ut you shall do as you choose.' It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane. "'I do not know when I have been more shocked,' said she. "'Wickham, so very bad! It is almost past belief! And poor Mr. Darcy! Dear Lizzie, only consider what he must have suffered! Such a disappointment! And with the knowledge of your ill-opinion too, and having to relate such a thing of his sister! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it so.' "'Oh, no!  I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am going every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion makes me saving, and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will be as light as a feather.' "'Poor Wickham! There is such an expression of goodness in his countenance, such an openness and gentleness in his manner.' "'There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it.' "'I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the appearance of it as you used to do. And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike to him without any reason. It is such a spur to one's genius, such an opening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually abusive without saying anything just, but one cannot be always laughing at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty. Lizzie, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat the matter as you do now. Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough. I may say unhappy. And with no one to speak to about what I felt. No Jane to comfort me and say that I had not been so very weak and vain and nonsensical as I knew I had. Oh, how I wanted you. How unfortunate that you should have used so very strong expressions in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they do appear so holy and deserved. Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is the most natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There is one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintance in general understand Wickham's character. Miss Bennet paused a little and then replied. Surely there can be no occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your opinion? That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorized me to make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to myself. And have I endeavour to undercede people as to the rest of his conduct? Who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent that it would be the death of half the good people in Meriton to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Wickham will soon be gone, and therefore it will not signify to any one here what he really is.  At present I will say nothing about it. You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for ever. He is now perhaps sorry for what he has done, and anxious to re-establish character. We must not make him desperate. The tumult of Elizabeth's mind was allayed by this conversation. She had got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Jane whenever she might wish to talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind, of which prudence forbade the disclosure. She dared not relate the other half of Mr. Darcy's letter, nor explained to her sister how sincerely she had been valued by her friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could partake, and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off this last encumbrance of mystery. And then, said she, if that very improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The liberty of communication cannot be mined till it has lost all its value. She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real state of her sister's spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself in love before, her regarded all the warmth of first attachment, and from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than most first attachments often boast, and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those regrets which must have been injurious to her own health and their tranquility. Well, Lizzie, said Mrs. Bennet one day, what is your opinion now of this sad business of Jane's? For my part I am determined never to speak of it again to any body. I told my sister Philip so the other day, but I cannot find out that Jane's or anything of him in London. Well, he is a very undeserving young man, and I do not suppose there is the least chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of it coming to Netherfield again in the summer, and I have inquired of every body, too, who is likely to know. I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any more. Oh, well! It is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. Though I shall always say he used my daughter extremely ill, and if I was her I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure Jane will die of a broken heart, and then he will be sorry for what he has done. But Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation, and she made no answer. Well, Lizzie, continued her mother soon afterwards, so the Collins's live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it will last. In what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an excellent manager, I daresay. If she is half as sharp as her mother, she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in their housekeeping, I daresay. No, nothing at all. A great deal of good management depend upon it. Yes, yes, they will take care not to outrun their income. They will never be distressed for money. Well, much good may it do them. And so, I suppose, they often talk of having longboard when your father is dead. They look upon it quite as their own, I daresay, whenever that happens. It was a subject which they could not mention before me. No, it would have been strange if they had, but I make no doubt they often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better, I should be ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me. CHAPTER XI The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was the last of the regiments' stay in Mariton, and all the young ladies in the neighborhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink, and sleep and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very frequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such hard-heartedness in any of the family. Good heaven! What is to become of us? What are we to do? What they often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. How can you be so smiling, Lizzie? Their affectionate mother shared all their grief.  I am sure, said she, I cried for two days together when Colonel Miller's regiment went away. I thought I should have broken my heart. I am sure I shall break mine, said Lydia. If one could but go to Brighton, observed Mrs. Bennet. Oh, yes, if one could but go to Brighton, but papa is so disagreeable. A little sea-bathing would set me up forever. And my aunt Phillips assured would do me a great deal of good, added Kitty. Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them, but all sense of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy's objections, and never had she been so much disposed to pardon his interference in the views of his friend. But the gloom of Lydia's prospect was shortly cleared away, for she received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the Colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of their three-months acquaintance they had been intimate, too. The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster, the delight of Mrs. Bennet and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely to be described. Holy inattentive to her sister's feelings, Lydia flew about the house in restless ecstasy, calling for everyone's congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever, whilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlor repined at her fate in terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish. I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask me as well as Lydia, said she, though I am not a particular friend, I have just as much right to be asked as she has, and more, too, for I am two years older. In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia that she considered it as the death warrant of all possibility of common sense for the latter, and detestable as such a step must make her worth known, she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her go. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia's general behaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must be greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said, Lydia will never be easy until she has exposed herself in some public place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present circumstances. If you were aware, said Elizabeth, of the very great disadvantage to us all which must arise from the public notice of Lydia's unguarded and imprudent manner, nay which has already arisen from it, I am sure you would judge differently in this affair. Already arisen, repeated Mr. Bennet, what? Has she frightened away some of your lovers?  But do not be cast down such squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity, or not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of pitiful fellows who have been kept aloof by Lydia's folly. Indeed, you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not of particular but of general evils which I am now complaining. Our importance, our respectability in the world must be affected by the wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which marks Lydia's character. Excuse me, for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and of teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be to the business of her life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character will be fixed, and she will at sixteen be the most determined flirt that ever made herself or her family ridiculous. A flirt, too, in the worst and meanest degree of flirtation, without any attraction beyond youth and a tolerable person, and from the ignorance and emptiness of her mind wholly unable to ward off any portion of that universal contempt which her rage for admiration will excite. In this danger Kitty also is comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads—vain ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled. Oh, my dear father, can you suppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever they are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the disgrace? Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject, and affectionately taking her hand said in reply, Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known you must be respected and valued, and you will not appear to less advantage for having a couple of, or I may say three, very silly sisters. We shall have no peace at long-born if Lydia's does not go to Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will keep her out of any real mischief, and she is luckily too poor to be an object of prey to anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance even as a common flood than she has been here. The offices will find women better with her notice. Let us hope therefore that her being there may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate she cannot grow many degrees worse without authorizing us to lock her up for the rest of her life. With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content, but her own opinion continued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not in her nature, however, to increase her vexations by dwelling on them. She was confident of having performed her duty, and to fret over unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her disposition. Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her father, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their united volubility. In Lydia's imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised every possibility of earthly happiness.  She saw herself the object of attention to tens and scores of them at present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp, its tents stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young and the gay and dazzling with scarlet. And to complete the view, she saw herself seated beneath the tent, tenderly flirting with at least six officers at once. Had she known her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and such realities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could have been only understood by her mother, who might have felt nearly the same. Lydia's going to Brighton was all the consultant for her melancholy conviction of her husband's never intending to go there himself.  Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been frequently in company with him since her return, agitation was pretty well over. The agitations of formal partiality entirely so. She had even learnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted her, an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present behaviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure. For the inclination he soon testified of renewing those intentions which had marked the early part of their acquaintance, could only serve after what had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern for him in finding herself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous gallantry, and while she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the reproof contained in his believing, that however long and for whatever cause his attentions had been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified, and her preference secured at any time by their renewal. On the very last day of the regiments remaining at Mariton, he dined with the other officers at Longbourn, and so little was Elizabeth disposed apart from him in good humour, that on his making some inquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed at Huntsford, she mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliams and Mr. Darcy's having both spent three weeks at Rosings, and asked him if he was acquainted with the former. He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed, but with a moment's recollection and a returning smile, replied that he had formerly seen him often, and after observing that he was a very gentleman-like man, asked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour. With an air of indifference he soon afterwards added, how long did you say he was at Rosings? Nearly three weeks. And you saw him frequently? Yes, almost every day. His man is very different from his cousins. Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves upon acquaintance. Indeed! cried Mr. Wickham with a look which did not escape her. And pray, may I ask? But checking himself, he added in a gayer tone. Is it an address that he improves, has he deigned to add aught of civility to his ordinary style? For I dare not hope. He continued in a lower and more serious tone, that he is improved in essentials. Oh, no! said Elizabeth. In essentials I believe he is very much what he ever was. While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to rejoice over her words or to distrust their meaning. There was a something in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive and anxious attention while she added. When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that his mind or his manners were in a state of improvement, but that from knowing him better his disposition was better understood. Wickham's alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated look. For a few minutes he was silent, till shaking off his embarrassment, he turned to her again and said in the gentlest of accents, You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Darcy, will readily comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume even the appearance of what is right. His pride in that direction may be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must only deter him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only fear that the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been eluding is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgment he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I know, when they were together, and a good deal is to be imputed to his wish of forwarding the match with Mr. Berg, which I am certain he has very much at heart. Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on the old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge him. The rest of the evening passed with the appearance, on his side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to distinguish Elizabeth, and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a mutual desire of never meeting again. When the party broke up Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Maritain, from whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation between her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the only one who shed tears, but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs. Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter, and impressive in her injunctions that she should not miss the opportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible. Advice which there was every reason to believe would be well attended to, and in the clamourous happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle addues of her sisters were uttered without being heard. END OF CHAPTER XIV. Had Elizabeth's opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could not have formed a very pleasing opinion of conjugal felicity or domestic comfort. Her father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance of good humour which youth and beauty generally give, had married a woman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind had very early in their marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect, esteem, and confidence had vanished forever, and all his views of domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own imprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often consoled the unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of the country and of books, and from these tastes had arisen his principal enjoyments.  This is not the sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his wife, but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true philosopher will derive benefit from such, as are given. Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her father's behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain, but respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of herself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation and decorum, which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own children, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so strongly as now the disadvantages which must attend the children of so unsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising from so ill judge to direction of talents. Talents, which, rightly used, might at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters, even if incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife. When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham's departure, she found little other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties abroad were less varied than before, and at home she had a mother and sister whose constant repinings at the dullness of everything around them threw a real gloom over their domestic circle. And though Kitty might in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbors of her brain were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition greater evil might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all her folly and assurance by a situation of such double danger as a watering-place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what has been sometimes found before, that an event to which she had been looking forward with impatient desire did not, in taking place, bring all the satisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to name some other period for the commencement of actual felicity, to have some other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the present, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the lakes was now the object of her happiest thoughts. It was the best consolation for all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness of her mother and Kitty made inevitable, and could she have included Jane in the scheme, every part of it would have been perfect. But it is fortunate, thought she, that I have something to wish for. Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain. But here, by carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret in my sister's absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of pleasure realized. A scheme of which every part promises delight can never be successful, and general disappointment is only warded off by the defence of some little peculiar vexation. When Lydia went away she promised to write very often and very minutely to her mother and Kitty, but her letters were always long expected, and always very short. Those to her mother contained little else than that they were just returned from the library, where such and such officers had attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as made her quite wild, that she had a new gown or a new parasol, which she would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her and they were going off to the camp, and from her correspondence with her sister there was still less to be learnt, for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were much too full of lines under the word to be made public. After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, good humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn. Everything more happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter came back again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet was restored to her usual quarrelous serenity, and by the middle of June, Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Mariton without tears, an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope that by the following Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable as to not mention an officer above once a day, unless by some cruel and malicious arrangement at the war-office another regimen should be quartered in Mariton. The time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now fast approaching, and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter arrived from Mrs. Gardner, which had once delayed its commencement and curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardner would be prevented by business from setting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again within a month, and as that left too short a period for them to go so far and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to cede with the leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up the lakes, and substituted a more contracted tour, and according to the present plan, were to go no farther northwards than Darbyshire. In that country there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three weeks, and to Mrs. Gardner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The town where she had formally passed some years of her life, and where they were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of her curiosity as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, Dovdale, or The Peak. Elizabeth was excessively disappointed, she had set her heart on seeing the lakes, and still thought there might have been time enough. But it was her business to be satisfied, and certainly her temper to be happy, and all was soon right again. With the mention of Darbyshire there were many ideas connected. It was impossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its owner. But surely, said she, I may enter his county without impunity, and rob it of a few petrified spas without his perceiving me. The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away before her uncle and aunt's arrival, but they did pass away, and Mr. and Mrs. Gardner, with their four children, did at length appear at Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two younger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their cousin Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and sweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every way, teaching them, playing with them, and loving them. The Gardner stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement. One enjoyment was certain, that of suitableness of companions, a suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear in conveniences, cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure, and affection and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were disappointments abroad. It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route, thither lay, Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kettleworth, Birmingham, etc., are sufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present concern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardner's former residence, and where she had lately learned some acquaintance that still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen all the principal wonders of the country, and within five miles of Lambton, Elizabeth found from her aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not in their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In talking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardner expressed an inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardner declared his willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation. My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so much? said her aunt. A place, too, with which so many of your acquaintances are connected. Wakeham passed all his youth there, you know. Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She must own that she was tired of seeing great houses. After going over so many, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains. Mrs.  If it were merely a fine house richly furnished, said she, I should not care about it myself, but the grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the country. Elizabeth said no more, but her mind could not acquiesce. The possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy while viewing the place instantly occurred. It would be dreadful. She blushed at the very idea, and thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt than to run such a risk. But against this there were objections, and she finally resolved that it could be the last resource if her private inquiries to the absence of the family were unfavorably answered. Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid whether Pemberley were not a very fine place, what was the name of its proprietor, and, with no little alarm, whether the family were down for the summer. A most welcome negative followed the last question, and her alarms now being removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of curiosity to see the house herself, and when the subject was revived the next morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer and with a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike to the scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go. Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation, and when at last they turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter. The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent. Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for a half-mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills, and in front a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were all of them warm in their admiration, and at that moment she felt that to be Mistress of Pemberley might be something. They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door, and while examining the near aspect of the house, all her apprehension of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded, lest the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the hall, and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder at her being where she was. The housekeeper came, a respectable-looking elderly woman, much less fine and more civil than she had any notion of finding her. They followed her into the dining-parlor. It was a large, well-proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good, and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks, and the winding of the valley as far as she could trace it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms, these objects were taking different positions, but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortunes of its proprietor. But Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither godine or uselessly fine, with less of splendour and more real elegance than the furniture of Rosings. And of this place, thought she, I might have been mistress. With these rooms, I might now have been familiarly acquainted. Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my aunt and uncle. But no, recollecting herself. That could never be. My aunt and uncle would have been lost to me. I should not have been allowed to invite them. This was a lucky recollection. It saved her from something very like regret. She longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master was really absent, but had not the courage for it. At length, however, the question was asked by her uncle, and she turned away with alarm while Mrs. Reynolds replied that he was, adding, But we expect him to-morrow with a large party of friends. How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not, by any circumstance, been delayed a day. Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended amongst several other miniatures over the mental piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was a picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master, Stuart, who had been brought up by him at his own expense. He's now gone into the army, she added. But I am afraid he has turned out very wild. Mrs. Gardner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it. And that, said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, is my master, and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other, about eight years ago. I have heard much of your master's fine person, said Mrs. Gardner, looking at the picture. It is a handsome face, but Lizzie, you can tell us whether it is like or not. Mrs. Reynolds' respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this intimation of her knowing her master. Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy? Elizabeth curled and said, a little. And do you not think I'm a very handsome gentleman, ma'am? Yes, very handsome. I am sure I know none so handsome, but in the gallery upstairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them. This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them. Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old. And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother? said Mrs. Gardner. Oh, yes! the handsomest young lady that ever was seen and so accomplished! She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a new instrument just come down for her, a present from my master. She comes here to-morrow with him. Mr. Gardner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks. Mrs. Reynolds, either by pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her master and his sister. Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year? Not so much as I could wish, sir, but I dare say he may spend half his time here, and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months. Except, thought Elizabeth, when she goes to Ramsgate. If your master would marry, you might see more of him. Yes, sir, but I do not know when that will be. I do not know who is good enough for him. Mr. and Mrs. Gardner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, it is very much to his credit I am sure that you should think so. I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that knows him. replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far, and she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, I have never known a crossword from him in my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old. This was praise of all others' most extraordinary, most opposite to her ideas. That he was not a good tempered man had been her firmest opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened. She longed to hear more, and was grateful to her uncle for saying, there are very few people of whom so much can be said, you are lucky in having such a master. Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I could not meet with a better. But I have always observed that they who are good natured when children are good natured when they grow up, and he was always the sweetest tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the world. Elizabeth almost stared at her. Can this be Mr. Darcy? thought she. His father was an excellent man, said Mrs. Gardner. Yes, mom, that he was indeed, and his son will be just like him, just as affable to the poor. Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs. Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subject of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the furniture in vain. Mr. Gardner, highly amused by the kind of family prejudice to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her master, soon led again to the subject. And she dwelt with energy on his many merits, as they proceeded together of the great staircase. He is the best landlord and the best master, said she, that ever lived, not like the wild young men nowadays who think of nothing but themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but will give him a good name. Some people call him proud, but I am sure I never saw anything of it. To my fancy it is only because he does not rattle away like other young men. In what an amiable light does this place him? thought Elizabeth. This fine account of him, whispered her aunt as they walked, is not quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend. Perhaps we might be deceived. That is not very likely. Our authority was too good. On reaching the spacious lobby above they were shown into a very pretty sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than the apartments below, and were informed that it was but just done to give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room when last at Pemberley. He is suddenly a good brother, said Elizabeth, as she walked towards one of the windows. Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy's delight when she should enter the room. And this is always the way with him, she added. Whatever can give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in a moment. There is nothing he would not do for her. The picture-gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms, were all that remained to be shown. In the former were many good paintings, but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art, and from such as had been already visible below, she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss Darcy's in crayons, whose subjects were usually more interesting and also more intelligible. In the gallery there are many family portraits, but they could have little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked in quest of the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it arrested her, and she beheld a striking resemblance to Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over the face as she remembered to have sometimes seen when he looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture in earnest contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery. Mrs. Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father's lifetime. There was certainly at this moment in Elizabeth's mind a more gentle sensation towards the original than she had ever felt at the height of their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she considered how many people's happiness were in his guardianship. How much of pleasure or pain was it in his power to bestow? How much of good or evil must be done by him? Every idea that had been brought forward by the housekeeper was favorable to his character, and as she stood before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of gratitude than it had ever raised before. She remembered its warmth, and softened its impropriety of expression. When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen, they returned downstairs, and taking leave of the housekeeper, were consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall door. As they walked across the hall towards the river, Elizabeth turned back to look again, her aunt and uncle stopped also, and while the former was conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself suddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables. They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his appearance that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely stared, and for a moment seemed immovable from surprise, but shortly recovering himself, advanced toward the party, and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility. She had instinctively turned away, but stopping on his approach, received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be overcome. Had his first appearance or his resemblance to the picture they had just been examining, being insufficient to assure the other two that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener's expression of surprise and beholding his master must immediately have told it. They stood a little aloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused, scarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she returned to his civil inquiries after her family. Amazed at the alteration of his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he uttered was increasing her embarrassment, and every idea of the impropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the few minutes in which they continued were some of the most uncomfortable in her life, nor did he seem much more at ease. When he spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness, and he repeated his inquiries as to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her having stayed in Derbyshire, so often and in so hurried away, as plainly spoke the distraction of his thoughts. At length every idea seemed to fail him, and after standing a few moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself and took leave. The others then joined her and expressed admiration of his figure, but Elizabeth heard not a word, and wholly engrossed by her own feelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and vexation. Her coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged thing in the world. How strange it must appear to him! And what a disgraceful light might not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if she had purposely thrown herself in his way again. Oh, why did she come? Or why did he thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his discrimination. For it was plain that he was that moment arrived, that moment alighted from his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and again over the perverseness of the meeting, and his behaviour so strikingly altered. What could it mean? That he should even speak to her was amazing, but to speak with such civility, to inquire after her family. Never in her life had she seen his manner so little dignified, never had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put his letter into her hand. She knew not what to think, or how to account for it. They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer reach of the woods to which they were approaching. But it was some time before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it, and though she answered mechanically to the repeated appeals of her aunt and uncle, and seemed to direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she distinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that one spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then was. She longed to know what at the moment was passing in his mind, in what manner he thought of her, and whether in defiance of everything, she was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he felt himself at ease, yet there had been that in his voice which was not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in seeing her she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with composure. At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind aroused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself. They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a while, ascended some of the higher grounds, when in spots where the opening of the trees gave the eye power to wander, where many charming views of the valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods over spreading many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardner expressed a wish of going round the whole park, but feared it might be beyond a walk. With a triumphant smile they were told that it was ten miles round. It settled the matter, and they pursued the accustomed circuit, which brought them again after some time in a descent among hanging woods to the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene. It was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited, and the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the stream and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice wood which bordered it. Elizabeth longed to explore its windings, but when they had crossed the bridge and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardner, who was not a great walker, could go no further, and thought only of returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was therefore obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction. But their progress was slow, for Mr. Gardner, though seldom able to indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in the water and talking to the man about them that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment was quite equal to what had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk here, being here less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with calmness if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. The idea lasted while the turning in the walk concealed him from their view. The turning passed. He was immediately before them. With a glance she saw that he had lost none of his recent civility, and to imitate his politeness she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place. But she had not got beyond the words delightful and charming when some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said no more. Mrs. Gardner was standing a little behind, and on her pausing, he asked her if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends. This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared, and could hardly suppress a smile at his being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people against whom his pride had revolted in his offer to herself. What will be his surprise? thought she, when he knows who they are. He takes them now for people of fashion. The introduction, however, was immediately made, and as she named their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him to see how he bore it, and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions, that he was surprised by the connection was evident. He sustained it, however, with fortitude, and so far from going away turned his back with them, and entered into conversation with Mr. Gardner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners. The conversation soon turned upon fishing, and she heard Mr. Darcy invite him with the greatest civility to fish there as often as he chose while he continued in the neighborhood, offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of the stream where there was most usually sport. Mrs. Gardner, who was walking arm in arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly. The compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and continually was she repeating, Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be for me, and cannot be for my sake that his manners have thus softened. My reproofs at Huntsford could not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me. After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two gentlemen behind, unresuming their places after descending to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing that his arrival had been very unexpected. For your housekeeper, she added, informed us that he would certainly not be here till to-morrow. And indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country. He acknowledged the truth of it all, and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. They will join me early to-morrow," he continued, and among them a sum who will claim an acquaintance with you, Mr. Bingley and his sisters. Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been the last mention between them, and if she might judge by his complexion, his mind was not very differently engaged. There is also one other person in the party—he continued after a pause—who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow me—or do I ask too much—to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton? The surprise of such an application was great indeed. It was too great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt that whatever desire Ms. Darcy might have of being acquainted with her must be the work of her brother, and without looking farther, it was satisfactory, it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made him think really ill of her. They now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth was not comfortable—that was impossible—but she was flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her was a complement of the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardner were half a quarter of a mile behind. He then asked her to walk into the house, but she declared herself not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time much might have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but there seemed to be an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected that she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dovdale with great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly, and her patience and her ideas were nearly worn out before the tetatet was over. Aunt Mr. and Mrs. Gardner's coming up, they were all pressed to go into the house and take some refreshment, but this was declined, and they parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the ladies into the carriage, and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking slowly towards the house. The observations of her uncle and aunt now began, and each of them pronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they had expected. He is perfectly well-behaved, polite, and unassuming, said her uncle. There is something a little stately in him to be sure, replied her aunt. But it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now say with the housekeeper that though some people may call him proud, I have seen nothing of it. I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more than civil. It was really attentive, and there was no necessity for such attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling. To be sure, Lizzy, said her aunt, he is not so handsome as Wickham, or rather he is not Wickham's countenance for his features are perfectly good. But how came he to tell me that he was so disagreeable? Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could, said that she had liked him better when they had met in Kent than before, and that she had never seen him so pleasant as this morning. But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities, replied her uncle. Your great men often are, and I shall not take him at his word, as he might change his mind another day and warn me off his grounds. Elizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his character, but said nothing. From what we have seen of him, Continuous's Gardener, I really should not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by anybody as he is done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look. On the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when he speaks, and there is something of dignity in his countenance that would not give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But, to be sure, the good lady who showed us his house did give him a most flaming character. I could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal master, I suppose, and that in the eye of a servant comprehends every virtue. Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of his behaviour to Wickham, and therefore gave them to understand, in as guarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from his relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different construction, and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor Wickham's so amiable as they had been considered in heart for sure. In confirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary transactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming her authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on. Mrs. Gardner was surprised and concerned, but as they were now approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to the charm of recollection, and she was too much engaged in pointing out to her husband all the interesting spots in its environs to think of anything else. Petigued as she had been by the morning's walk, they had knew sooner dined that she set off again in quest of her former acquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of an intercourse renewed after many years' discontinuance. The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth much attention for any of these new friends, and she could do nothing but think and think with wonder of Mr. Darcy's civility and above all of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister. Elizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit her the very day after her reaching Pemberley, and was consequently resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning. But her conclusion was false, for on the very morning after their arrival at Lambton these visitors came. They had been walking about the place with some of their new friends, and were just returning to the inn to dress themselves for dining with the same family when the sound of a carriage drew them to the window, and they saw a gentleman and a lady in a caracal driving up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognizing the livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of her surprise to her relations by acquainting them with the honour which she expected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement, and the embarrassment of her manner as she spoke joined to the circumstance itself, and many of the circumstances of the preceding day opened to them a new idea on the business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they felt that there was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such a quarter than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these newly born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of Elizabeth's feelings was at every moment increasing. She was quite amazed at her own discomposure, but amongst other causes of disquiet, she dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much in her favour, and more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally suspected that every power of pleasing would fail her. She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen, and as she walked up and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw such looks of inquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made everything worse. Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see that her new acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself. Since her being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud, but the observation of a very few minutes convinced her that she was only exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain even a word from her beyond a monosyllable. Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth, and though little more than sixteen, her figure was formed and her appearance womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother, but there was sense and good humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had suspected to find in her as acute and unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much relieved by discerning such different feelings. They had not long been together before Mr. Darcy told her that Bingley was also coming to wait on her, and she had barely time to express her satisfaction and prepare for such a visitor, when Bingley's quick step was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the room. All Elizabeth's anger against him had been long done away, but had she still felt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected cordiality with which she expressed himself on seeing her again. He inquired in a friendly, though general way, after her family, and looked and spoke with the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done. To Mr. and Mrs. Gardner he was scarcely a less interesting personage than to herself. They had long wished to see him. The whole party before them indeed excited a lively attention. The suspicions which had just arisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece directed their observation towards each with an earnest though guarded inquiry, and they soon drew from those inquiries the full conviction that one of them at least knew what it was to love. Of the ladies' sensations they remained a little in doubt, but that the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was evident enough. Elizabeth on her side had much to do. She wanted to ascertain the feelings of each of her visitors. She wanted to compose her own, and to make herself agreeable to all. And in the latter object, where she feared most to fail, she was most sure of success, for those to whom she endeavoured to give pleasure were prepossessed in her favour. Bingley was ready, Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined to be pleased. In seeing Bingley her thoughts naturally flew to her sister, and oh, how ardently did she long to know whether any of his were directed in a like manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he talked less than on former occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with the notion that, as he looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But though this might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his behaviour to Miss Darcy, who had been set up as a rival to Jane. No look appeared on either side that spoke particular regard. Nothing occurred between them that could justify the hopes of his sister. On this point she was soon satisfied, and two or three little circumstances occurred ere they parted, which in her anxious interpretation denoted a recollection of Jane not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of saying more that might lead to the mention of her had he dared. He observed to her, at a moment when the others were talking together, and in a tone which had something of real regret, that, it was a very long time since he had had the pleasure of seeing her, and before she could reply, he added, it is above eight months we have not met since the twenty-sixth of November when we were all dancing together at Netherfield. Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact, and he afterwards took occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of the rest, whether all her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the question, nor in the proceeding remark, but there was a look and a manner which gave them meaning. It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself, but whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an expression of general complacence, and in all that he said she heard an accent so removed from auteur or disdain of his companions, as convinced her that the improvement of manners which she had yesterday witnessed, however temporary its existence might prove, had at least outlived one day. When she saw him thus seeking the acquaintance and courting the good opinion of people, with whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a disgrace, when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to the very relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected their last lively scene in Huntsford Parsonage, the difference, the change, was so great, and struck so forcibly on her mind that she could hardly restrain her astonishment from being visible. Never, even in the company of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please, so free from self-consequence or unbending reserve, as now, when no importance could result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the acquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed, would draw down the ridicule and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and Rosings. Their visitors stayed with them above half an hour, and when they arose to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner at Pemberley before they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a diffidence which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations, readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing how she, whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its acceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming, however, that this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment than any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for their attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on. Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Elizabeth again, having still a great deal to say to her, and many inquiries to make after all their heart-pitcher friends. Elizabeth, construing all this into a wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was pleased, and on this account, as well as some others, found herself when their visitors left them, capable of considering the last half hour with some satisfaction, though while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been little. Eager to be alone, and fearful of inquiries or hints from her uncle and aunt, she stayed with them only long enough to hear their favorable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress. But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardner's curiosity. It was not their wish to force her communication. It was evident that she was much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had before any idea of. It was evident that he was very much in love with her. They saw much to interest, but nothing to justify inquiry. Of Mr. Darcy it was no matter of anxiety to think well, and as far as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They could not be untouched by his politeness, and had they drawn his character from their own feelings and his servant's report without any reference to any other account, the circle in heart for sure to which he was known would not have recognized it for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest, however, in believing the housekeeper, and they soon became sensible that the authority of a servant who had known him since he was four years old, and whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be hastily rejected. Neither had anything occurred in the intelligence of their Lambton friends that could materially lessen its weight. They had nothing to accuse him of but pride. Pride he probably had, and if not, it would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants of a small market town where the family did not visit. It was acknowledged, however, that he was a liberal man, and did much good among the poor. With respect to Wickham, the traveller soon found that he was not held there in much estimation, for though the chief of his concerns with the son of his patron were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well-known fact that, on his quitting Darbyshire, he had left many debts behind him, which Mr. Darcy had afterwards discharged. As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening more than the last, and the evening, though as it passed it seemed long, was not long enough to determine her feelings towards one in that mansion, and she lay awake two whole hours endeavouring to make them out. She certainly did not hate them. No, hatred had vanished long ago, and she had almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him, that could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his valuable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some time ceased to be repugnant to her feeling, and it was now heightened into somewhat of a friendlier nature, by the testimony so highly in his favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light, which yesterday had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem, there was a motive within her of good will which could not be overlooked. It was gratitude—gratitude not merely for having once loved her, but for loving her still well enough to forgive all the petulance and acrimony of her manner and rejecting him, and all the unjust accusations accompanying her rejection. He, who she had been persuaded would avoid her as his greatest enemy, seemed on this accidental meeting most eager to preserve the acquaintance, and without any indelicate display of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where their two selves only were concerned, was soliciting the good opinion of her friends, and bent on making her known to his sister. Such a change in a man of so much pride, exciting not only astonishment but gratitude—for to love, ardent love, it must be attributed. And as such, its impression on her was of a sort to be encouraged, as by no means unpleasing, though it could not be exactly defined. She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to him, she felt a real interest in his welfare, and she only wanted to know how far she wished that welfare to depend upon herself, and how far it would be for the happiness of both that she should employ the power, which her fancy told her she still possessed, of bringing on her the renewal of his addresses. It had been settled in the evening between the aunt and the niece that such a striking civility as Miss Darcy's in coming to see them on the very day of her arrival at Pemberley, for she had reached it only to a late breakfast, ought to be imitated, though it could not be equaled, by some exertion of politeness on their side, and consequently that it would be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following morning. They were therefore to go. Elizabeth was pleased, though when she asked herself the reason, she had very little to say and reply. Mr. Gardner left them soon after breakfast, the fishing scheme had been renewed the day before, and a positive engagement made of his meeting some of the gentlemen at Pemberley before noon. Miss Bingley's delight of her had originated in jealousy. She could not help feeling how unwelcome her appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know with how much civility on that lady's side the acquaintance would now be renewed. On reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the saloon, whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows opening to the ground admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody hills behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts which were scattered over the intermediate lawn. In this house they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting there with Mrs. Hearst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived in London. Georgiana's reception of them was very civil, but attended with all the embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the fear of doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves inferior the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardner and her niece, however, did her justice, and pitied her. By Mrs. Hearst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only by a curtsy, and on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be, succeeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annasley, a genteel, agreeable-looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind of discourse proved her to be more truly well-bred than either of the others. And between her and Mrs. Gardner, with occasional help from Elizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she wished for courage enough to join in it, and sometimes did venture a short sentence when there was least danger of its being heard. Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss Bingley, and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without calling her attention. This observation would not have prevented her from trying to talk to the latter, had they not been seated at an inconvenient distance, but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity of saying much. Her own thoughts were employing her. She expected every moment that some of the gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she feared, that the master of the house might be amongst them, and whether she wished or feared at most, she could scarcely determine. After sitting in this manner a quarter of an hour without hearing Miss Bingley's voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold inquiry after the health of her family. She answered with equal indifference and brevity, and the others said no more. The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the finest fruits in season. But this did not take place till after many a significant look and smile from Mrs. Annisley to Miss Darcy had been given, to remind her of her post. There was now employment for the whole party, for though they could not all talk, they could all eat, and the beautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches soon collected them round the table. While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding whether she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy by the feelings which prevailed on his entering the room, and then, though but a moment before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to regret that he came. He had been some time with Mr. Gardner, who, with two or three other gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had left him only on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear than Elizabeth wisely resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed, a resolution the more necessary to be made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she saw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them, and that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour when he first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley's, in spite of the smiles which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its objects, for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attentions to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother's entrance, exerted herself much more to talk, and Elizabeth saw that he was anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded as much as possible every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss Bingley saw all this likewise, and in the imprudence of anger took the first opportunity of saying with sneering civility, Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the blank shall militia removed from maritain? They must be a great loss to your family. In Darcy's presence she dared not mention Wickham's name, but Elizabeth instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts, and the various recollections connected with him gave her a moment's distress, but exerting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she presently answered the question in a tolerably detached tone. While she spoke, an involuntary glance showed her Darcy with a heightened complexion, earnestly looking at her, and his sister overcome with confusion, and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what pain she was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would have refrained from the hint, but she had merely intended to discompose Elizabeth by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she believed her partial, and to make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in Darcy's opinion, and perhaps to remind the latter of all the follies and absurdities by which some part of her family were connected with that core. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss Darcy's meditated elopement. To no creature had it been revealed where secrecy was possible except to Elizabeth, and from all Bingley's connections her brother was particularly anxious to conceal it from the very wish which Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him of there becoming hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and without meaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate him from Miss Bennet, it is probable that it might add something to his lively concern for the welfare of his friend. Elizabeth's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion, and as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able to speak any more. Her brother whose eyes she feared to meet, scarcely recollected her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which had been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth seemed to have fixed them on her more and more cheerfully. Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer above mentioned, and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their carriage, Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth's person, behaviour, and dress, but Georgiana would not join her. Her brother's recommendation was enough to ensure her favour, his judgment could not err, and as he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana without the power of finding her otherwise then lovely and amiable. When Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to him some part of what she had been saying to his sister. How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy! She cried, I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she is since the winter. She's grown so brown and coarse. Louisa and I were agreeing that we should not have known her again. However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address. He contended himself with Cooley replying that he perceived no other alteration than her being rather tanned, no miraculous consequence of travelling in the summer. For my own part, she rejoined, I must confess that I never saw any beauty in her. Her face is too thin, her complexion has no brilliancy, and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose wants character, there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way. And as for her eyes, which have sometimes been called so fine, I could never see anything extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look which I do not like at all, and in her air altogether there is a self-sufficiency without fashion which is intolerable. Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not the best method of recommending herself, but angry people are not always wise, and in seeing him at last look somewhat netdled, she had all the success she expected. He was resolutely silent, however, and from a determination of making him speak, she continued, I remember when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty, and I particularly recollect your saying one night after they had been dining at Netherfield. She! a beauty! I should have soon called her mother a witt. But afterward she seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at one time. Yes, replied Darcy who could contain himself no longer, but that was only when I first saw her, for it is many months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance. He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself. Mrs. Gardner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred during their visit as they returned, except what had particularly interested them both—the look and behaviour of everybody they had seen were discussed, except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit—of everything, but himself. Yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardner thought of him, and Mrs. Gardner would have been highly gratified by her nieces beginning the subject. Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from Jane on their first arrival at Lambton, and this disappointment had been renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there, but on the third her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as Jane had written the direction remarkably ill. They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in, and her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by themselves. The one missent must first be attended to, it had been written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded, but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect. Since writing the above, dearest Lizzie, something has occurred of a most unexpected and serious nature, but I'm afraid of alarming you. Be assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland, with one of his officers, to own the truth, with Wickham. Imagine our surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry, so imprudent to match on both sides. But I'm willing to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet, I can easily believe him, but this step, and that us rejoice over it, marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing.  My father bears it better. How thankful am I that we never let them know what has been said against him? We must forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about twelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzie, they must have passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from our poor mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly know what I've written. Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing what she felt, Elizabeth, on finishing this letter, instantly seized the other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows. It had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first. By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter. I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest Lizzie, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as the marriage between Sir Wickham and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured that it has taken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia's short letter to Mrs. F gave them to understand that they were going to Gretton Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that W never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was repeated to Colonel F, who instantly taking the alarm set off from B intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham, but no further, for on entering that place they removed into a hackney-coach, and dismissed the shares that brought them from Epsom. All that is known after this is, that they were seen to continue the London road. I know not what to think. After making every possible inquiry on that side of London, Colonel F came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and all the inns in Barnett and Hatfield, but without any success, no such people had been seen to pass through. With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F, but no one can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the worst, but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make it more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to pursue their first plan, and even if he could form such a design against the young woman of Lydia's connections, which is not likely, can I suppose her so lost to everything? Impossible. I grieve to find, however, that Colonel F is not disposed to depend upon their marriage. He shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he feared W was not a man to be trusted.  Could she exert herself it would be better? But this is not to be expected. And as to my father, I never in my life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having concealed their attachment, but as it was a matter of confidence, one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dear Lizzy, that you have been spared something of these distressing scenes, but now, as the first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not so selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu. I take up my pen again to do what I have just told you I would not, but circumstances as such that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aren't so well that I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have still something more to ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel Forster instantly to try to discover her. What he means to do I am sure I know not. But his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such an exigence my uncle's advice and assistance would be everything in the world. He will immediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness. Oh, where, where is my uncle? cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing a moment of time so precious. But as she reached the door it was opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous manner made him start, and before he could recover himself to speak, she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia's situation, hastily exclaimed, I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find Mr. Gardner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed. I have not an instant to lose. Good God! what is the matter? cried he with more feeling than politeness, then recollecting himself, I will not detain you a minute, but let me or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardner. You are not well enough, you cannot go yourself. Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her, and she felt how little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an accent has made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and mistress home instantly. On his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support herself, and looking so miserably ill that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her, or to refrain from saying in a tone of gentleness and commiseration, Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you present relief?  You are very ill. No, I thank you. She replied, endeavouring to recover herself. There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well. I am only distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn. She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate silence. At length she spoke again. I have just had a letter from Jane with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from any one. My younger sister has left all her friends, has eloped, has thrown herself into the power of—of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. You know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections, nothing that contempt him. She is lost forever. Darcy was fixed in astonishment. When I consider—she added in a yet more agitated voice—that I might have prevented it, I who knew what he was, had I but explained some part of it only, some part of what I learnt to my own family, had his character been known this could not have happened, but it is all—all too late now. I am grieved indeed, cried to Darcy, grieved, shocked. But is it certain, absolutely certain? Oh, yes, they left Brighton together on Sunday night and were traced almost to London, but not beyond. They are suddenly not gone to Scotland. And what has been done? What has been attempted to recover her? My father has gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle's immediate assistance, and we shall be off, I hope, in half an hour. But nothing can be done. I know very well that nothing can be done. How is such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible. Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence. When my eyes were opened to his real character—oh, had I known what I ought, what I dared to do? But I knew not. I was afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake! Darcy made no answer. He schemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking up and down the room in earnest meditation. His brow contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. Her power was sinking. Everything must sink under such a proof of family weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither wonder nor condemn, but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing consolatory to her bosom afforded no palliation of her distress. It was, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own wishes, and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved him as now, when all love must be in vain. But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her.  Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else, and after a pause of several minutes was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the voice of her companion, who, in a manner which, though it's fake compassion, spoke likewise restraint, said, I am afraid you have long been desiring my absence, nor have I anything to plead an excuse of my stay but real, though unavailing concern. Would to heaven that anything could be either said or done on my part that might offer consolation to such distress. But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will I fear prevent my sisters having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley today. Oh, yes. Be so kindest to apologize for us to Miss Darcy. Say that urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as long as it is possible. I know it cannot be long. He readily assured her of his secrecy, again expressed his sorrow for her distress, wished it a happier conclusion that there was at present reason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her relations, with only one serious parting look, went away. As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as had marked their several meanings in Derbyshire, and as she threw a retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those feelings which would have now promoted its continuance, and would formerly have rejoiced in its termination. If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth's change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if otherwise, if regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or unnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on a first interview with its object, and even before two words have been exchanged, nothing can be said in her defense, except that she had given somewhat of a trial to the latter method in her partiality for Wickham, and that its ill success might perhaps authorize her to seek the other less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go with regret, and in this early example of what Lydia's infamy must produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched business. Never, since reading Jane's second letter, had she entertained a hope of Wickham's meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought, could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least of her feelings on this development. While the contents of the first letter remained in her mind, she was all surprised, all astonishment that Wickham should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry for money, and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment as this, she might have sufficient charms, and though she did not suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an allotment without the intention of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither her virtue nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy prey. She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hartfordshire, that Lydia had any partiality for him. But she was convinced that Lydia wanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one officer, sometimes another had been her favorite, as their attentions raised them in her opinion. Her affections had continually been fluctuating, but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and mistaken indulgence towards such a girl—oh, how acutely did she now feel it. She was wild to be at home, to hear, to see, to be upon the spot to share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a family so deranged, a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and requiring constant attendance. And though almost persuaded that nothing could be done for Lydia, her uncle's interference seemed of the utmost importance, and till he entered the room her impatience was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardner had hurried back in alarm, supposing by the servant's account that their niece was taken suddenly ill. But satisfying them instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on the postscript of the last with trembling energy, though Lydia had never been a favorite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardner could not be but deeply afflicted. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it, and after the first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardner promised every assistance in his power. Elizabeth, though expecting no less, thanked him with tears of gratitude, and all three being actuated by one spirit, everything relating to their journey was speedily settled. They were to be off as soon as possible. But what is to be done about Pemberley? cried Mrs. Gardner. John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for us, was it so? Yes, and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement. That is all settled. What is all settled? repeated the other as she ran into her room to prepare. And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real truth? Oh, that I knew how it was. But wishes were vain, or at least could only serve to amuse her in the hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure to be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was impossible to one so wretched as herself, but she had her share of business as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest were notes to be written to all their friends at Lambton with false excuses for their sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed, and Mr. Gardner, meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing remained to be done but to go. And Elizabeth, after all the misery of the morning, found herself in a shorter space of time than she could have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn. I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth, said her uncle as they drove from the town. And really, upon serious consideration, I am much more inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does on the matter. It appears to me so very unlikely that any young man should form such a design against a girl, who is by no means unprotected or friendless, and who is actually staying in his Colonel's family, that I am strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends would not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the regiment after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is not adequate to the risk. Do you really think so? cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment. Upon my word, said Mrs. Gardner, I begin to be of your uncle's opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and interest, for him to be guilty of. I cannot think so very ill of Wickham. Can you yourself, Lizzie, so wholly give him up as to believe him capable of it? Not perhaps of neglecting his own interest, but of every other neglect I can believe him capable, if indeed it should be so. But I dare not hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland if that had been the case? In the first place, replied Mr. Gardner, there is no absolute proof that they are not gone to Scotland. Oh, but they're removing from the shares into a hackney-coach as such a presumption, and besides no traces of them were to be found on the Barnett Road. Well, then, supposing them to be in London, they may be there, though for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptional purpose, it is not likely that money should be very abundant on either side, and it might strike them that they could be more economically, though less expeditiously, married in London than in Scotland. But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their marriage be private? Oh, no, no, this is not likely. His most particular friend, you see, by Jane's account, was persuaded of his never intending to marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some money. He cannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia? What attraction has she beyond youth, health, and good humour that could make him, for her sake, forgo every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what restraint the apprehensions of disgrace in the call might throw on a dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge, for I know nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But as to your other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Lydia has no brothers to step forward, and he might imagine for my father's behaviour, from his indolence and the little attention he has ever seemed to give to what was going forward in his family, that he would do his little, and think as little about it as any father could do in such a matter. But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love of him as to consent to live with him in any terms other than marriage? It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed, replied Elizabeth, with tears in her eyes. That a sister's sense of decency and virtue in such a point could admit of doubt. But really I know not what to say. Perhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young. She has never been taught to think on serious subjects. And for the last half-year, nay for a twelve-month, she has been given up to nothing but amusement and vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle and frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in her way. Since the blank show were first quartered in meritan, nothing but love, flirtation, and offices have been in her head. She has been doing everything in her power by thinking and talking on the subject, to give greater—what shall I call it?—susceptability to her feelings, which are naturally lively enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of person and address that can captivate a woman. But you see that Jane, said her aunt, does not think so very ill of Wickham as to believe him capable of the attempt. Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be their former conduct, that she would think capable of such an attempt, till it would prove to gauge them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what Wickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every sense of the word, that he has neither integrity nor honour, that he is as false and deceitful as he is insinuating. And do you really know all this? Coyed Mrs. Gardner, whose curiosity as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive. I do indeed, replied Elizabeth Coloring. I told you the other day of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy, and you yourself, when last at Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man who had behaved with such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other circumstances which I am not at liberty, which it is not worth while to relate. But his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From what he said of Miss Darcy, I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud, reserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He must know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found her. But does Lydia know nothing of this?  Oh, yes, that is the worst of it all.  And when I returned home, the blank show was to leave Marityn a week or fortnight's time, as that was the case neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I thought it necessary to make our knowledge public. For of what use could it apparently be to any one, without the good opinion which all the neighbourhood had of him should then be overthrown, and even when it was settled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening her eyes to his character never occurred to me, that she could be in any danger from the deception never entered my head, that such a consequent as this could ensue, you may easily believe was far enough from my thoughts. When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I suppose, to believe them fond of each other. Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either side, and had anything of the kind being perceptible, you must be aware that ours is not a family on which it could be thrown away. When first he entered the core, she was ready enough to admire him. But so we all were. Every girl in or near Merriton was out of her senses about him for the first two months, but he never distinguished her by any particular attention, and consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites. It may be easily believed that however little of novelty could be added to their fears, hopes and conjectures on this interesting subject by its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self-approach, she could find no interval of ease or forgetfulness. They travelled as expeditiously as possible, and sleeping one night on the road, reached long-born by dinnertime the next day. It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied by long expectations. The little gardeners, attracted by the sight of Viches, were standing on the steps of the house as they entered the paddock, and when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome. Elizabeth jumped out, and after giving each of them a hasty kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down from her mother's apartment, immediately met her. Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether anything had been heard of the fugitives. Not yet, replied Jane, but now that my dear uncle has come, I hope everything will be well. Is my father in town? Yes, he went on Tuesday as I wrote to word. And have you heard from him often? We have heard only twice. He wrote to me a few lines on Wednesday to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely added that he should not write again till he had something of importance to mention. And my mother, how is she, how are you all? My mother is tolerably well, I trust, though his spirits are greatly shaken. She is upstairs and will have great satisfaction in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty thank Kevin quite well. But you, how are you? cried Elizabeth. You look pale. How much you must have gone through. Her sister, however, assured her of being perfectly well, and their conversation which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardner were engaged with their children, was now put an end to by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and thanked them both with alternate smiles and tears. When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth had already asked were of course repeated by the others, and they soon found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good, however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested had not yet deserted her, she still expected that it would all end well, and that every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father, to explain their proceedings, and perhaps announce their marriage. Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired after a few minutes' conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected, with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill-usage, blaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the errors of her daughter must principally be owing. If I had been able, said she, to carry my point in going to Brighton with all my family, this would not have happened, but poor dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her. Why did the foresters ever let her go out of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing if she had been well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the charge of her, but I was overruled as I always am. Poor dear child! And now here's Mr. Bennet going away, and I know he will fight Wickham wherever he meets him, and then he will be killed, and which is to be come for all. The Collins's will turn us out before he is cold in his grave, and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what we shall do." They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas, and Mr. Gardner, after general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia. Do not give way to useless alarm, added he. Though it is right to be prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on at his certain. It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more we may gain some news of them, and till we know that they are not married, and have no desire of marrying, do not let us give over the matter as lost. As soon as I get to town I shall go to my brother, and make him come home with me to Grace Church Street, and then we may consult together as to what is to be done. Oh, my dear brother! replied Mrs. Bennet, That is exactly what I could most wish for, and now do when you shall get to town find them out wherever they may be, and if they are not married already, make them marry, and as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them after they are married, and above all keep Mr. Bennet from fighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in, that I am frightened out of my wits, and have trembling such fluttering all over me, such spasms in my side, and pains in my head, and such beatings at heart, that I can get no rest by night or day. And tell my dear Lydia not to give any directions about her clothes till she has seen me, for she does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother, how kind you are! I know you will contrive at all. But Mr. Gardner, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavours in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well in her hopes as her fear, and after talking with her in this manner till dinner was on the table, they all left her to vent all her feelings on the housekeeper, who attended in the absence of her daughters. Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her tongue before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged it better that one only of the household, and the one whom they could most trust, should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the subject. In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been too busily engaged in their separate apartments to make their appearance before. One came from her books, and the other from her toilette. The faces of both, however, were tolerably calm, and no change was visible in either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or the anger which she had herself incurred in this business, had given more of fretfulness than usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was mistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with accountants of grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table. This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much talked of. But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of each other the balm of sisterly consolation. Then, perceiving Elizabeth had no intention of replying, she added, unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful lesson, that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable, that one false step involves her in endless ruin, that reputation is no less brittle than it is beautiful, and that she cannot be too much guarded in her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex. Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed to make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such kind of moral extractions from the evil before them. In the afternoon the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for a half-hour by themselves, and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of the opportunity of making any inquiries which Jane was equally eager to satisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel of this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss Bennet could not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued the subject by saying, But tell me all and everything about it which I have not already heard. Give me further particulars. What did Colonel Forster say? Had they no apprehension of anything before the elopement took place? They must have seen them together for ever. Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality, especially on Lydia's side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so grieved for him. His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He was coming to us in order to assure us of his concern, before he had any idea of then not being gone to Scotland. When that apprehension first got abroad, it hastened his journey. And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself? Yes, but when questioned by him, Denny denied knowing anything of their plans, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not repeat his persuasion of their not marrying. And from that, I am inclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before. And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained it out, I suppose, of their being really married. How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I felt a little uneasy, a little fearful of my sister's happiness with him in marriage, because I know that his conduct had not been always quite right. My father and mother knew nothing of that. They only felt how imprudent to match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia's last letter she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their being in love with each other many weeks. But not before they went to Brighton. No, I believe not. And did Colonel Forster appear to think well of Wickham himself? Does he know his real character? I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad affair has taken place, it is said that he left Mariton greatly in debt. But I hope this may be false. Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told we would be new of him, this could not have happened. Perhaps it would have been better, replied her sister. But to expose the form of faults of any person without knowing what their present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable, we acted with the best intentions. Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to his wife? He brought it with him for us to see. Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Lydia. These were the contents. My dearest Harriet, you will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without him. So think it, no harm to be off. You need not send them word at Longbourn by going, if you do not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater, when I write to them and sign my name Lydia Wickham. What a good joke it will be. I can hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt for not keeping my engagement and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I hope you will excuse me when he knows all. And tell him I will dance with him the next before we meet, with great pleasure. I shall send for my clothes when I get to Longbourn. But I wish you would tell Sally to mend a great slit in my worked buzzing gown before they are packed up. Good-bye! Give my love to Colonel Forster. I hope you will drink to our good journey. Your affectionate friend, Lydia Bennet. Oh, thoughtless! Thoughtless, Lydia! cried Elizabeth when she had finished it. What a letter is this to be written at such a moment! But at least it shows that she was serious on the subject of their journey. Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her side a scheme of infamy. My poor father! How he must have felt it! I never saw any one so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in such confusion. Oh, Jane! cried Elizabeth. Was there a servant belonging to it who do not know the whole story before the end of the day? I do not know. I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a time is very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I endeavored to give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so much as I might have done. But the horror of what might possibly happen almost took from me my faculties. Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not look well. Oh, that I had been with you. You have had every care and anxiety upon yourself alone. Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every fatigue I am sure, but I did not think it right for either of them. Kitty is slight and delicate, and Mary studies so much that her hours of repose should not be broken in on. My aunt Phillips came to Longbourn on Tuesday after my father went away, and was so good as to stay till Thursday with me, she was of greater use and comfort to us all. Aunt Lady Lucas has been very kind. She walked here on Wednesday morning to condole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters, if they should be of any use to us. She had better have stayed at home, cried Elizabeth. Perhaps she meant well, but under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see too little of one's neighbours. Assistance is impossible. Condolence insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance and be satisfied. She then proceeded to inquire into the measures which her father had intended to pursue while in town for the recovery of his daughter. He meant, I believe, replied Jane, to go to Epsom, the place where they last changed horses, see the pestilions, and try if anything could be made out from them. His principal object must be to discover the number of the Hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come with a fare from London, and as he thought that the circumstance of a gentleman and ladies removing from one carriage into another might be remarked, he meant to make inquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow discover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he determined to make inquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible to find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any other designs that he had formed, but he was in such a hurry to be gone, and his spirit so greatly discomposed that I had difficulty in finding out even so much as this. the next morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him. His family knew him to be, on all common occasions, a most negligent and dilatory correspondent, but at such a time they had hoped for exertion. They were forced to conclude that he had no pleasing intelligence to send, but even of that they would have been glad to be certain. Mr. Gardner had waited only for the letters before he set off. When he was gone they were certain at least of receiving constant information of what was going on, and their uncle promised at parting to prevail on Mr. Bennett to return to Longbourne, as soon as he could, to the great consolation of his sister, who considered it as the only security for her husband's not being killed in a duel. Mrs. Gardner and the children were to remain in heart for sure a few days longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable to her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennett and was great comfort to them in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also visited them frequently, and as always, as she said, with the design of cheering and heartening them up. Though, as she never came without reporting some fresh instance of Wickham's extravagance or irregularity, she seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found them. All maritain seemed striving to blacken the man, who, but three months before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be in debt to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honored with the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family. Everybody declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world, and everybody began to find out that they had always distressed to the appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above half of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of her sister's ruin more certain, and even Jane, who believed still less of it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now come when, if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before entirely despaired of, they must in all probability have gained some news of them. Mr. Gardner left long-born on Sunday. On Tuesday his wife received a letter from him. It told them that, on his arrival, he had immediately found out his brother and persuaded him to come to Grace Church Street, that Mr. Bennett had been to Epsom and Clapham before his arrival, but without gaining any satisfactory information, and that he was now determined to inquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennett thought it possible that they might have gone to one of them, on their first coming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardner himself did not expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added that Mr. Bennett seemed wholly disinclined at present to leave London, and promised to write again very soon. There was also a post-script to this effect. I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if possible, from some of the young man's intimates in the regiment, whether Wickham has any relations or connections who would be likely to know in what part of town he has now concealed himself. If there were any one that one could apply to you with the probability of gaining such a clue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we have nothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do everything in his power to satisfy us on this head. But on second thoughts, perhaps, Lizzie could tell us what relations he has now living better than any other person. Elizabeth was at no last to understand from whence this deference to her authority proceeded, but it was not in her power to give any information of so satisfactory a nature as the compliment deserved.  It was possible, however, that some of his companions in the blankshare might be able to give more information. And though she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the application was a something to look forward to. Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety, but the most anxious part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters was the grand object of every morning some patience. Through letters whatever of good or bad was to be told would be communicated, and every succeeding day was expected to bring some news of importance. But before they heard again from Mr. Gardner, a letter arrived for their father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins, which as Jane had received directions to open all that came for him in his absence, she accordingly read. And Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his letters always were, looked over her and read it likewise. It was as follows. My dear sir, I feel myself called upon by our relationship and by situation in life to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter from Hartfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs. Collins and myself sincerely sympathise with you and all your respectable family in your present distress, which must be of the bitterest kind, because proceeding from a cause which no time can remove, no arguments shall be wanting on my part that can alleviate so severe a misfortune, or that may come for to you under a circumstance that must be of all others the most afflicting to a parent's mind. The death of your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison of this. And it is the more to be lamented, because there is reason to suppose, as my dear Charlotte informs me, that this licentiousness of behaviour in your daughter has proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence, though at the same time, for the consolation of yourself and Mrs. Bennett, I am inclined to think that her own disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be guilty of such an enormity at so early an age. Howsoever that may be, you are grievously to be pitted, in which opinion I am not only joined by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by Lady Catherine and her daughter, to whom I have related the affair. They agree with me in apprehending that this false step in one daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of all the others. For who, as Lady Catherine herself condescendingly says, will connect themselves with such a family? And this consideration leads me moreover to reflect, with augmented satisfaction, on a certain event of last November, for had it been otherwise, I must have been involved in all your sorrow and disgrace.  I am, dear sir, et cetera, et cetera. Mr. Gardner did not write again till he had received an answer from Colonel Forster, and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send. It was not known that Wickham had a single relationship with whom he kept up any connection, and it was certain that he had no one near living. His former acquaintances had been numerous, but since he had been in the militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship with any of them. There was no one, therefore, who could be pointed out as likely to give any news of him. And in the wretched state of his own finances, there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in addition to his fear of discovery by Lydia's relations, for it had just transpired that he had left gaming debts behind him to a very considerable amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than a thousand pounds would be necessary to clear his expenses at Brighton. He owed a great deal in town, but his debts of honour were still more formidable. Mr. Gardner did not attempt to conceal these particulars from the long-born family. Jane heard them with horror. A game-ster, she cried. This is wholly unexpected. I had not an idea of it. Mr. Gardner added in his letter that they might expect to see their father at home on the following day, which was Saturday, rendered spiritless by the ill success of all their endeavours. He had yielded to his brother-in-law's entreaty that he would return to his family, and leave it to him to do whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable for continuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did not express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering what her anxiety for his life had been before. What! Is he coming home, and without poor Lydia? She cried. Sure, he will not leave London before he has found them. Who was to fight, wick him, and make him marry her, if he comes away? As Mrs. Gardner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that she and the children should go to London at the same time that Mr. Bennet came from it. The coach therefore took them at the first stage of their journey and brought its master back to Longbourn. Mrs. Gardner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and her Derbyshire friend that had attended her from that part of the world. His name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece, and the kind of half-expectation which Mrs. Gardner had formed of their being followed by a letter from him had ended in nothing. Elizabeth had received none since her return that could come from Pemberley. The present unhappy state of the family rendered any other excuse for the lowness of her spirits unnecessary. Nothing therefore could be fairly conjectured from that, though Elizabeth, who was by this time tolerably well-acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of Lydia's infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought, one sleepless night out of two. When