not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate
pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could
not be benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying
law, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds
would be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished,
than believed him to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly
ready to accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham
ought not to be a clergyman; the business was therefore soon
settled - he resigned all claim to assistance in the church, were
it possible that he could ever be in a situation to receive it,
and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection
between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to
invite him to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town
I believe he chiefly lived, but his studying the law was a mere
pretence, and being now free from all restraint, his life was a
life of idleness and dissipation. For about three years I heard
little of him; but on the decease of the incumbent of the living
which had been designed for him, he applied to me again by letter
for the presentation. His circumstances, he assured me, and I
had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had
found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely
resolved on being ordained, if I would present him to the living
in question - of which he trusted there could be little doubt, as
he was well assured that I had no other person to provide for,
and I could not have forgotten my revered father's intentions.
You will hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty,
or for resisting every repetition to it. His resentment was in
proportion to the distress of his circumstances - and he was
doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others as in his
reproaches to myself. After this period every appearance of
acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But last
summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.
"I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to
forget myself, and which no obligation less than the present
should induce me to unfold to any human being. Having said
thus much, I feel no doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is
more than ten years my junior, was left to the guardianship of
my mother's nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a
year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment
formed for her in London; and last summer she went with the
lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate; and thither also went
Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there proved to have
been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs. Younge, in
whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by
her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to
Georgiana, whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression
of his kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to
believe herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was
then but fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her
imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it
to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the
intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the
idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost
looked up to as a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You
may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Regard for my sister's
credit and feelings prevented any public exposure; but I wrote
to Mr. Wickham, who left the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge
was of course removed from her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief
object was unquestionably my sister's fortune, which is thirty
thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of
revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge
would have been complete indeed.
"This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which
we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely
reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth
of cruelty towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner,
under what form of falsehood he had imposed on you; but his
success is not perhaps to be wondered at. Ignorant as you
previously were of everything concerning either, detection
could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in
your inclination.
"You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last
night; but I was not then master enough of myself to know what
could or ought to be revealed. For the truth of everything here
related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of
Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our near relationship and
constant intimacy, and, still more, as one of the executors of
my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every
particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of _me_
should make _my_ assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented
by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there
may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to
find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in
the course of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.
"FITZWILLIAM DARCY"
Chapter 36
If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect
it to contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no
expectation at all of its contents. But such as they were, it
may well be supposed how eagerly she went through them, and what
a contrariety of emotion they excited. Her feelings as she
read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did she first
understand that he believed any apology to be in his power; and
steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could have no explanation
to give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a
strong prejudice against everything he might say, she began his
account of what had happened at Netherfield. She read with an
eagerness which hardly left her power of comprehension, and
from impatience of knowing what the next sentence might bring,
was incapable of attending to the sense of the one before her
eyes. His belief of her sister's insensibility she instantly
resolved to be false; and his account of the real, the worst
objections to the match, made her too angry to have any wish of
doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done
which satisfied her; his style was not penitent, but haughty.
It was all pride and insolence.
But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr.
Wickham - when she read with somewhat clearer attention a
relation of events which, if true, must overthrow every cherished
opinion of his worth, and which bore so alarming an affinity to
his own history of himself - her feelings were yet more acutely
painful and more difficult of definition. Astonishment,
apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished to
discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, "This must be false!
This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!" - and
when she had gone through the whole letter, though scarcely
knowing anything of the last page or two, put it hastily away,
protesting that she would not regard it, that she would never
look in it again.
In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on
nothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the
letter was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she
could, she again began the mortifying perusal of all that related
to Wickham, and commanded herself so far as to examine the
meaning of every sentence. The account of his connection with
the Pemberley family was exactly what he had related himself;
and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though she had not
before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own
words. So far each recital confirmed the other; but when she
came to the will, the difference was great. What Wickham had
said of the living was fresh in her memory, and as she recalled
his very words, it was impossible not to feel that there was gross
duplicity on one side or the other; and, for a few moments, she
flattered herself that her wishes did not err. But when she
read and re-read with the closest attention, the particulars
immediately following of Wickham's resigning all pretensions to
the living, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as
three thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She
put down the letter, weighed every circumstance with what she
meant to be impartiality - deliberated on the probability of each
statement - but with little success. On both sides it was only
assertion. Again she read on; but every line proved more clearly
that the affair, which she had believed it impossible that any
contrivance could so represent as to render Mr. Darcy's conduct
in it less than infamous, was capable of a turn which must make
him entirely blameless throughout the whole.
The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not
to lay at Mr. Wickham's charge, exceedingly shocked her; the
more so, as she could bring no proof of its injustice. She had
never heard of him before his entrance into the - - shire Militia,
in which he had engaged at the persuasion of the young man
who, on meeting him accidentally in town, had there renewed a
slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life nothing had been
known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As to his real
character, had information been in her power, she had never felt
a wish of inquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had
established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She
tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished
trait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the
attacks of Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue,
atone for those casual errors under which she would endeavour
to class what Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice
of many years' continuance. But no such recollection befriended
her. She could see him instantly before her, in every charm of
air and address; but she could remember no more substantial
good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and
the regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess.
After pausing on this point a considerable while, she once more
continued to read. But, alas! the story which followed, of his
designs on Miss Darcy, received some confirmation from what
had passed between Colonel Fitzwilliam and herself only the
morning before; and at last she was referred for the truth of
every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam himself - from whom she
had previously received the information of his near concern in
all his cousin's affairs, and whose character she had no reason
to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying
to him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the
application, and at length wholly banished by the conviction
that Mr. Darcy would never have hazarded such a proposal, if
he had not been well assured of his cousin's corroboration.
She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in
conversation between Wickham and herself, in their first evening
at Mr. Phillips's. Many of his expressions were still fresh in
her memory. She was _now_ struck with the impropriety of such
communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped her
before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as
he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his
conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear
of seeing Mr. Darcy - that Mr. Darcy might leave the country,
but that _he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the
Netherfield ball the very next week. She remembered also that,
till the Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told
his story to no one but herself; but that after their removal it
had been everywhere discussed; that he had then no reserves, no
scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy's character, though he had assured
her that respect for the father would always prevent his exposing
the son.
How differently did everything now appear in which he was
concerned! His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence
of views solely and hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of
her fortune proved no longer the moderation of his wishes, but
his eagerness to grasp at anything. His behaviour to herself
could now have had no tolerable motive; he had either been
deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his
vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had
most incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour
grew fainter and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr.
Darcy, she could not but allow Mr. Bingley, when questioned
by Jane, had long ago asserted his blamelessness in the affair;
that proud and repulsive as were his manners, she had never, in
the whole course of their acquaintance - an acquaintance which
had latterly brought them much together, and given her a sort of
intimacy with his ways - seen anything that betrayed him to be
unprincipled or unjust - anything that spoke him of irreligious
or immoral habits; that among his own connections he was
esteemed and valued - that even Wickham had allowed him
merit as a brother, and that she had often heard him speak so
affectionately of his sister as to prove him capable of _some_
amiable feeling; that had his actions been what Mr. Wickham
represented them, so gross a violation of everything right could
hardly have been concealed from the world; and that friendship
between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man as Mr.
Bingley, was incomprehensible.
She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor
Wickham could she think without feeling she had been blind,
partial, prejudiced, absurd.
"How despicably I have acted!" she cried; "I, who have prided
myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my
abilities! who have often disdained the generous candour of my
sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or blameable mistrust!
How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation!
Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind!
But vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the
preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other,
on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted
prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where
either were concerned. Till this moment I never knew myself."
From herself to Jane - from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were
in a line which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy's
explanation _there_ had appeared very insufficient, and she read
it again. Widely different was the effect of a second perusal.
How could she deny that credit to his assertions in one instance,
which she had been obliged to give in the other? He declared
himself to be totally unsuspicious of her sister's attachment;
and she could not help remembering what Charlotte's opinion
had always been. Neither could she deny the justice of his
description of Jane. She felt that Jane's feelings, though fervent,
were little displayed, and that there was a constant complacency
in her air and manner not often united with great sensibility.
When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were
mentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her
sense of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her
too forcibly for denial, and the circumstances to which he
particularly alluded as having passed at the Netherfield ball,
and as confirming all his first disapprobation, could not have
made a stronger impression on his mind than on hers.
The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It
soothed, but it could not console her for the contempt which had
thus been self-attracted by the rest of her family; and as she
considered that Jane's disappointment had in fact been the work
of her nearest relations, and reflected how materially the credit
of both must be hurt by such impropriety of conduct, she felt
depressed beyond anything she had ever known before.
After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to
every variety of thought - re-considering events, determining
probabilities, and reconciling herself, as well as she could, to
a change so sudden and so important, fatigue, and a recollection
of her long absence, made her at length return home; and she
entered the house with the wish of appearing cheerful as usual,
and the resolution of repressing such reflections as must make
her unfit for conversation.
She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings
had each called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few
minutes, to take leave - but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been
sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for her return, and
almost resolving to walk after her till she could be found.
Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern in missing him; she
really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no longer an
object; she could think only of her letter.
Chapter 37
The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning, and Mr.
Collins having been in waiting near the lodges, to make them
his parting obeisance, was able to bring home the pleasing
intelligence, of their appearing in very good health, and in as
tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the melancholy scene
so lately gone through at Rosings. To Rosings he then hastened,
to console Lady Catherine and her daughter; and on his return
brought back, with great satisfaction, a message from her
ladyship, importing that she felt herself so dull as to make
her very desirous of having them all to dine with her.
Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that,
had she chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to
her as her future niece; nor could she think, without a smile, of
what her ladyship's indignation would have been. "What would
she have said? how would she have behaved?" were questions with
which she amused herself.
Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings party.
"I assure you, I feel it exceedingly," said Lady Catherine; "I
believe no one feels the loss of friends so much as I do. But
I am particularly attached to these young men, and know them to
be so much attached to me! They were excessively sorry to go!
But so they always are. The dear Colonel rallied his spirits
tolerably till just at last; but Darcy seemed to feel it most
acutely, more, I think, than last year. His attachment to
Rosings certainly increases."
Mr. Collins had a compliment, and an allusion to throw in here,
which were kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter.
Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed
out of spirits, and immediately accounting for it by herself,
by supposing that she did not like to go home again so soon,
she added:
"But if that is the case, you must write to your mother and beg
that you may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad
of your company, I am sure."
"I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation,"
replied Elizabeth, "but it is not in my power to accept it.
I must be in town next Saturday."
"Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I
expected you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before
you came. There can be no occasion for your going so soon.
Mrs. Bennet could certainly spare you for another fortnight."
"But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return."
"Oh! your father of course may spare you, if your mother can.
Daughters are never of so much consequence to a father. And if
you will stay another _month_ complete, it will be in my power
to take one of you as far as London, for I am going there early
in June, for a week; and as Dawson does not object to the
barouche-box, there will be very good room for one of you - and
indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I should not
object to taking you both, as you are neither of you large."
"You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by
our original plan."
Lady Catherine seemed resigned. "Mrs. Collins, you must send
a servant with them. You know I always speak my mind, and I
cannot bear the idea of two young women travelling post by
themselves. It is highly improper. You must contrive to send
somebody. I have the greatest dislike in the world to that sort
of thing. Young women should always be properly guarded and
attended, according to their situation in life. When my niece
Georgiana went to Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her
having two men-servants go with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter
of Mr. Darcy, of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have
appeared with propriety in a different manner. I am excessively
attentive to all those things. You must send John with the young
ladies, Mrs. Collins. I am glad it occurred to me to mention it;
for it would really be discreditable to _you_ to let them go
alone."
"My uncle is to send a servant for us."
"Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very
glad you have somebody who thinks of these things. Where
shall you change horses? Oh! Bromley, of course. If you
mention my name at the Bell, you will be attended to."
Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their
journey, and as she did not answer them all herself, attention was
necessary, which Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or, with
a mind so occupied, she might have forgotten where she was.
Reflection must be reserved for solitary hours; whenever she
was alone, she gave way to it as the greatest relief; and not a
day went by without a solitary walk, in which she might indulge
in all the delight of unpleasant recollections.
Mr. Darcy's letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by
heart. She studied every sentence; and her feelings towards its
writer were at times widely different. When she remembered the
style of his address, she was still full of indignation; but when
she considered how unjustly she had condemned and upbraided him,
her anger was turned against herself; and his disappointed
feelings became the object of compassion. His attachment
excited gratitude, his general character respect; but she could
not approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal,
or feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In
her own past behaviour, there was a constant source of vexation
and regret; and in the unhappy defects of her family, a subject
of yet heavier chagrin. They were hopeless of remedy. Her father,
contented with laughing at them, would never exert himself to
restrain the wild giddiness of his youngest daughters; and her
mother, with manners so far from right herself, was entirely
insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently united with Jane
in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine and Lydia;
but while they were supported by their mother's indulgence, what
chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited,
irritable, and completely under Lydia's guidance, had been always
affronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless,
would scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and
vain. While there was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt
with him; and while Meryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they
would be going there forever.
Anxiety on Jane's behalf was another prevailing concern; and
Mr. Darcy's explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former
good opinion, heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His
affection was proved to have been sincere, and his conduct
cleared of all blame, unless any could attach to the implicitness
of his confidence in his friend. How grievous then was the
thought that, of a situation so desirable in every respect, so
replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had
been deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family!
When to these recollections was added the development of Wickham's
character, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which
had seldom been depressed before, were now so much affected as to
make it almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful.
Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last
week of her stay as they had been at first. The very last evening
was spent there; and her ladyship again inquired minutely into
the particulars of their journey, gave them directions as to the
best method of packing, and was so urgent on the necessity of
placing gowns in the only right way, that Maria thought herself
obliged, on her return, to undo all the work of the morning, and
pack her trunk afresh.
When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension,
wished them a good journey, and invited them to come to
Hunsford again next year; and Miss de Bourgh exerted herself
so far as to curtsey and hold out her hand to both.
Chapter 38
On Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast
a few minutes before the others appeared; and he took the
opportunity of paying the parting civilities which he deemed
indispensably necessary.
"I know not, Miss Elizabeth," said he, "whether Mrs. Collins has
yet expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I
am very certain you will not leave the house without receiving
her thanks for it. The favor of your company has been much
felt, I assure you. We know how little there is to tempt anyone
to our humble abode. Our plain manner of living, our small
rooms and few domestics, and the little we see of the world,
must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like
yourself; but I hope you will believe us grateful for the
condescension, and that we have done everything in our power
to prevent your spending your time unpleasantly."
Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness.
She had spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure
of being with Charlotte, and the kind attentions she had received,
must make _her_ feel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified, and
with a more smiling solemnity replied:
"It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have passed your
time not disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and
most fortunately having it in our power to introduce you to very
superior society, and, from our connection with Rosings, the
frequent means of varying the humble home scene, I think we
may flatter ourselves that your Hunsford visit cannot have been
entirely irksome. Our situation with regard to Lady Catherine's
family is indeed the sort of extraordinary advantage and blessing
which few can boast. You see on what a footing we are. You
see how continually we are engaged there. In truth I must
acknowledge that, with all the disadvantages of this humble
parsonage, I should not think anyone abiding in it an object of
compassion, while they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings."
Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and
he was obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to
unite civility and truth in a few short sentences.
"You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into
Hertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself at least that you
will be able to do so. Lady Catherine's great attentions to Mrs.
Collins you have been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust
it does not appear that your friend has drawn an unfortunate - but
on this point it will be as well to be silent. Only let me
assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that I can from my heart most
cordially wish you equal felicity in marriage. My dear Charlotte
and I have but one mind and one way of thinking. There is in
everything a most remarkable resemblance of character and ideas
between us. We seem to have been designed for each other."
Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where
that was the case, and with equal sincerity could add, that she
firmly believed and rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was
not sorry, however, to have the recital of them interrupted by
the lady from whom they sprang. Poor Charlotte! it was
melancholy to leave her to such society! But she had chosen it
with her eyes open; and though evidently regretting that her
visitors were to go, she did not seem to ask for compassion.
Her home and her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and
all their dependent concerns, had not yet lost their charms.
At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the
parcels placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After
an affectionate parting between the friends, Elizabeth was
attended to the carriage by Mr. Collins, and as they walked
down the garden he was commissioning her with his best
respects to all her family, not forgetting his thanks for the
kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his
compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He
then handed her in, Maria followed, and the door was on the
point of being closed, when he suddenly reminded them, with
some consternation, that they had hitherto forgotten to leave
any message for the ladies at Rosings.
"But," he added, "you will of course wish to have your humble
respects delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their
kindness to you while you have been here."
Elizabeth made no objection; the door was then allowed to be
shut, and the carriage drove off.
"Good gracious!" cried Maria, after a few minutes' silence, "it
seems but a day or two since we first came! and yet how many
things have happened!"
"A great many indeed," said her companion with a sigh.
"We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there
twice! How much I shall have to tell!"
Elizabeth added privately, "And how much I shall have to conceal!"
Their journey was performed without much conversation, or any
alarm; and within four hours of their leaving Hunsford they
reached Mr. Gardiner's house, where they were to remain a few
days.
Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of
studying her spirits, amidst the various engagements which the
kindness of her aunt had reserved for them. But Jane was to go
home with her, and at Longbourn there would be leisure enough
for observation.
It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait
even for Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy's
proposals. To know that she had the power of revealing what
would so exceedingly astonish Jane, and must, at the same time,
so highly gratify whatever of her own vanity she had not yet
been able to reason away, was such a temptation to openness
as nothing could have conquered but the state of indecision
in which she remained as to the extent of what she should
communicate; and her fear, if she once entered on the subject,
of being hurried into repeating something of Bingley which
might only grieve her sister further.
Chapter 39
It was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies
set out together from Gracechurch Street for the town of - - ,
in Hertfordshire; and, as they drew near the appointed inn where
Mr. Bennet's carriage was to meet them, they quickly perceived,
in token of the coachman's punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia
looking out of a dining-room upstairs. These two girls had been
above an hour in the place, happily employed in visiting an
opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on guard, and dressing a
salad and cucumber.
After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table
set out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords,
exclaiming, "Is not this nice? Is not this an agreeable surprise?"
"And we mean to treat you all," added Lydia, "but you must lend
us the money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there."
Then, showing her purchases - "Look here, I have bought this bonnet.
I do not think it is very pretty; but I thought I might as well
buy it as not. I shall pull it to pieces as soon as I get home,
and see if I can make it up any better."
And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect
unconcern, "Oh! but there were two or three much uglier in the
shop; and when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to
trim it with fresh, I think it will be very tolerable. Besides,
it will not much signify what one wears this summer, after the
- - shire have left Meryton, and they are going in a fortnight."
"Are they indeed!" cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction.
"They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so
want papa to take us all there for the summer! It would be such
a delicious scheme; and I dare say would hardly cost anything at
all. Mamma would like to go too of all things! Only think what
a miserable summer else we shall have!"
"Yes," thought Elizabeth, "_that_ would be a delightful scheme
indeed, and completely do for us at once. Good Heaven!
Brighton, and a whole campful of soldiers, to us, who have been
overset already by one poor regiment of militia, and the monthly
balls of Meryton!"
"Now I have got some news for you," said Lydia, as they sat down
at table. "What do you think? It is excellent news - capital
news - and about a certain person we all like!"
Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told
he need not stay. Lydia laughed, and said:
"Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You
thought the waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he
often hears worse things said than I am going to say. But he is
an ugly fellow! I am glad he is gone. I never saw such a long
chin in my life. Well, but now for my news; it is about dear
Wickham; too good for the waiter, is it not? There is no danger
of Wickham's marrying Mary King. There's for you! She is gone
down to her uncle at Liverpool: gone to stay. Wickham is safe."
"And Mary King is safe!" added Elizabeth; "safe from a
connection imprudent as to fortune."
"She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him."
"But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,"
said Jane.
"I am sure there is not on _his_. I will answer for it, he never
cared three straws about her - who could about such a nasty
little freckled thing?"
Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of
such coarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the
_sentiment_ was little other than her own breast had harboured
and fancied liberal!
As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was
ordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all
their boxes, work-bags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition
of Kitty's and Lydia's purchases, were seated in it.
"How nicely we are all crammed in," cried Lydia. "I am glad I
bought my bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another
bandbox! Well, now let us be quite comfortable and snug, and
talk and laugh all the way home. And in the first place, let
us hear what has happened to you all since you went away. Have
you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any flirting? I was
in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband before
you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare.
She is almost three-and-twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of
not being married before three-and-twenty! My aunt Phillips wants
you so to get husbands, you can't think. She says Lizzy had
better have taken Mr. Collins; but _I_ do not think there would
have been any fun in it. Lord! how I should like to be married
before any of you; and then I would chaperon you about to all
the balls. Dear me! we had such a good piece of fun the other
day at Colonel Forster's. Kitty and me were to spend the day
there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the
evening; (by the bye, Mrs. Forster and me are _such_ friends!) and
so she asked the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill,
and so Pen was forced to come by herself; and then, what do you
think we did? We dressed up Chamberlayne in woman's clothes on
purpose to pass for a lady, only think what fun! Not a soul
knew of it, but Colonel and Mrs. Forster, and Kitty and me,
except my aunt, for we were forced to borrow one of her gowns;
and you cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny, and
Wickham, and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in,
they did not know him in the least. Lord! how I laughed! and
so did Mrs. Forster. I thought I should have died. And _that_
made the men suspect something, and then they soon found out
what was the matter."
With such kinds of histories of their parties and good jokes, did
Lydia, assisted by Kitty's hints and additions, endeavour to
amuse her companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth
listened as little as she could, but there was no escaping the
frequent mention of Wickham's name.
Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to
see Jane in undiminished beauty; and more than once during
dinner did Mr. Bennet say voluntarily to Elizabeth:
"I am glad you are come back, Lizzy."
Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the
Lucases came to meet Maria and hear the news; and various
were the subjects that occupied them: Lady Lucas was inquiring
of Maria, after the welfare and poultry of her eldest daughter;
Mrs. Bennet was doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an
account of the present fashions from Jane, who sat some way
below her, and, on the other, retailing them all to the younger
Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other
person's, was enumerating the various pleasures of the morning
to anybody who would hear her.
"Oh! Mary," said she, "I wish you had gone with us, for we had
such fun! As we went along, Kitty and I drew up the blinds,
and pretended there was nobody in the coach; and I should have
gone so all the way, if Kitty had not been sick; and when we got
to the George, I do think we behaved very handsomely, for we
treated the other three with the nicest cold luncheon in the
world, and if you would have gone, we would have treated you
too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought
we never should have got into the coach. I was ready to die
of laughter. And then we were so merry all the way home! we
talked and laughed so loud, that anybody might have heard us
ten miles off!"
To this Mary very gravely replied, "Far be it from me, my dear
sister, to depreciate such pleasures! They would doubtless be
congenial with the generality of female minds. But I confess
they would have no charms for _me_ - I should infinitely prefer a
book."
But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened
to anybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to
Mary at all.
In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls
to walk to Meryton, and to see how everybody went on; but
Elizabeth steadily opposed the scheme. It should not be said
that the Miss Bennets could not be at home half a day before
they were in pursuit of the officers. There was another reason
too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Mr. Wickham again,
and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The comfort
to _her_ of the regiment's approaching removal was indeed beyond
expression. In a fortnight they were to go - and once gone, she
hoped there could be nothing more to plague her on his account.
She had not been many hours at home before she found that the