portion is unhappily so small,
that it will in all likelihood
undo the effects of your loveliness
and amiable qualifications.
As I must,
therefore,
conclude that you are not serious
in your rejection of me,
I shall choose to attribute it
to your wish of increasing my love
by suspense,
according to the usual practice
of elegant females.”

“I do assure you,
sir,
that I have no pretensions whatever
to that kind of elegance
which consists in tormenting
a respectable man.
I would rather be paid the compliment
of being believed sincere.
I thank you again and again
for the honour you have done me
in your proposals,
but to accept them
is absolutely impossible.
My feelings in every respect forbid it.
Can I speak plainer?
Do not consider me now
as an elegant female
intending to plague you,
but as a rational creature
speaking the truth from her heart.”

“You are uniformly charming!”
cried he,
with an air of awkward gallantry;
“and I am persuaded that,
when sanctioned by the express authority
of both your excellent parents,
my proposals will not fail
of being acceptable.”

To such perseverance
in wilful self-deception
Elizabeth would make no reply,
and immediately and in silence withdrew;
determined,
that if he persisted
in considering her repeated refusals
as flattering encouragement,
to apply to her father,
whose negative might be uttered
in such a manner as must be decisive,
and whose behaviour at least
could not be mistaken
for the affectation and coquetry
of an elegant female.

CHAPTER XX

Mr. Collins was not left long
to the silent contemplation
of his successful love;
for Mrs. Bennet,
having dawdled about in the vestibule
to watch for the end of the conference,
no sooner saw Elizabeth open the door
and with quick step pass her
towards the staircase,
than she entered the breakfast-room,
and congratulated both him and herself
in warm terms on the happy prospect
of their nearer connection.
Mr. Collins received and returned
these felicitations
with equal pleasure,
and then proceeded
to relate the particulars
of their interview,
with the result of which he trusted
he had every reason to be satisfied,
since the refusal which his cousin
had steadfastly given him
would naturally flow
from her bashful modesty
and the genuine delicacy
of her character.

This information,
however,
startled Mrs. Bennet:
she would have been glad
to be equally satisfied
that her daughter
had meant to encourage him
by protesting against his proposals,
but she dared not believe it,
and could not help saying so.

“But depend upon it,
Mr. Collins,”
she added,
“that Lizzy shall be brought to reason.
I will speak to her
about it myself directly.
She is a very headstrong,
foolish girl,
and does not know her own interest;
but I will make her know it.”

“Pardon me for interrupting you,
madam,”
cried Mr. Collins;
“but if she is
really headstrong and foolish,
I know not
whether she would altogether be
a very desirable wife
to a man in my situation,
who naturally looks for happiness
in the marriage state.
If,
therefore,
she actually persists
in rejecting my suit,
perhaps it were better
not to force her
into accepting me,
because,
if liable to such defects of temper,
she could not contribute much
to my felicity.”

“Sir,
you quite misunderstand me,”
said Mrs. Bennet,
alarmed.
“Lizzy is only headstrong
in such matters as these.
In everything else
she is as good-natured a girl
as ever lived.
I will go directly to Mr. Bennet,
and we shall very soon
settle it with her,
I am sure.”

She would not give him time to reply,
but hurrying instantly to her husband,
called out,
as she entered the library, —

“Oh,
Mr. Bennet,
you are wanted immediately;
we are all in an uproar.
You must come
and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins,
for she vows she will not have him;
and if you do not make haste
he will change his mind
and not have her.”

Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book
as she entered,
and fixed them on her face
with a calm unconcern,
which was not in the least altered
by her communication.

“I have not the pleasure
of understanding you,”
said he,
when she had finished her speech.
“Of what are you talking?”

“Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy.
Lizzy declares
she will not have Mr. Collins,
and Mr. Collins begins to say
that he will not have Lizzy.”

“And what am I to do on the occasion?
It seems a hopeless business.”

“Speak to Lizzy about it yourself.
Tell her
that you insist upon her marrying him.”

“Let her be called down.
She shall hear my opinion.”

Mrs. Bennet rang the bell,
and Miss Elizabeth
was summoned to the library.

“Come here,
child,”
cried her father as she appeared.
“I have sent for you
on an affair of importance.
I understand that Mr. Collins
has made you an offer of marriage.
Is it true?”

Elizabeth replied that it was.

“Very well —
and this offer of marriage
you have refused?”

“I have,
sir.”

“Very well.
We now come to the point.
Your mother
insists upon your accepting it.
Is it not so,
Mrs. Bennet?”

“Yes,
or I will never see her again.”

“An unhappy alternative is before you,
Elizabeth.
From this day you must be a stranger
to one of your parents.
Your mother will never see you again
if you do not marry Mr. Collins,
and I will never see you again
if you do.”

Elizabeth could not but smile
at such a conclusion
of such a beginning;
but Mrs. Bennet,
who had persuaded herself
that her husband regarded the affair
as she wished,
was excessively disappointed.

“What do you mean,
Mr. Bennet,
by talking in this way?
You promised me to insist
upon her marrying him.”

“My dear,”
replied her husband,
“I have two small favours to request.
First,
that you will allow me
the free use of my understanding
on the present occasion;
and,
secondly,
of my room.
I shall be glad
to have the library to myself
as soon as may be.”

Not yet,
however,
in spite of her disappointment
in her husband,
did Mrs. Bennet give up the point.
She talked to Elizabeth again and again;
coaxed and threatened her by turns.
She endeavoured to secure Jane
in her interest,
but Jane,
with all possible mildness,
declined interfering;
and Elizabeth,
sometimes with real earnestness,
and sometimes with playful gaiety,
replied to her attacks.
Though her manner varied,
however,
her determination never did.

Mr. Collins,
meanwhile,
was meditating in solitude
on what had passed.
He thought too well of himself
to comprehend on what motive
his cousin could refuse him;
and though his pride was hurt,
he suffered in no other way.
His regard for her was quite imaginary;
and the possibility of her deserving
her mother’s reproach
prevented his feeling any regret.

While the family were in this confusion,
Charlotte Lucas came
to spend the day with them.
She was met in the vestibule by Lydia,
who,
flying to her,
cried in a half whisper,
“I am glad you are come,
for there is such fun here!
What do you think has happened
this morning?
Mr. Collins has made an offer to Lizzy,
and she will not have him.”

Charlotte had hardly 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 her family.
“Pray do,
my dear Miss Lucas,”
she added,
in a melancholy tone;
“for nobody is on my side,
nobody takes part with me;
I am cruelly used,
nobody feels for my poor nerves.”

Charlotte’s reply was spared
by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth.

“Ay,
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 what,
Miss Lizzy,
if you take it into your head
to go on refusing
every offer of marriage in this way,
you will never get a husband at all —
and I am sure I do not know
who is to maintain you
when your father is dead.
I shall not be able to keep you —
and so I warn you.
I have done with you
from this very day.
I told you in the library,
you know,
that I should never speak to you again,
and you will find me
as good as my word.
I have no pleasure
in talking to undutiful children.

Not that I have much pleasure,
indeed,
in talking to anybody.
People who suffer as I do
from nervous complaints
can have no great inclination
for talking.
Nobody can tell what I suffer!
But it is always so.
Those who do not complain
are never pitied.”

Her daughters listened in silence
to this effusion,
sensible that
any attempt to reason with
or soothe her
would only increase the irritation.
She talked on,
therefore,
without interruption from any of them
till they were joined by Mr. Collins,
who entered 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 Mr. Collins and me
have a little conversation together.”

Elizabeth passed quietly
out of the room,
Jane and Kitty followed,
but Lydia stood her ground,
determined to hear all she could;
and Charlotte,
detained first
by the civility of Mr. Collins,
whose inquiries after herself
and all her family were very minute,
and then by a little curiosity,
satisfied herself
with walking to the window
and pretending not to hear.
In a doleful voice
Mrs. Bennet
thus began the projected conversation: —

“Oh,
Mr. Collins!”

“My dear madam,”
replied he,
“let us be for ever silent on this point.
Far be it from me,”
he presently continued,
in a voice that marked his displeasure,
“to resent
the behaviour of your daughter.
Resignation to inevitable evils
is the duty of us all:
the peculiar duty of a young man
who has been so fortunate
as I have been,
in early preferment;
and,
I trust,
I am resigned.
Perhaps not the less
so from feeling a doubt
of my positive happiness
had my fair cousin honoured me
with her hand;
for I have often observed,
that resignation is never so perfect
as when the blessing denied
begins to lose somewhat of its value
in our estimation.
You will not,
I hope,
consider me as showing any disrespect
to your family,
my dear madam,
by thus withdrawing my pretensions
to your daughter’s favour,
without having paid
yourself and Mr. Bennet
the compliment of requesting you
to interpose your authority
in my behalf.
My conduct may,
I fear,
be objectionable
in having accepted my dismission
from your daughter’s lips
instead of your own;
but we are all liable to error.
I have certainly meant well
through the whole affair.
My object has been
to secure an amiable companion
for myself,
with due consideration
for the advantage of all your family;
and if my manner
has been at all reprehensible,
I here beg leave to apologize.”

CHAPTER XXI

The discussion of Mr. Collins’s offer
was now nearly at an end,
and Elizabeth had only to suffer
from the uncomfortable feelings
necessarily attending it,
and occasionally
from some peevish allusion
of her mother.
As for the gentleman himself,
his feelings were chiefly expressed,
not by embarrassment or dejection,
or by trying to avoid her,
but by stiffness of manner
and resentful silence.
He scarcely ever spoke to her;
and the assiduous attentions
which he had been so sensible of himself
were transferred
for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas,
whose civility in listening to him
was a seasonable relief to them all,
and especially to her friend.

The morrow produced no abatement
of Mrs. Bennet’s ill humour
or ill health.
Mr. Collins was also in the same state
of angry pride.
Elizabeth had hoped that his resentment
might shorten his visit,
but his plan did not appear
in the least affected by it.
He was always to have gone on Saturday,
and to Saturday he still meant to stay.

After breakfast,
the girls walked to Meryton,
to inquire if Mr. Wickham were returned,
and to lament over his absence
from the Netherfield ball.
He joined them
on their entering the town,
and attended them to their aunt’s,
where his regret and vexation
and the concern of everybody
were well talked over.
To Elizabeth,
however,
he voluntarily acknowledged
that the necessity of his absence
had been self-imposed.

“I found,”
said he,
“as the time drew near,
that I had better not meet Mr. Darcy;—
that to be in the same room,
the same party with him
for so many hours together,
might be more than I could bear,
and that scenes might arise unpleasant
to more than myself.”

She highly approved his forbearance;
and they had leisure
for a full discussion of it,
and for all the commendations
which they civilly bestowed
on each other,
as Wickham and another officer
walked back with them to Longbourn,
and during the walk
he particularly attended to her.
His accompanying them
was a double advantage:
she felt all the compliment
it offered to herself;
and it was most acceptable
as an occasion of introducing him
to her father and mother.

Soon after their return,
a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet;
it came from Netherfield,
and was opened immediately.
The envelope
contained a sheet of elegant,
little,
hot-pressed paper,
well covered with a lady’s fair,
flowing hand;
and Elizabeth saw
her sister’s countenance change
as she read it,
and saw her dwelling intently
on some particular passages.

Jane recollected herself soon;
and putting the letter away,
tried to join,
with her usual cheerfulness,
in the general conversation:
but Elizabeth felt an anxiety
on the subject
which drew off her attention
even from Wickham;
and no sooner
had he and his companion
taken leave,
than a glance from Jane
invited her to follow her upstairs.
When they had gained their own room,
Jane,
taking out her letter,
said,
“This is from Caroline Bingley:
what it contains
has surprised me a good deal.
The whole party have left Netherfield
by this time,
and are on their way to town;
and without any intention
of coming back again.
You shall hear what she says.”

She then read the first sentence aloud,
which comprised the information
of their having just resolved
to follow their brother to town
directly,
and of their meaning to dine that day
in Grosvenor Street,
where Mr. Hurst had a house.
The next was in these words:—
“‘I do not pretend to regret
anything I shall leave in Hertfordshire
except your society,
my dearest friend;
but we will hope,
at some future period,
to enjoy many returns
of that delightful intercourse
we have known,
and in the meanwhile may lessen the pain
of separation by a very frequent
and most unreserved correspondence.
I depend on you for that.’”
To these high-flown expressions
Elizabeth listened
with all the insensibility of distrust;
and though the suddenness
of their removal surprised her,
she saw nothing in it really to lament:
it was not to be supposed
that their absence from Netherfield
would prevent Mr. Bingley’s being there;
and as to the loss of their society,
she was persuaded
that Jane must soon cease to regard it
in the enjoyment of his.

“It is unlucky,”
said she,
after a short pause,
“that you should not be able
to see your friends
before they leave the country.
But may we not hope
that the period of future happiness,
to which Miss Bingley looks forward,
may arrive earlier than she is aware,
and that the delightful intercourse
you have known as friends
will be renewed
with yet greater satisfaction
as sisters?
Mr. Bingley
will not be detained in London
by them.”

“Caroline decidedly says
that none of the party
will return into Hertfordshire
this winter.
I will read it to you.

“‘When my brother left us yesterday,
he imagined that the business
which took him to London
might be concluded
in three or four days;
but as we are certain it cannot be so,
and at the same time convinced
that when Charles gets to town
he will be in no hurry
to leave it again,
we have determined
on following him thither,
that he may not be obliged
to spend his vacant hours
in a comfortless hotel.
Many of my acquaintance
are already there for the winter:
I wish I could hear that you,
my dearest friend,
had any intention
of making one in 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 he should.”

“Why will you think so?
It must be his own doing;
he is his own master.
But you do not know all.
I will read you the passage
which particularly hurts me.
I will have no reserves from you.
"Mr. Darcy is impatient
to see his sister;
and to confess the truth,
we are scarcely less eager
to meet her again.
I really do not think Georgiana Darcy
has her equal for beauty,
elegance,
and accomplishments;
and the affection she inspires
in Louisa and myself
is heightened
into something still more interesting
from the hope we dare to entertain
of her being hereafter our sister.
I do not know
whether I ever before mentioned to you
my feelings on this subject,
but I will not leave the country
without confiding them,
and I trust
you will not esteem them unreasonable.
My brother admires her greatly already;
he will have frequent opportunity
now of seeing her
on the most intimate footing;
her relations all wish the connection
as much as his own;
and a sister’s partiality
is not misleading me,
I think,
when I call Charles most capable
of engaging any woman’s heart.
With all these circumstances
to favour an attachment,
and nothing to prevent it,
am I wrong,
my dearest Jane,
in indulging the hope of an event
which will secure the happiness
of so many?"
"What think you of this sentence,
my dear Lizzy?”
said Jane,
as she finished it.
“Is it not clear enough?
Does it not expressly declare
that Caroline neither expects
nor wishes me to be her sister;
that she is perfectly convinced
of her brother’s indifference;
and that if she suspects the nature
of my feelings for him
she means (most kindly!)
to put me on my guard.
Can there be any other opinion
on the subject?”

“Yes,
there can;
for mine is totally different.
Will you hear it?”

“Most willingly.”

“You shall have it in a few words.
Miss Bingley sees
that her brother is in love with you
and wants him to marry Miss Darcy.
She follows him to town
in the hope of keeping him there,
and tries to persuade you
that he does not care about you.”

Jane shook her head.

“Indeed,
Jane,
you ought to believe me.
No one who has ever seen you together
can doubt his affection;
Miss Bingley,
I am sure,
cannot:
she is not such a simpleton.

Could she have seen
half as much love
in Mr. Darcy for herself,
she would have ordered
her wedding clothes.
But the case is this:—
we are not rich enough
or grand enough for them;
and she is the more anxious
to get Miss Darcy for her brother,
from the notion that
when there has been one inter-marriage,
she may have less trouble
in achieving a second;
in which there is certainly
some ingenuity,
and I dare say it would succeed
if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way.
But,
my dearest Jane,
you cannot seriously imagine that,
because Miss Bingley tells you
her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy,
he is in the smallest degree
less sensible of your merit
than when he took leave of you
on Tuesday;
or that it will be in her power
to persuade him that,
instead of being in love with you,
he is very much in love
with her friend.”

“If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,”
replied Jane,
“your representation of all this
might make me quite easy.
But I know the foundation is unjust.
Caroline is incapable
of wilfully deceiving anyone;
and all that I can hope in this case is,
that she is deceived herself.”

“That is right.
You could not have started
a more happy idea,
since you will not take comfort in mine:
believe her to be deceived,
by all means.
You have now done your duty by her,
and must fret no longer.”

“But,
my dear sister,
can I be happy,
even supposing the best,
in accepting a man
whose sisters and friends
are all wishing him
to marry elsewhere?”

“You must decide for yourself,”
said Elizabeth;
“and if,
upon mature deliberation,
you find that the misery
of disobliging his two sisters
is more than equivalent
to the happiness of being his wife,
I advise you,
by all means,
to refuse him.”

“How can you talk so?”
said Jane,
faintly smiling;
“you must know,
that,
though I should be exceedingly grieved
at their disapprobation,
I could not hesitate.”

“I did not think you would;
and that being the case,
I cannot consider your situation
with much compassion.”

“But if he returns no more this winter,
my choice will never be required.
A thousand things may arise
in six months.”

The idea of his returning no more
Elizabeth treated
with the utmost contempt.
It appeared to her merely the suggestion
of Caroline’s interested wishes;
and she could not for a moment suppose
that those wishes,
however openly or artfully spoken,
could influence a young man
so totally independent of everyone.

She represented to her sister,
as forcibly as possible,
what she felt on the subject,
and had soon the pleasure
of seeing its happy effect.
Jane’s temper was not desponding;
and she was gradually led to hope,
though the diffidence of affection
sometimes overcame the hope,
that Bingley would return
to Netherfield,
and answer every wish of her heart.

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

CHAPTER XXII

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

Charlotte assured her friend
of her satisfaction in being useful,
and that it amply repaid her
for the little sacrifice of her time.
This was very amiable;
but Charlotte’s kindness
extended farther
than Elizabeth had any conception of:—
its object was nothing less
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 sure of success
if he had not been
to leave Hertfordshire so very soon.
But here she did injustice
to the fire and independence
of his character;
for it led him to escape
out of Longbourn House
the next morning with admirable slyness,
and hasten to Lucas Lodge
to throw himself at her feet.
He was anxious
to avoid the notice of his cousins,
from a conviction that,
if they saw him depart,
they could not fail
to conjecture his design,
and he was not willing
to have the attempt known
till its success
could be known likewise;
for,
though feeling almost secure,
and with reason,
for Charlotte had been
tolerably encouraging,
he was comparatively diffident
since the adventure of Wednesday.
His reception,
however,
was of the most flattering kind.

Miss Lucas perceived him
from an upper window
as he walked towards the house,
and instantly set out
to meet him accidentally in the lane.
But little had she dared to hope
that so much love and eloquence
awaited her there.

In as short a time
as Mr. Collins’s long speeches
would allow,
everything was settled between them
to the satisfaction of both;
and as they entered the house,
he earnestly entreated her
to name the day
that was to make him
the happiest of men;
and though such a solicitation
must be waived for the present,
the lady felt no inclination
to trifle with his happiness.
The stupidity
with which he was favoured by nature
must guard his courtship from any charm
that could make a woman wish
for its continuance;
and Miss Lucas,
who accepted him solely
from the pure and disinterested desire
of an establishment,
cared not how soon
that establishment were gained.

Sir William and Lady Lucas
were speedily applied to
for their consent;
and it was bestowed
with a most joyful alacrity.
Mr. Collins’s present circumstances
made it a most eligible match
for their daughter,
to whom they could give little fortune;
and his prospects of future wealth
were exceedingly fair.
Lady Lucas began directly to calculate,
with more interest than the matter
had ever excited before,
how many years longer
Mr. Bennet was likely to live;
and Sir William gave it
as his decided opinion,
that whenever Mr. Collins should be
in possession of the Longbourn estate,
it would be highly expedient
that both he and his wife
should make their appearance
at St. James’s.
The whole family in short
were properly overjoyed on the occasion.
The younger girls formed hopes
of coming out a year or two sooner
than they might otherwise have done;
and the boys were relieved
from their apprehension
of Charlotte’s dying an old maid.
Charlotte herself
was tolerably composed.
She had gained her point,
and had time to consider of it.
Her reflections
were in general satisfactory.
Mr. Collins,
to be sure,
was neither sensible nor agreeable:
his society was irksome,
and his attachment to her
must be imaginary.
But still he would be her husband.
Without thinking highly
either of men or of matrimony,
marriage had always been her object:
it was the only honourable provision
for well-educated young women
of small fortune,
and,
however uncertain of giving happiness,
must be their pleasantest preservative
from want.
This preservative she had now obtained;
and at the age of twenty-seven,
without having ever been handsome,
she felt all the good luck of it.
The least agreeable circumstance
in the business
was the surprise it must occasion
to Elizabeth Bennet,
whose friendship she valued
beyond that of any other person.
Elizabeth would wonder,
and probably would blame her;
and though her resolution
was not to be shaken,
her feelings must be hurt
by such a disapprobation.

She resolved to give her
the information herself;
and therefore charged Mr. Collins,
when he returned to Longbourn to dinner,
to drop no hint of what had passed
before any of the family.
A promise of secrecy
was of course very dutifully given,
but it could not be kept
without difficulty;
for the curiosity excited
by his long absence burst forth
in such very direct questions
on his return,
as required some ingenuity to evade,
and he was at the same time
exercising great self-denial,
for he was longing
to publish his prosperous love.

As he was to begin
his journey too early on the morrow
to see any of the family,
the ceremony of leave-taking
was performed
when the ladies moved for the night;
and Mrs. Bennet,
with great politeness and cordiality,
said how happy they should be
to see him at Longbourn again,
whenever his other engagements
might allow him to visit them.

“My dear madam,”
he replied,
“this invitation
is particularly gratifying,
because it is what
I have been hoping to receive;
and you may be very certain
that I shall avail myself of it
as soon as possible.”

They were all astonished;
and Mr. Bennet,
who could by no means wish
for so speedy a return,
immediately said:

“But is there not danger
of Lady Catherine’s disapprobation here,
my good sir?
You had better neglect your relations
than run the risk
of offending your patroness.”

“My dear sir,”
replied Mr. Collins,
“I am particularly obliged to you
for this friendly caution,
and you may depend upon
my not taking so material a step
without her Ladyship’s concurrence.”

“You cannot be too much on your guard.
Risk anything
rather than her displeasure;
and if you find it likely to be raised
by your coming to us again,
which I should think
exceedingly probable,
stay quietly at home,
and be satisfied
that we shall take no offence.”

“Believe me,
my dear sir,
my gratitude is warmly excited
by such affectionate attention;
and,
depend upon it,
you will speedily receive from me
a letter of thanks for this
as well as for every other mark
of your regard
during my stay in Hertfordshire.
As for my fair cousins,
though my absence
may not be long enough
to render it necessary,
I shall now take the liberty
of wishing them health and happiness,
not excepting my cousin Elizabeth.”

With proper civilities,
the ladies then withdrew;
all of them equally surprised to find
that he meditated a quick return.
Mrs. Bennet wished to understand by it
that he thought of paying his addresses
to one of her younger girls,
and Mary might have been prevailed on
to accept him.

She rated his abilities
much higher than any of the others:
there was a solidity in his reflections
which often struck her;
and though by no means
so clever as herself,
she thought that,
if encouraged
to read and improve himself
by such an example as hers,
he might become
a very agreeable companion.
But on the following morning
every hope of this kind
was done away.
Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast,
and in a private conference
with Elizabeth
related the event of the day before.

The possibility of Mr. Collins’s
fancying himself in love with her friend
had once occurred to Elizabeth
within the last day or two:
but that Charlotte could encourage him
seemed almost as far from possibility
as that she could encourage him herself;
and her astonishment
was consequently so great as to overcome
at first the bounds of decorum,
and she could not help crying out,—

“Engaged to Mr. Collins!
my dear Charlotte,
impossible!”

The steady countenance which Miss Lucas
had commanded in telling her story
gave way to a momentary confusion here
on receiving so direct a reproach;
though,
as it was no more than she expected,
she soon regained her composure,
and calmly replied,—

“Why should you be surprised,
my dear Eliza?
Do you think it incredible
that Mr. Collins should be able
to procure any woman’s good opinion,
because he was not so happy
as to succeed with you?”

But Elizabeth
had now recollected herself;
and,
making a strong effort for it,
was able to assure her,
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 all 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,
connections,
and situation in life,
I am convinced
that my chance of happiness with him
is as fair as most people can boast
on entering the marriage state.”

Elizabeth quietly answered
“undoubtedly;”
and,
after an awkward pause,
they returned to the rest of the family.
Charlotte did not stay much longer;
and Elizabeth was then left to reflect
on what she had heard.
It was a long time
before she became at all reconciled
to the idea of so unsuitable a match.
The strangeness of Mr. Collins’s
making two offers of marriage
within three days was nothing
in comparison of his being now accepted.
She had always felt
that Charlotte’s opinion of matrimony
was not exactly like her own;
but she could not have supposed it
possible that,
when called into action,
she would have sacrificed
every better feeling
to worldly advantage.
Charlotte,
the wife of Mr. Collins,
was a most humiliating picture!
And to the pang of a friend
disgracing herself,
and sunk in her esteem,
was added the distressing conviction
that it was impossible for that friend
to be tolerably happy
in the lot she had chosen.

CHAPTER XXIII

Elizabeth was sitting
with her mother and sisters,
reflecting on what she had heard,
and doubting whether she was authorized
to mention it,
when Sir William Lucas himself appeared,
sent by his daughter
to announce her engagement
to the family.
With many compliments to them,
and much self-gratulation
on the prospect of a connection
between the houses,
he unfolded the matter,—
to an audience
not merely wondering,
but incredulous;
for Mrs. Bennet,
with more perseverance than politeness,
protested he must be entirely mistaken;
and Lydia,
always unguarded and often uncivil,
boisterously exclaimed,—

“Good Lord!
Sir William,
how can you tell such a story?
Do not you know
that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?”

Nothing less than the complaisance
of a courtier could have borne
without anger such treatment:
but Sir William’s good-breeding
carried him through it all;
and though he begged leave
to be positive
as to the truth of his information,
he listened to all their impertinence
with the most forbearing courtesy.

Elizabeth,
feeling it incumbent on her
to relieve him
from so unpleasant a situation,
now put herself forward
to confirm his account,
by mentioning her prior knowledge of it
from Charlotte herself;
and endeavoured to put a stop
to the exclamations
of her mother and sisters,
by the earnestness
of her congratulations to Sir William,
in which she was readily joined by Jane,
and by making a variety of remarks
on the happiness
that might be expected from the match,
the excellent character of Mr. Collins,
and the convenient distance of Hunsford
from London.

Mrs. Bennet was,
in fact,
too much overpowered
to say a great deal
while Sir William remained;
but no sooner had he left them
than her feelings found a rapid vent.
In the first place,
she persisted in disbelieving
the whole of the matter;
secondly,
she was very sure
that Mr. Collins had been taken in;
thirdly,
she trusted
that they would never be happy together;
and,
fourthly,
that the match might be broken off.
Two inferences,
however,
were plainly deduced from the whole:
one,
that Elizabeth was the real cause
of all the mischief;
and the other,
that she herself
had been barbarously used by them all;
and on these two points
she principally dwelt
during the rest of the day.
Nothing could console
and nothing appease her.
Nor did that day
wear out her resentment.
A week elapsed
before she could see Elizabeth
without scolding her:
a month passed away
before she could speak
to Sir William or Lady Lucas
without being rude;
and many months were gone
before she could at all
forgive their daughter.

Mr. Bennet’s emotions
were much more tranquil
on the occasion,
and such as he did experience
he pronounced to be
of a most agreeable sort;
for it gratified him,
he said,
to discover that Charlotte Lucas,
whom he had been used
to think tolerably sensible,
was as foolish as his wife,
and more foolish than his daughter!

Jane confessed herself
a little surprised at the match:
but she said less of her astonishment
than of her earnest desire
for their happiness;
nor could Elizabeth persuade her
to consider it as improbable.
Kitty and Lydia
were far from envying Miss Lucas,
for Mr. Collins was only a clergyman;
and it affected them
in no other way than as a piece of news
to spread at Meryton.

Lady Lucas
could not be insensible of triumph
on being able to retort on Mrs. Bennet
the comfort of having a daughter
well married;
and she called at Longbourn
rather oftener than usual
to say how happy she was,
though Mrs. Bennet’s sour looks
and ill-natured remarks
might have been enough
to drive happiness away.

Between Elizabeth and Charlotte
there was a restraint
which kept them mutually silent
on the subject;
and Elizabeth felt persuaded
that no real confidence
could ever subsist between them again.
Her disappointment in Charlotte
made her turn
with fonder regard to her sister,
of whose rectitude and delicacy
she was sure her opinion
could never be shaken,
and for whose happiness
she grew daily more anxious,
as Bingley had now been gone a week,
and nothing 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 twelve-month’s abode
in the family might have prompted.

After discharging his conscience
on that head,
he proceeded to inform them,
with many rapturous expressions,
of his happiness
in having obtained the affection
of their amiable neighbour,
Miss Lucas,
and then explained that it was merely
with the view of enjoying her society
that he had been so ready to close
with their kind wish
of seeing him again at Longbourn,
whither he hoped to be able to return
on Monday fortnight;
for Lady Catherine,
he added,
so heartily approved his marriage,
that she wished it to take place
as soon as possible,
which he trusted
would be an unanswerable argument
with his amiable Charlotte
to name an early day
for making him the happiest of men.

Mr. Collins’s return into Hertfordshire
was no longer a matter of pleasure
to Mrs. Bennet.
On the contrary,
she was as much disposed
to complain of it
as her husband.
It was very strange
that he should come to Longbourn
instead of to Lucas Lodge;
it was also very inconvenient
and exceedingly troublesome.
She hated having visitors in the house
while her health was so indifferent,
and lovers were of all people
the most disagreeable.
Such were the gentle murmurs
of Mrs. Bennet,
and they gave way
only to the greater distress
of Mr. Bingley’s continued absence.

Neither Jane nor Elizabeth
were comfortable on this subject.
Day after day passed away
without bringing
any other tidings of him
than the report
which shortly prevailed in Meryton
of his coming
no more to Netherfield
the whole winter;
a report
which highly incensed Mrs. Bennet,
and which she never failed to contradict
as a most scandalous falsehood.

Even Elizabeth began to fear —
not that Bingley was indifferent —
but that his sisters would be successful
in keeping him away.
Unwilling as she was to admit an idea
so destructive to Jane’s happiness,
and so dishonourable
to the stability of her lover,
she could not prevent
its frequently recurring.
The united efforts
of his two unfeeling sisters,
and of his overpowering friend,
assisted by the attractions
of Miss Darcy
and the amusements of London,
might be too much,
she feared,
for the strength of his attachment.

As for Jane,
her anxiety under this suspense was,
of course,
more painful than Elizabeth’s:
but whatever she felt
she was desirous of concealing;
and between herself and Elizabeth,
therefore,
the subject was never alluded to.
But as no such delicacy
restrained her mother,
an hour seldom passed
in which she did not talk of Bingley,
express her impatience for his arrival,
or even require Jane to confess
that if he did not come back
she should 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 the Monday fortnight,
but his reception at Longbourn
was not quite so gracious
as it had been
on his first introduction.
He was too happy,
however,
to need much attention;
and,
luckily for the others,
the business of love-making
relieved them
from a great deal of his company.
The chief of every day
was spent by him
at Lucas Lodge,
and he sometimes returned to Longbourn
only in time to make an apology
for his absence
before the family went to bed.

Mrs. Bennet
was really in a most pitiable state.
The very mention
of anything concerning the match
threw her into an agony of ill-humour,
and wherever she went
she was sure of hearing it talked of.
The sight of Miss Lucas
was odious to her.
As her successor in that house,
she regarded her
with jealous abhorrence.
Whenever Charlotte came to see them,
she concluded her to be anticipating
the hour of possession;
and whenever she spoke in a low voice
to Mr. Collins,
was convinced that they were talking
of the Longbourn estate,
and resolving
to turn herself and her daughters
out of the house
as soon as Mr. Bennet was 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 my place in it!”

“My dear,
do not give way to such gloomy thoughts.
Let us hope for better things.
Let us flatter ourselves
that I may be the survivor.”

This was not very consoling
to Mrs. Bennet;
and,
therefore,
instead of making any answer,
she went on as before.

“I cannot bear to think
that they should have all this estate.
If it was not for the entail,
I should not mind it.”

“What should not you mind?”

“I should not mind anything at all.”

“Let us be thankful
that you are preserved from a state
of such insensibility.”

“I never can be thankful,
Mr. Bennet,
for anything about the entail.
How anyone could have the conscience
to entail away an estate
from one’s own daughters
I cannot understand;
and all for the sake of Mr. Collins,
too!
Why should he have it
more than anybody else?”

“I leave it to yourself to determine,”
said Mr. Bennet.