Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the habit of saying, made no mention of the business that had taken him away, and it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of it. It was not till the afternoon when he enjoined them at tea that Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject. And then, on her briefly expressing her sorrow from what he must have endured, he replied, Say nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing, and I ought to feel it. You must not be too severe upon yourself, replied Elizabeth. You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone to fall into it. No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression. It will pass away soon enough. Do you suppose them to be in London? Yes. Where else can they be so well concealed? And Lydia used to want to go to London, added Kitty. She is happy, then, said her father, dryly, and her residence there will probably be of some duration. Then, after a short silence, he continued, Lizzy, I bear you no ill will for being justified in your advice to me last May, which, considering the event, show some greatness of mind. They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her mother's tea. This is a parade, he cried, which does one good. It gives such an elegance to misfortune. Another day I will do the same. I will sit in my library and my night-cap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble as I can. Or perhaps I may defer it till Kitty runs away. I am not going to run away, papa, said Kitty fratfully. If I should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia. You go to Brighton? I would not trust you so near it as Eastbourne for fifty pounds. No, Kitty, I have it last and learnt to be cautious, and you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter my house again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be absolutely prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters, and you are never to stir out of doors till you can prove that you have spent ten minutes of every day in a rational manner. Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry. Well, well, said he, do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of them. Two days after Mr. Bennett's return, as Jane and Elizabeth were walking together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper coming towards them, and concluding that she came to call them to their mother, went forward to meet her. But instead of the expected summons when they approached her, she said to Miss Bennett, I beg your pardon, madam, for interrupting you, but I was in hopes that you might have had some good news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask. What do you mean, Hill? We've heard nothing from town. Dear madam, cried Mrs. Hill in great astonishment, don't you know there is an express come for Master for Mr. Gardner? He's been here this half hour, and Master has had a letter. Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech. They ran through the vestibule into the breakfast room, from thence to the library, their father was in neither, and they were on the point of seeking him upstairs with their mother, when they were met by the butler who said, If you are looking for my master, ma'am, he is walking towards the little cops. Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall once more, and ran across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately pursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of the paddock. Jane, who was not so light nor so much in the habit of running as Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for breath, came up with him and eagerly cried out, Oh, Papa, what news! What news! Have you heard from my uncle? Yes, I've had a letter from him by express. Well, and what news does it bring, good or bad? What is there of good to be expected? said he, taking the letter from his pocket. But perhaps he would like to read it. Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up. Read it aloud, said their father, for I hardly know myself what it is about. Gracechurch Street, Monday, August 2nd. My dear brother, at last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece. And such as, upon the whole, I hope it will give you satisfaction. Soon after you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what part of London they were. The particulars I reserve till we meet. It is enough to know they are discovered. I have seen them both. Then it is as I always hoped! cried Jane. They are married! Elizabeth read on. I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find those any intention of being so. But if you are willing to perform the engagements which I have ventured to make on your side, I hope it will not be long before they are. All that is required of you is, to assure to your daughter, by settlement, her equal share of the five thousand pounds secured among your children after the decease of yourself and my sister, and, moreover, to enter into an agreement of allowing her, during your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions which, considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying with, as far as I thought myself privileged for you. I shall send this by express, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You will easily comprehend from these particulars that Mr. Wickham's circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to be. The world has been deceived in that respect, and I am happy to say there will be some little money, even when all his debts are discharged, to settle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune. If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers to act in your name throughout the whole of this business, I will immediately give directions to Hagerston for preparing a proper settlement. They will not be the smallest occasion for your coming to town again. Therefore, stay quiet at Longbourn, and depend on my diligence and care. Send back your answer as fast as you can, and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged at best that my niece should be married from this house, of which I hope you will approve. She comes to us today. I shall write again, as soon as anything more is determined on—yours, etc.—Edward Gardner." Is it possible? cried Elizabeth when she had finished. Can it be possible that he will marry her? Wickham is not so undeserving then as we had thought him, said her sister. My dear father, I congratulate you. And have you answered the letter? cried Elizabeth. No, but it must be done soon. Most earnestly did she then entreat him to lose no more time before he wrote. Oh, my dear father! she cried. Come back and write immediately. Consider how important every moment is in such a case. Let me write for you," said Jane, if you dislike the trouble yourself. I dislike it very much, he replied, but it must be done. And so saying, he turned back with them and walked towards the house. And may I ask, asked Elizabeth, but the terms I suppose must be complied with. Complied with? I am only ashamed of his asking so little. And they must marry, yet he is such a man. Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done, but there are two things that I want very much to know. One is, how much money your uncle has laid down to bring it about, and the other, how am I ever to pay him? Money? My uncle? cried Jane. What do you mean, sir? I mean that no man in his senses would marry Lydia on so slight a temptation as one hundred a year during my life, and fifty after I am gone. That is very true, said Elizabeth, though it had not occurred to me before. His debts to be discharged and something still to remain. Oh, it must be my uncle's doings. Generous good man, I am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this. No, said her father. Wiccams a fool if he takes her with a farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him in the very beginning of our relationship. Ten thousand pounds? Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be repaid? Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued silent till they reached the house. Their father then went on to the library to walk, and the girls walked into the breakfast room. And they are really to be married, cried Elizabeth as soon as they were by themselves. How strange this is! And for this we are to be thankful, that they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness, and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice. Oh, Lydia! I comfort myself with thinking, replied Jane, that he suddenly would not marry Lydia if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds or anything like it has been advanced. He has children of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds? If he were ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been, said Elizabeth, and how much has settled on his side on our sister, we shall exactly know what Mr. Gardner has done for them, because Wickham has not a sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be required. They are taking her home, and affording her their personal protection and countenance is such a sacrifice to her advantage as years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is actually with them. If such goodness does not make her miserable now, she will never deserve to be happy. What a meeting for her, when she first sees my aunt. We must endeavour to forget all that is past on either side, said Jane. I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he has come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them, and I flutter myself they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational manner, as may in time make their past imprudence forgotten. Their conduct has been such, replied Elizabeth, as neither you nor I nor anybody can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it.  They went to the library, therefore, and asked their father whether he would not wish them to make it known to her. He was writing, and without raising his head, coolly replied, Just as you please. May we take my uncle's letter to read to her. Take whatever you like and get away. Elizabeth took the letter from his writing table, and they went upstairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet. One communication would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself. As soon as Jane had read Mr. Gardner's hope of Lydia's being soon married, her joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its exuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from delight as she had ever been fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct. My dear, dear Lydia! she cried. This is delightful indeed. She will be married. I shall see her again. She will be married at sixteen. My good kind brother! I knew how it would be. I knew he would manage everything. How I long to see her, and to see dear Wickham, too. Oh! but the clothes! the wedding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardner about them directly. Lizzie, my dear, run down to your father and ask him how much he will give her. Oh! stay, stay. I will go myself. Bring the bell, Kitty, for Hill. I will put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear Lydia! how merry we shall be together when we meet! Her eldest daughter endeavored to give some relief to the violence of these transports by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr. Gardner's behaviour laid them all under. For we must attribute this happy conclusion, she added, in a great measure to his kindness, we are persuaded that he has pledged himself to assist Mr. Wickham with money. Well! cried her mother. It is all very right. Who should do it but her own uncle?  Well! I am so happy. In a short time I shall have a daughter married—Mrs. Wickham. How well it sounds! And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in such a flutter that I am sure I can't write, so I will dictate and you will write for me. We will settle with your father about the money afterwards, but the thing should be ordered immediately. She was then proceeding to all the particulars of Calico, Muslim, and Cambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait till her father was at leisure to be consulted. One day's delay she observed would be of small importance, and her mother was too happy to be quite so obstinate as usual. Other schemes, too, came into her head. I will go to Mariton, said she, as soon as I am dressed and tell the good, good news to my sister Phillips, and as soon as I come back I can call on Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty run down and order the carriage, and airing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do anything for you in Mariton? Oh, here comes Hill. My dear Hill, have you heard the good news? Miss Lydia's going to be married, and you shall all have a bowl of punch to make Marieta wedding. Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received her congratulations among the rest, and then, sick of this folly, took refuge in her own room, that she might think with freedom. Poor Lydia's situation must at best be bad enough, but that it was no worse she had need to be thankful. She felt it so, and though in looking forward neither rational happiness nor worldly prosperity could be justly expected for her sister, in looking back to what they had feared only two hours ago, she felt all the advantages of what they had gained. Mr. Bennett had very often wished before this period of his life that, instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an annual sum for the better provision of his children and of his wife, if she survived him. He now wished it more than ever. Had he done his duty in that respect, Lydia need not have been indebted to her uncle for whatever of honour or credit could now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of prevailing on one of the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be her husband might then have rested in its proper place. He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage to any one should be forwarded at the sole expense of his brother-in-law, and he was determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his assistance and to discharge the obligation as soon as he could. When first Mr. Bennett had married, economy was held to be perfectly useless, for, of course, they were to have a son. The son was to join in cutting off the entail as soon as he should be of age, and the widow and younger children would by that means be provided for. Five daughters successively entered the world, but yet the son was to come, and Mrs. Bennett, for many years after Lydia's birth, had been certain that he would. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then too late to be saving. Mrs. Bennett had no turn for economy, and her husband's love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their income. Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs. Bennett and the children, but in what proportions it should be divided amongst the latter depended on the will of the parents. This was one point, with regard to Lydia at least, which was now to be settled, and Mr. Bennett could have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him. In terms of grateful acknowledgement for the kindness of his brother, though expressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfill the engagements that had been made for him. He had never before supposed that, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would be done with so little inconvenience to himself as by the present arrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds a year the loser by the hundred that was to be paid them, for what with her board and pocket allowance, and the continual presents and money which passed to her through her mother's hands, Lydia's expenses had been very little within that sum. That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was another very welcome surprise, for his wish at present was to have as little trouble in the business as possible. When the first transports of rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were over, he naturally returned to all his former indolence. His letter was soon dispatched, for though dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick in its execution. He begged to know further particulars of what he was indebted to his brother, but was too angry with Lydia to send any message to her. The good news spread quickly through the house, and with proportionate speed through the neighbourhood. It was born in the letter with decent philosophy. To be sure it would have been more for the advantage of conversation had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town, or as the happiest alternative, been secluded from the world in some distant farm-house. But there was much to be talked of in marrying her, and the good-natured wishes for her well-doing which had preceded before from all the spiteful old ladies in Maritain lost but a little of their spirit in this change of circumstances, because with such a husband her misery was considered certain. It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been downstairs, but on this happy day she again took her seat at the head of the table, and in spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object of her wishes since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of accomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on those attendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new carriages, and servants. She was busily searching through the neighbourhood for a proper situation for her daughter, and without knowing or considering what their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and importance. Hey, Park might do," said she, if the Goldings could quit it, or the Great House at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger, but Ashworth is too far off. I could not bear to have her ten miles from me, and as for Pulvis Lodge the attics are dreadful. Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the servants remained, but when they had withdrawn he said to her, Mrs. Bennet, before you take any or all of those houses for your son and daughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into one house in this neighbourhood they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage the impudence of either by receiving them at Longbourn. A long dispute followed this declaration, but Mr. Bennet was firm. It soon led to another, and Mrs. Bennet found, with amazement and horror, that her husband would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his daughter. He protested that she should receive from him no mark of affection whatever on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend it. That his anger could be carried to such a point of inconceivable resentment as to refuse his daughter a privilege without which her marriage would scarcely seem valid exceeded all she could believe possible. She was more alive to the disgrace which her want of new clothes must reflect on her daughter's nuptials than to any sense of shame at her eloping and living with Wickham a fortnight before they took place. Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the distress of the moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy equated with their fears for her sister. For since her marriage would so shortly give the proper termination to the elopement, they might hope to conceal its unfavorable beginning from all those who were not immediately on the spot. She had no fear of its spreading farther through his means. There were few people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently depended, but at the same time there was no one whose knowledge of a sister's frailty would have mortified her so much. Not, however, from any fear of disadvantage individually to herself, for at any rate there seemed a gulf impassable between them. Had Lydia's marriage been concluded on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that Mr. Darcy would connect himself with a family where, to every other objection, would now be added an alliance and relationship of the nearest kind with a man whom he so justly scorned. From such a connection she could not wonder that he would shrink. The wish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself of his feeling in Darbyshire, could not in rational expectation survive such a blow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved, she repented, though she hardly knew of what. She became jealous of his esteem when she could no longer hope to be benefited by it. She wanted to hear of him when there seemed the least chance of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that she could have been happy with him when it was no longer likely they should meet. What a triumph for him as she often thought could he know that the proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago would now have been most gladly and gratefully received. He was as generous, she doubted not, as the most generous of his sex, but while he was mortal there must be a triumph. She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It was an union that must have been to the advantage of both, by her ease and liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved, and from his judgment, information, and knowledge of the world, she must have received benefit of greater importance. But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what cannubial felicity really was, and union of a different tendency, and precluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their family. How wicca meant Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence she could not imagine, but how little of permanent happiness could belong to a couple who were only brought together because their passions were stronger than their virtue she could easily conjecture. Mr. Gardner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennett's acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurance of his eagerness to promote the welfare of any of his family, and concluded within treaties that the subject might never be mentioned to him again. The principal purport of his letter was to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved on quitting the militia. It was greatly my wish that he should do so, he added, as soon as his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me in considering the removal from that core as highly advisable, both on his account and my nieces. It is Mr. Wickham's intention to go into the regulars, and among his former friends there are still some who are able and willing to assist him in the army. He has the promise of an entancy in General Blank's regiment, now quartered in the north. It is an advantage to have it so far from this part of the kingdom. He promises fairly, and I hope among different people, where they may each have a character to preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have written to Colonel Forster to inform him of our present arrangements, and to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr. Wickham in and near Brighton, with assurances of speedy payment, for which I have pledged myself. And will you give yourself the trouble of carrying similar assurances to his creditors in Merriton, of whom I shall subjoin a list according to his information? He has given in all his debts. I hope at least he has not deceived us. Hagerston has our directions, and all will be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment, unless they are first invited to Longbourn, and I understand from Mrs. Gardiner that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all before she leaves the south. She is well, and begs to be dutifully remembered to you and your mother—yours, etc. E. Gardiner. Mr. Bennet and his daughter saw all the advantages of Wickham's removal from the blanksure, as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But Mrs. Bennet was not so well pleased with it. Lydia's being settled in the north, just when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her company, for she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in Hartfordshire, was a severe disappointment. And besides, it was such a pity that Lydia should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted with everybody, and had so many favourites. She is so fond of Mrs. Forster, said she, it'll be quite shocking to send her away. And there are several of the young men, too, that she likes very much. The officers may not be so pleasant in general, blanks regiment. His daughter's request, for such it might be considered, of being admitted into her family again before she set off for the north, received at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth, who agreed in wishing for the sake of their sister's feelings and consequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by her parents, urged him so earnestly, yet so rationally and so mildly, to receive her and her husband at Longbourn as soon as they were married, that he was prevailed on to think as they thought, and act as they wished. And their mother had the satisfaction of knowing that she would be able to show her married daughter in the neighbourhood before she was banished to the north. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore, he sent his permission for them to come. And it was settled that as soon as the ceremony was over, they should proceed to Longbourn. Elizabeth was surprised, however, that Wickham should consent to such a scheme, and had she consulted only her own inclination, any meeting with him would have been the last object of her wishes. CHAPTER 51 Their sister's wedding-day arrived, and Jane and Elizabeth felt for her probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to meet them at Blank, and they were to return in it by dinnertime. Their arrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennet's, and Jane more especially, who gave Lydia the feelings which would have attended herself had she been the culprit, and was wretched in the thought of what her sister must endure. They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast-room to receive them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet as the carriage drove up to the door. Her husband looked impenetrably grave. Her daughters, alarmed, anxious, uneasy. Lydia's voice was heard in the vestibule. The door was thrown open, and she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and welcomed her with rapture. Gave her hand with an affectionate smile to Wickham, who followed his lady, and wished them both joy with an alacrity which showed no doubt of their happiness. Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity, and he scarcely opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple indeed was enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was shocked. Lydia was Lydia still, untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their congratulations, and when at length they all sat down, looked eagerly round the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and observed with a laugh that it was a great while since she had been there. Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his manners were always so pleasing that had his character and his marriage been exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy address while he claimed their relationship would have delighted them all. Elizabeth had not before believed him quite equal to such assurance, but she sat down, resolving within herself to draw no limits in future to the impudence of an impudent man. She blushed, and Jane blushed, but the cheeks of the two who caused their confusion suffered no variation of colour. There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither of them talk fast enough, and Wickham, who happened to sit near Elizabeth, began inquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood with a good-humoured ease which she felt very unable to equal in her replies. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the world. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain, and led Lydia involuntarily to subjects which her sisters would not have alluded to for the world. Only think of its being three months! she cried, since I went away. It seems but a fortnight I declare, and yet there have been things enough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away I am sure I had no more idea of being married till I came back again. There, I thought it would be very good fun if I was. Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked expressively at Lydia. But she, who never heard or saw anything of which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, Oh, Mama! do the people hereabouts know I am married today? I was afraid they might not, and we overtook William Golding in his curicle. So I was determined he should know it, and so I let down the side-glass next to him, and took off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window-frame, so that he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like anything. Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up and ran out of the room, and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to the dining-parlor.  It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Phillips, the Lucases, and all their other neighbours, and to hear herself called Mrs. Wickham by each of them. And in the meantime she went after dinner to show her ring, and boast of being married to Mrs. Hill and the two house-maids. Well, Mama! said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast-room. And what do you think of my husband? Is he not a charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get husbands. What a pity it is, Mama, we did not all go. Very true. And if I had my will, we should.  Must it be so? Oh, Lord, yes. There is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things. You and Papa and my sisters must come down and see us. We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some balls, and I will take good care to get partners for them all. I should like it beyond anything, said her mother. And then, when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters behind you, and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the winter is over. I thank you for my share of the fava, said Elizabeth, but I do not particularly like your way of getting husbands. Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join his regiment at the end of a fortnight. No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so short, and she made the most of the time by visiting about with her daughter and having very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to all. To avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did think, than such as did not. Wickham's affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth had expected to find it, not equal to Lydia's for him. She had scarcely needed her present observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that their elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love rather than by his. And she would have wondered why, without violently caring for her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain that his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances, and if that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity of having a companion. Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every occasion. No one was to be put in competition with him. He did everything best in the world, and she was sure he would kill more birds on the first of September than anybody else in the country. One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth, "'Lizzie, I never gave you an account of my wedding, I believe. You were not by when I told Mamar and the others all about it. Are not you curious to hear how it was managed?' "'Not really,' replied Elizabeth. I think there cannot be too little said on the subject.' "'Lah, you were so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were married, you know, at St. Clement's, because Wickham's lodgings were in that parish, and it was settled that we should all be there by eleven o'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together, and the others were to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss!  And there was my aunt all the time I was dressing, preaching, and talking away just as if she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to know whether he would be married in his blue coat. Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual. I thought it would never be over, for by the bar you ought to understand that my uncle and aunt were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you'll believe me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a fortnight, not one party or scheme or anything. To be sure, London was rather thin, but however the little theatre was open. Well, and so just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon business to that horrid man, Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they got together there is no end of it. I was so frightened I did not know what to do, but my uncle was to give me away, and if we were beyond the hour we could not be married all day. But luckily he came back again in ten minutes time, and then we all set out. However, I recollected afterwards that if he had been prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well. Mr. Darcy? repeated Elizabeth in utter amazement. Oh, yes, he was to come there with Wickham, you know. Oh, but gracious me! I quite forgot. I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised them so faithfully. What will Wickham say?  If it was to be a secret, said Jane, say not another word on the subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further. Oh, certainly! said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity. We will ask you no questions. Thank you! said Lydia, for if you did I should suddenly tell you all, and then Wickham, be angry. On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her power by running away. But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible, or at least it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at her sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people where he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go. Conjectures asked the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her brain, but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her as placing his conduct in the noblest light seemed most improbable. She could not bear such suspense, and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short letter to her aunt to request an explanation of what Lydia had dropped, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been intended. You may readily comprehend, she added, what my curiosity must be to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and comparatively speaking a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such a time. Pray right instantly and let me understand it, unless it is, for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to think necessary, and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with ignorance. Not that I shall, though, she added to herself as she finished the letter, and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable manner, I shall suddenly be reduced to tricks and stratogens to find it out. Jane's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall. Elizabeth was glad of it, till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidant. END OF CHAPTER XVII Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter as soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it than, hiring into the little cops, where she was least likely to be interrupted, she sat down on one of the benches and prepared to be happy, for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not contain a denial. Grace Church Street, September 6. My dear niece. I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole morning to answering it, as I foresee that a little writing will not comprise what I have to tell you. I must confess myself surprised by your application, I did not expect it from you. Don't think me angry, however, for I only mean to let you know that I did not imagine such inquiries to be necessary on your side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am, and nothing but the belief of your being a party concerned would have allowed him to act as he is done. But if you are really innocent and ignorant, I must be more explicit. On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr.  It was all over before I arrived, so my curiosity was not so dreadfully wracked as yours seems to have been. He came to tell Mr. Gardner that he had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were, and that he had seen and talked with them both. Wickham repeatedly, Lydia, once. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day after ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting for them. The motive professed was his conviction of its being owing to himself, that Wickham's worthlessness had not been so well known, as to make it impossible for any young woman of character to laugh or confide in him. He generously imputed the hold to his mistaken pride, and confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his private actions open to the world. His character was to speak for itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to step forward and endeavour to remedy an evil which had been brought on by himself. If he had another motive, I am sure it would never disgrace him. He had been some days in town before he was able to discover them, but he had something to direct his search, which was more than we had, and the consciousness of this was another reason for his resolving to follow us. There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Young, who was some time ago governess to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed from her charge on some cause of disapprobation, though he did not say what. She then took a large house in Edward Street, and has since maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs. Young was, he knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham, and he went to her for intelligence of him as soon as he got to town. But it was two or three days before he could get from her what he wanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery and corruption, for she really did know where her friend was to be found. Wickham, indeed, had gone to her on their first arrival in London, and had she been able to receive them into her house, they would have taken up their abode with her. At length, however, our kind friend procured the wishedful direction. They were in Blank Street. He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia. His first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade her to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her friend as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her, offering his assistance as far as it would go. But he found Lydia absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared for none of her friends. She wanted no help of his. She would not hear of leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some time or other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were her feelings, it only remained, he thought, to secure an expediter marriage, which in his very first conversation with Wickham, he easily learned had never been his design. He confessed himself obliged to leave the regiment, on account of some debts of honour which were very pressing, and scrupled not to lay the ill consequences of Lydia's flight on her own folly alone. He meant to resign his commission immediately, and as to his future situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He must go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew he should have nothing to live on. Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not marriage or sister at once. Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would have been able to do something for him, and his situation must have been benefited by marriage. But he found in reply to this question that Wickham still cherished the hope of more effectually making his fortune by marriage in some other country. Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely to be proof against the temptation of immediate relief. They met several times, for there was much to be discussed. Wickham, of course, wanted more than he could get, but at length was reduced to be reasonable. Everything being settled between them, Mr. Darcy's next step was to make your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in Grace Church Street the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardner could not be seen, and Mr. Darcy found, on further inquiry, that your father was still with him, but would quit town the next morning. He did not judge your father to be a person whom he could so properly consult as your uncle, and therefore readily postponed seeing him until after the departure of the former. He did not leave his name, and till the next day it was only known that a gentleman had called on business. On Saturday he came again, your father was gone, your uncle at home, and as I said before, they had a great deal of talk together. They met again on Sunday, and then I saw him too. It was not all settled before Monday. As soon as it was, the express was sent off to Longbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I fancy, Lizzie, that obstinacy is the real defect of his character, after all. He has been accused of many forts at different times, but this is the true one. Nothing was to be done that he did not do himself. Though I am sure, and I do not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it, your uncle would most readily have settled the whole. They battled it together for a long time, which was more than either the gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your uncle was forced to yield, and instead of being allowed to be abused to his niece, was forced to put up with only having the probable credit of it, which went sorely against the grain. And I really believe your letter this morning gave him great pleasure, because it required an explanation that would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where it was due. But, Lizzie, this must go no farther than yourself, or Jane at most. You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done for the young people. His debts are to be paid, amounting, I believe, to considerably more than a thousand pounds, another thousand in addition to her own settled upon her, and his commission purchased. The reason why all this was to be done by him alone was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his reserve and want of proper consideration, that Wickham's character had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he'd been received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there were some truth in this, though I doubt whether his reserve or anybody's reserve can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all this fine talking, my dear Lizzie, you may rest perfectly assured that your uncle would never have yielded, if we had not given him credit for another interest in the affair. When all this was resolved on, he returned again to his friends, who were still staying at Pemberley. But it was agreed that he should be in London once more when the wedding took place, and all money matters were then to receive the last finish. I believe I have now told you everything. It is a relation which you tell me is to give you great surprise. I hope at least it will not afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to us, and Wickham had constant admission to the house. He was exactly what he had been when I knew him in Hertfordshire. But I would not tell you how little I was satisfied with her behaviour while she stayed with us. If I had not perceived by Jane's letter last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home was exactly a piece with it. And therefore what I now tell you can give you no fresh pain.  If she heard me, it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not listen. I was sometimes quite provoked.  He dined with us the next day, and was to leave town again on Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my dear Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying, what I was never bold enough to say before, how much I like him. His behaviour to us has in every respect been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire. His understanding and opinions all please me.  And that, if he marry prudently, his wife may teach him. I thought him very sly. He hardly ever mentioned your name. But slinus seems the fashion. Pray forgive me if I have been very presuming, or at least do not punish me so far as to exclude me from P. I shall never be quite happy till I have been all round the park. A low faten with a nice little pair of ponies would be the very thing. But I must write no more. The children have been wanting me this half hour. Yours very sincerely. M. Gardner. The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits, in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the greatest share. The vague and unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had produced of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister's match, which she had feared to encourage as an exertion of goodness too great to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the pain of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true. He had followed them purposely to town. He had taken on himself all the trouble and mortification attended on such a research, in which supplication had been necessary to a woman whom he must abominate and despise, and where he was reduced to meat, frequently meat, reason with, persuade, and finally bribe, the man whom he always most wished to avoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had done all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her heart did whisper that he had done it for her. But it was a hope shortly checked by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her vanity was insufficient when required to depend on his affection for her, for a woman who had already refused him, as able to overcome a sentiment so natural as aborance against relationship with Wickham. Brother-in-law of Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from the connection. He had, to be sure, done much. She was ashamed to think how much. But he had given a reason for his interference, which asked no extraordinary stretch of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel he had been wrong. He had liberality, and he had the means of exercising it, and though she would not place herself as his principal inducement, she could perhaps believe that remaining partiality for her might assist his endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that they were under obligations to a person who could never receive a return. They owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, everything to him. Oh, how heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation she had ever encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed towards him. For herself she was humbled. But she was proud of him. Proud that in a cause of compassion and honour he had been able to get the better of himself. She read over her aunt's commendation of him again and again. It was hardly enough. But it pleased her. She was even sensible of some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how steadfastly both she and her uncle had been persuaded that affection and confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself. She was roused from her seat and her reflections by some one's approach, and before she could strike into another path she was overtaken by Wickham. I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister," said he as he joined her. You certainly do, she replied with a smile, but it does not follow that the interruption must be unwelcome. I should be sorry indeed if it were. We were always good friends, and now we are better. True. Are the others coming out? I do not know. Mrs. Bennett and Lydia are going in the carriage to Merritton. And so, my dear sister, I find from our uncle and aunt that you have actually seen Pemberley. She replied in the affirmative. I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the old housekeeper, I suppose. Poor Reynolds. She was always very fond of me, but of course she did not mention my name to you. Yes, she did. And what did she say? That you had gone into the army, and she was afraid had—not turned out well. At such a distance is that you know things are strangely misrepresented. Certainly, he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had silenced him, but he soon afterwards said, I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other several times. I wonder what he could be doing there. Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Mr. Berg, said Elizabeth, it must be something particular to take him there at this time of year. Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I understood from the gardeners that you had. Yes, he introduced us to his sister. And do you like her? Very much. I have heard indeed that she is uncommonly improved within this year or two. When I last saw her she was not very promising. I am very glad you liked her. I hope she will turn out well. I daresay she will. She has got over the most trying age. Did you go by the village of Kimpton? I do not recollect that we did. I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have had. A most delightful place. Excellent, Parsonage House. It would have suited me in every respect. How should you have liked making sermons? Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty, and the exertion would have been nothing. One ought not to repine, but to be sure it would have been such a thing for me. The quiet, the retirement of such a life, would have answered all my ideas of happiness. But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the circumstance when you were in Kent? I have heard from authority which I thought as good, that it was left you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron. You have. Yes, there was something in that, I told you so from the first, you may remember. I did hear, too, that there was a time when sermon-making was not so palatable to you, as it seems to be at present, that you actually declared a resolution of never taking orders, and that the business had been compromised accordingly. You did? It was not holy without foundation? You may remember what I told you on that point when first we talked a bit. They were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked fast to get rid of him, and unwilling for her sister's sake to provoke him, she only said in reply with a good-humoured smile, Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know, do not let us quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall always be of one mind. She held out her hand, he kissed it with affection at gallantry, though he hardly knew where to look, and they entered the house. CHAPTER 53 Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation that he never again distressed himself or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth by introducing the subject of it, and she was pleased to find that she had said enough to keep him quiet. The day of his and Lydia's departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet was forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means entered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle, was likely to continue at least a twelve-month. Oh, my dear Lydia! she cried. When shall we meet again? Oh, Lord, I don't know. Not these two or three years, perhaps. Write to me very often, my dear. As often as I can, but you know married women have never much time for writing. My sisters may write to me. They will have nothing else to do. Mr. Wickham's adduce were much more affectionate than his wife's. He smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things. He is as fine a fellow, said Mr. Bennet as soon as they were out of the house, as ever I saw. He simpers and smirks and makes love to us all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas himself to produce a more valuable son-in-law. The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days. I often think, said she, that there is nothing so bad as parting with one's friends, one seems so forlorn without them. This is the consequence, you see, madam, of marrying a daughter, said Elizabeth. It must make you better satisfied that your other four are single. It is no such thing.  If that had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon. But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was shortly relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope by an article of news which then began to be in circulation. The housekeeper at Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the arrival of her master, who was coming down in a day or two to shoot there for several weeks. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane and smiled and shook her head by turns. Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister! For Mrs. Phillips first brought her the news. Well, so much the better. Not that I care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am sure I never want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome to come to Netherfield if he likes it. And who knows what may happen? But that is nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to mention a word about it.  You may depend on it, replied the other. For Mrs. Nichols was in Merritton last night. I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose to know the truth of it, and she told me that it was certain true. He comes down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was going to the butcher she told me on purpose to order in some meat on Wednesday, and she has got three couple of duck just fit to be killed. Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without changing colour. It was many months, and she had mentioned his name to Elizabeth. But now, as soon as they were alone together, she said, I saw you look at me today, Lizzie, when my aunt told us of the present report, and I know I appeared distressed. But don't imagine it was from any silly calls. I was only confused for the moment, because I felt that I should be looked at. I do assure you that the news does not affect me either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing—that he comes alone, because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of myself, but I dread other people's remarks. Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him in Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming there with no other view than what was acknowledged. But she still thought him partial to Jane, and she wavered as to the greater probability of his coming there with his friend's permission, or being bold enough to come without it. Yet it is hard—she sometimes thought—that this poor man cannot come to a house which he is legally hired, without raising all this speculation. I will leave him to himself. In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be her feelings in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed, more unequal than she had often seen them. The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their parents about a twelve-month ago was now brought forward again. As soon as ever, Mr. Bingley comes, my dear, said Mrs. Bennet, you will wait on him, of course. No, no, you forced me into visiting him last year, and promised if I went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it ended in nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool's errand again. His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen on his returning to Netherfield. "'Tis an etiquette I despise,' said he. If he wants our society, let him seek it. He knows where we live.  Well, all I know is that it will be imbominably rude if you do not wait on him. But, however, that shan't prevent my asking him to dine here. I am determined. We must have missed as long and the goldings soon. That will make thirteen with ourselves, so they will be just rumoured table for him." Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her husband's incivility, though it was very mortifying to know that her neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley in consequence of it before they did, as the day of his arrival drew near. "'I begin to be sorry that he comes at all,' said Jane to her sister. "'It would be nothing. I could see him with perfect indifference, but I can hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually talked of. My mother means well, but she does not know—no one can know—how much I suffer from what she says. Happy shall I be when his stay at Netherfield is over.' "'I wish I could say anything to comfort you,' replied Elizabeth. "'But it is wholly out of my power. You must feel it, and the usual satisfaction of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied me, because you have always so much.'" Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of servants, contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the period of anxiety and fretfulness on her side might be as long as it could. She counted the days that must intervene before their invitation could be sent, hopeless of seeing him before. But on the third morning after his arrival in Hartfordshire, she saw him from her dressing-room window enter the paddock and ride towards the house. Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane resolutely kept her place at the table, but Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother, went to the window. She looked. She saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat down again by her sister. "'There is a gentleman with him, Amar,' said Kitty. "'Who can it be?' Some acquaintance rather, my dear, I suppose. I am sure I do not know.' "'La!' replied Kitty. "'It looks just like that man that used to be with him before. Mr. What's his name? That tall, proud man.' "'Good gracious! Mr. Darcy! And so it does I vow.' "'Well, any friend of Mr. Bingley's will always be welcome here to be sure, but I must say that I hate the very sight of him.'" Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness which must attend her sister in seeing him almost for the first time after receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable enough, each felt for the other, and of course for themselves, and their mother talked on of her dislike of Mr. Darcy and her resolution to be civil to him only as Mr. Bingley's friend, without being heard by either of them. But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to show Mrs. Gardner's letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him. To Jane he could only be a man whose proposal she had refused, and whose merit she had undervalued, but to her own more extensive information, he was the person to whom the whole family were indebted for the first of benefits, and whom she regarded herself with an interest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and just as what Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his coming, at his coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again, was almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing his altered behaviour in Derbyshire. The colour which had been driven from her face returned for half a minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added luster to her eyes, as she thought for that space of time that his affection and wishes must still be unshaken, but she would not be secure. Let me first see how he behaves, said she. It will then be early enough for expectation. She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, without daring to lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of her sister as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little paler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the gentlemen's appearing her colour increased, yet she received them with tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any symptom of resentment or any unnecessary complacence. Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not often command. She had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious, as usual, and she thought more as he had been used to look in Hartfordshire than as she had seen him at Pemberley. But perhaps he could not in her mother's presence be what he was before her aunt and uncle. It was a painful, but not an improbable conjecture. Bingley she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs. Bennet with a degree of civility which made her two daughters ashamed, especially when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of her curtsy, and addressed to his friend. Elizabeth particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the latter the preservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy, was hurt and distressed to a most painful degree by a distinction so ill-applied. Darcy, after inquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardner did, a question which she could not answer without confusion, said scarcely anything. He was not seated by her, perhaps that was the reason of his silence, but it had not been so in Darbyshire. There he had talked to her friends when he could not to herself. But now several minutes elapsed without bringing the sound of his voice, and when occasionally, unable to resist the impulse of curiosity, she raised her eyes to his face. She as often found him looking at Jane as at herself, and frequently on no object but to the ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please than when they had last met were plainly expressed. She was disappointed and angry with herself for being so. Could I expect it to be otherwise? said she. Yet why did he come? She was in no humour for conversation with anyone but himself, and to him she had hardly courage to speak. She inquired after his sister, but could do no more. It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away, said Mrs. Bennet. He readily agreed to it. I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People did say you meant to quit the place entirely at Mikkelmas, but, however, I hope it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood since you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled, and one of my own daughters. I suppose you have heard of it? Indeed, you must have seen it in the papers. It was in the times and the courier, I know, though it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said lately George Wickham Asquire to Miss Lydia Bennet, without there being a syllable set of her father, or the place where she lived or anything. It was my brother Gardner's drawing up, too, and I wonder how he came to make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it? Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could not tell. It is a delightful thing to be sure to have a daughter well married, continued her mother. But at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very hard to have her taken such away from me. They are gone down to Newcastle, a place quite northward, it seems, and there they are to stay. I do not know how long. His regiment is there, for I suppose you have heard of his leaving the blankshire, and of his being gone into the regulars. Thank heaven he has some friends, though perhaps not so many as he deserves. Elizabeth, who knew this to be leveled at Mr. Darcy, was in such a misery of shame that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew from her, however, the exertion of speaking, which nothing else had so effectually done before, and she asked Bingley whether he meant to make any stay in the country at present. A few weeks, he believed. When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley, said her mother, I beg you will come here and shoot as many as you please on Mr. Bennet's manner. I am sure he'll be vastly happy to oblige you, and will save all the best of the copies for you. Elizabeth's misery increased at such unnecessary such a vicious attention. Were the same fair prospect to arise at present, as had flattered them a year ago, everything she was persuaded would be hastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant, she felt that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself amends for moments of such painful confusion. The first wish of my heart, said she to herself, is never more to be in company with either of them. Their society can afford no pleasure that will atone for such wretchedness as this. Let me never see either one or the other again. Yet the misery for which years of happiness were to offer no compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from observing how much the beauty of her sister rekindled the admiration of her former lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little, but every five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He found her as handsome as she had been last year, as good-natured and as unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no difference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded that she talked as much as ever, but her mind was so busily engaged that she did not always know when she was silent. When the gentleman rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at Longbourn in a few days' time.  I have not forgot to see, and I assure you I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep your engagement. Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of his concern at having been prevented by business. Then they went away. Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine there that day, but though she always kept a very good table, she did not think anything less than two courses could be good enough for a man on whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride of one who had ten thousand a year. As soon as they were gone Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits, or in other words to dwell without interruption on those subjects that must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her. Why, if he came only to be silent, grave and indifferent, said she, did he come at all? She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure. He could be still amiable, still pleasing to my uncle and aunt when he was in town, and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teasing, teasing, man! I will think no more about him. Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach of her sister, who joined her with cheerful look, which showed her better satisfied with their visitors than Elizabeth. Now, said she, that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by his coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly seen that on both sides we meet only his common and indifferent acquaintance. Yes, very indifferent indeed, said Elizabeth laughingly. Oh, Jane, take care! My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak as to be in danger now. I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with you as ever. They did not see the gentleman again till Tuesday, and Mrs. Bennet in the meanwhile was giving way to all the happy schemes which the good humour and common politeness of Bingley in half an hour's visit had revived. On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn, and the two who were most anxiously expected to the credit of their punctuality as sportsmen were in very good time. When they repaired to the dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take the place which in all their former parties had belonged to him by her sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forebore to invite him to sit by herself. On entering the room he seemed to hesitate, but Jane happened to look round and happened to smile. It was decided. He placed himself by her. Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend. He bore it with noble indifference, and she would have imagined that Bingley had received his sanction to be happy had she not seen his eyes likewise turned towards Mr. Darcy with an expression of half- laughing alarm. His behaviour to her sister was such during dinner-time as showed an admiration of her, which, though more guarded than formerly, persuaded Elizabeth that if left wholly to himself, Jane's happiness and his own would be speedily secured. Though she dared not to depend upon the consequence, she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It gave her all the animation that her spirits could boast, for she was in no cheerful humor. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her as the table could divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little such a situation would give pleasure to either or make either appear to advantage. She was not near enough to hear any of their discourse, but she could see how seldom they spoke to each other and how formal and cold was their manner whenever they did. Her mother's ungraciousness made the sense of what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth's mind, and she would at times have given anything to be privileged to tell him that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of the family. She was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity of bringing them together, that the whole of the visit would not pass away without enabling them to enter into something more of conversation than the mere ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious and uneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room before the gentleman came, was weirsome and dull to a degree that made her almost uncivil. She looked forward to their entrance as the point on which all her chance of pleasure for the evening must depend. If he does not come to me, then, she said, I shall give him up for ever. The gentleman came, and she thought he looked as if he would have answered her hopes, but alas! the ladies had crowded round the table where Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee in so close a confederacy that there was not a single vacancy near her which would admit of a chair, and on the gentleman's approaching, one of the girls moved closer to her than ever and said in a whisper, The men shan't come and part us, I am determined, we want none of them, do we? Darcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed him with her eyes, envied every one to whom he spoke, had scarcely patience enough to help anybody to coffee, and then was enraged against herself for being so silly. A man who has once been refused, how could I ever be foolish enough to expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex who could not protest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman? There is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings. She was revived a little, however, by his bringing back his coffee-cup himself, and she seized the opportunity of saying, Is your sister at Pemberley still? Yes, she will remain there till Christmas. And quite alone, have all her friends left her? Mrs. Annasley is with her, the others have gone on to Scarborough these three weeks. She could think of nothing more to say, but if he wished to converse with her, he might have better success. He stood by her, however, for some minutes in silence, and at last, on the young lady's whispering to Elizabeth again, he walked away. When the tea-things were removed and the card-tables placed and the ladies all rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be joined by him when all her views were overthrown by seeing him fall a victim to her mother's rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated with the rest of the party, she now lost every expectation of pleasure. They were confined for the evening at different tables, and she had nothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side of the room as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself. Mrs. Bennett had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to supper, but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of the others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them. Well, girls, said she as soon as they were left to themselves. What say you to the day? I think everything is passed off uncommonly well, I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The venison was roasting to return, and everybody said they never saw so fat a haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the Lucases last week, and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged that the partridges were remarkably well done. And I suppose he has two or three French cooks, at least. And my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater beauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And what do you think she said besides? Ah, Mrs. Bennett, we shall have her at Netherfield at last. She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good a creature as ever lived, and her nieces are very pretty-behaved girls, and not at all handsome. I like them prodigiously. Mrs. Bennett, in short, was in very great spirits. She had seen enough of Bingley's behaviour to Jane to be convinced that she would get him at last, and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy humour, were so far beyond reason that she was quite disappointed at not seeing him there again the next day to make his proposals. It has been a very agreeable day, said Miss Bennett to Elizabeth. The party seemed so well selected, so suitable with one another. I hope we may often meet again. Elizabeth smiled. Lizzie, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me. I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy this conversation as an agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied from what his manners now are, that he had never any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with greater sweetness of a dress, and a stronger desire of generally pleasing than any other man. You are very cruel, said her sister. He will not let me smile, and are provoking me to at every moment. How hard it is in some cases to be believed! And how impossible in others! But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I acknowledge? That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive me, and if you persist in indifference, do not make me your confident. A few days after this visit Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in ten days' time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them, but with many expressions of concern he confessed himself engaged elsewhere. Next time you call, said she, I hope we shall be more lucky. He should be particularly happy at any time, etc., etc., and if she would give him leave would take an early opportunity of waiting on them. Can you come to-morrow? Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow, and her invitation was accepted with alacrity. He came, and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room in her dressing-gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out, My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down! He is come! Mr. Bingley is come! He is indeed! Make haste, make haste! He and Sarah come to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzie's hair. We will be down as soon as we can, said Jane. But I daresay Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went upstairs half an hour ago. Oh, hang, Kitty! What is she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! When is your sash, my dear? But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library as was his custom, and Mary went upstairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat down and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her, and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said, What is the matter, Mama? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do? Nothing, child, nothing! I did not wink at you! She then sat still five minutes longer, but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up and saying to Kitty, Come here, my love, I want to speak to you! Took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth, which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her entreaty that she would not give into it. In a few minutes Mrs. Bennet half opened the door and called out, Lizzie, my dear, I want to speak with you! Elizabeth was forced to go. We may as well leave them by themselves, you know! said her mother as soon as she was in the hall. Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in my dressing-room. Elizabeth made no attempt, reason with her mother, but remained quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned to the drawing-room. Mrs. Bennet's schemes for the day were ineffectual. Bingley was everything that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their evening party, and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command of countenance, particularly grateful to the daughter. He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper, and before he went away an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband. After this day Jane said no more of her indifference, not a word passed between the sisters concerning Bingley, but Elizabeth went to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time.  Bingley was punctual to his appointment, and he and Mr. Bennet spent the morning together as had been agreed on. The latter was much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into silence, and he was more communicative and less eccentric than the other had ever seen him. Bingley, of course, returned with him to dinner, and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get everybody away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea, for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be wanted to counteract her mother's schemes. But on returning to the drawing-room when her letter was finished, she saw to her infinite surprise there was reason to fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door she perceived her sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth as if engaged in earnest conversation, and had this led to no suspicion the faces of both as they hastily turned round and moved away from each other would have told it all. Their situation was awkward enough but hers, she thought, was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either, and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again when Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth where confidence would give pleasure and instantly embracing her acknowledged with the liveliest emotion that she was the happiest creature in the world. "'Tis too much,' she added. "'By far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh, why is everybody not as happy?' Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said for the present. "'I must go instantly to my mother,' she cried. "'I would not on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude, or allow her to hear it from any one but myself. He has gone to my father already. Oh, Lizzie, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family. How shall I bear so much happiness?' She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card-party, and was sitting upstairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which such an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation. "'And this,' said she, "'is the end of all his friends' anxious circumspection, of all his sisters' falsehood and contrivance, the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end.' In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her father had been short and to the purpose. "'Where is your sister?' said he hastily as he opened the door. "'With my mother upstairs. She will be down in a moment, I daresay.' He then shut the door, and coming up to her claimed the good wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with great cordiality, and then till her sister came down, she had to listen to all he had to say of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections. And in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his expectations of felicity to be rationally founded, because they had for basis the excellent understanding and super-excellent disposition of Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and himself.  Kitty simpered and smiled and hoped her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent or speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings, though she talked to Bingley of nothing else for half an hour, and when Mr. Bennet joined him at supper, his voice and manner plainly showed how really happy he was. Not a word, however, passed his lips and allusion to it, till their visitor took his leave for the night, but as soon as he was gone he turned to his daughter and said, Jane, I congratulate you, you will be a very happy woman. Jane went him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his goodness. You are a good girl, he replied, and I have great pleasure in thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike.  I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in many matters would be unpardonable in me. Exceed their income. My dear Mr. Bennet! cried his wife. What are you talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year, and very likely more. Then addressing her daughter, Oh, my dear, dear, Jane, I am so happy. I am sure I shan't get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it would be. I always said it must be so at last. I was sure you could not be so beautiful for nothing. I remember as soon as ever I saw him when he first came into Hartford to last year. I thought how likely it was that you should come together. Oh, he is the handsomest young man that ever was seen! Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition her favourite child. At that moment she cared for no other. Her younger sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness which she might in future be able to dispense. Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield, and Kitty begged very hard for a few balls there every winter. Bingley from this time was of course a daily visitor at Longbourne, coming frequently before breakfast and always remaining till after supper, unless when some barbarous neighbour who could not be enough detested had given him an invitation to dinner which he thought himself obliged to accept. Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister, for while he was present Jane had no attention to bestow on anyone else, but she found herself considerably useful to both of them in those hours of separation that must sometimes occur. In the absence of Jane he always attached himself to Elizabeth for the pleasure of talking with her, and when Bingley was gone Jane constantly sought the same means of relief. He has made me so happy, said she one evening, by telling me that he was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring I had not believed it possible. I suspected as much, said Elizabeth, but how did he account for it? It must have been his sisters doing. They were certainly no friends to his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he might have chosen so much more advantageously in many respects, but when they see, as I trust they will, that the brother is happy with me, they will learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again, though he can never be what we once were to each other. That is the most unforgiving speech, said Elizabeth, that I ever heard you utter, good girl! It would vex me indeed to see you again the dupe of Miss Bingley's pretended regard. Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last November he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of my being indifferent would have prevented his coming down again? He made a little mistake to be sure, but it is to the credit of his modesty. This naturally introduced a panageric from Jane on his diffidence, and the little value he put on his own good qualities. Elizabeth was pleased to find that he had not betrayed the interference of his friend, for though Jane had the most generous and forgiving heart in the world, she knew it was a circumstance which must prejudiced her against him. I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed! cried Jane. Oh, Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family and blessed above them all, if I could but see you as happy, if there were but such another man for you? If you were to give me forty such men I could never be so happy as you, till I have your disposition, your goodness, I can never have your happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself, and perhaps if I have very good luck I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time. The situation of affairs in the long-born family could not be long a secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Phillips, and she ventured without any permission to do the same by all her neighbours in Merriton. The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the world, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run away, they had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune. One morning, about a week after Bingley's engagement with Jane had been formed, as he and the females of the family were sitting together in the dining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window by the sound of a carriage, and they perceived a shez and four driving up the lawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors, and besides, the equipoise did not answer to that of any of their neighbours. The horses were post, and neither the carriage nor the livery of the servant who preceded it were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that somebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet to avoid the confinement of such an intrusion and walk away with him into the shrubbery. They both set off, and the conjectures of the remaining three continued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown open and their visitor entered. It was Lady Catherine de Bourgue. They were, of course, all intending to be surprised, but their astonishment was beyond their expectation, and on the part of Mrs. Bennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly unknown to them, even inferior to what Elizabeth felt. She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious, made no other reply to Elizabeth's salutation than a slight inclination of the head, and sat down without saying a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her name to her mother on her ladyship's entrance, though no request of introduction had been made. Mrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such high importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After sitting for a moment in silence, she said very stiffly to Elizabeth, I hope you are well, Miss Bennet.  Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was. And that, I suppose, is one of your sisters? Yes, madam, said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to Lady Catherine. She is my youngest girl, but one. My youngest of all is lately married, and my eldest is somewhere about the grounds. Walking with a young man, who, I believe, will soon become a part of the family. You have a very small park here. Returned Lady Catherine after a short silence. It is nothing in comparison of Rosing's my lady, I dare say, but I assure you it is much larger than Sir William Lucas's. This must be a most inconvenient sitting-room for the evening and summer. The windows are full west. Mrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner, and then added, May I take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left Mr. and Mrs. Collins well? Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last. Elizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her from Charlotte, as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But no letter appeared, and she was completely puzzled. Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take some refreshment, but Lady Catherine, very resolutely, and not, very politely, declined eating anything, and then rising up, said to Elizabeth, Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you will favor me with your company. Go, my dear! cried her mother, and show her ladyship about the various walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage. Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her parasol, attended her noble guest downstairs. As they passed through the hall, Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlor and drawing-room, and pronouncing them after a short survey to be decent-looking rooms, walked on. Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her waiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk that led to the cops. Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for conversation with a woman who was now more than usually insolent and disagreeable. How could I ever think her like a nephew? said she as she looked in her face. As soon as they entered the cops, Lady Catherine began in the following manner. You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I come. Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment. Indeed, you are mistaken, madam. I have not been at all able to account for the honor of seeing you here. Miss Bennet! replied her ladyship in an angry tone. You ought to know that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere you may choose to be, you shall not find me so. My character has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such moment as this I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most alarming nature reached me two days ago. I was told that not only was your sister on the point of being most advantageously married, but that you, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would in all likelihood be soon afterwards united to my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I know it must be a scandalous falsehood, though I would not injure him so much as to dispose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on setting off for this place that I might make my sentiment known to you. If you believed it impossible to be true, said Elizabeth, coloring with astonishment and disdain, I wonder you took the trouble of coming so far. What could your ladyship propose by it? At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted. You're coming to Longbourn to see me and my family, said Elizabeth Cooley. Will be rather a confirmation of it, if indeed such a report is in existence. If!  Has it not been industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a report is spread about? I never heard that it was. And can you likewise declare that there is no foundation for it? I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. You may ask questions which I shall not choose to answer. This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied. Has he? Has my nephew made you an offer of marriage? Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible. It ought to be so. It must be so while he retains the use of his reason. But your arts and allurements may in a moment of infatuation have made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You may have drawn him in. If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it. Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to language such as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world, and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns. But you are not entitled to know mine, nor will such behaviour as this ever induce me to be explicit. Let me be rightly understood. This match to which you have the presumption to aspire can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy is engaged to my daughter. Now what have you to say? Only this, that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he'll make an offer to me. Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment and then replied, The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy they have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of his mother as well as of hers, while in their cradles we planned the union, and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would be accomplished in their marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of inferior birth of no importance in the world and wholly unalied to the family. Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends? To his tacit engagement with Mr. Berg. Are you lost to every feeling of propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say that from his earliest hours he was destined for his cousin? Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is no other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not be kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to marry Mr. Berg. You both did as much as you could in planning the marriage. Its completion depended on others. If Mr. Darcy is neither by honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is he not to make another choice? And if I am that choice, why may I not accept him? Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest forbid it. Yes, Miss Bennet, interest. For do not expect to be noticed by his family or friends if you willfully act against the inclinations of all. You will be censured, slighted, and despised by every one connected with him.  Your name will never even be mentioned by any of us. These are heavy misfortunes, replied Elizabeth. But the wife of Mr. Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness, necessarily attached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause to repine. Obstinate! Headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you.  Is nothing due to me on that score? Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came here with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose, nor will I be dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person's whims. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment. That will make your ladyship's situation at present more pitiable, but it will have no effect on me. I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and my nephew are formed for each other. They are descended on the maternal side from the same noble line, and on the fathers from respectable, honourable, and ancient, though untitled families. Their fortune on both sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of every member of their respective houses. And what is to divide them? The upstart pretensions of a young woman without family connections or fortune. Is this to be endured? But it must not, shall not be. If you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere in which you have been brought up. In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that sphere. He is a gentleman. I am a gentleman's daughter. So far we are equal.  But who is your mother? Who are your uncles and aunts?  Whatever my connections may be, said Elizabeth, if your nephew does not object to them, they can be nothing to you. Tell me once and for all, are you engaged to him? Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady Catherine, have answered this question, she could not but say after a moment's deliberation. I am not. Lady Catherine seemed pleased. And will you promise me never to enter into such an engagement? I will make no promise of the kind. Miss Bennet, I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that I will ever recede. I shall not go away till you have given me the assurance I require. And I certainly never shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into anything so wholly unreasonable.  But would my giving you the wished-for promise make their marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, would my refusing to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on his cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which you have supported this extraordinary application have been as frivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my character, if you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. How far your nephew might approve of your interference in his affairs, I cannot tell. But you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg therefore to be important no farther on the subject. Not so hasty, if you please, I have by no means done. To all the objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I am no stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister's infamous elopement. I know it all, that the young man's marrying her was a patched up business at the expense of your father and uncles. And is such a girl to be my nephew's sister? Is her husband, is the son of his late father's steward to be his brother? Heaven and earth! Of what are you thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted? You can now have nothing further to say, she resentfully answered. You have insulted me in every possible method. I must beg to return to the house. And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they turned back. Her ladyship was highly incensed. You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew, unfeeling selfish girl. Do you not consider that a connection with you must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody? Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know my sentiments. You are then resolved to have him. I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness without reference to you, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me. It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the claims of duty, honour and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in the opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world. Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude, replied Elizabeth, have any possible claim on me in the present instance. No principle of either would be violated by my marriage with Mr. Darcy, and with regard to the resentment of his family, or the indignation of the world. If the former were excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment's concern, and the world in general would have too much sense to join in the scorn. And this is your real opinion. This is your final resolve. Very well. I shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet, that your ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped to find you reasonable, but depend upon it. I will carry my point. In this manner, Lady Catherine talked on till they were at the door of the carriage. When turning hastily round, she added, I take no leave of you, Miss Bennet.  You deserve no such attention. I am most seriously displeased. Elizabeth made no answer, and without attempting to persuade her ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it herself. She heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded upstairs. Her mother impatiently met her at the door of the dressing-room, to ask why Lady Catherine would not come in again and rest herself. She did not choose it, said her daughter. She would go. She is a very fine-looking woman, and her calling here was pedidously civil, for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the collons' were well. She is on her road somewhere, I dare say, and so passing through Merritton thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had nothing particular to say to you, Lizzie. Elizabeth was forced to give in to a little falsehood here, for to acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible. The closure of spirits which this extraordinary visit through Elizabeth into could not be easily overcome, nor could she for many hours learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine, it appeared, had actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings, for the sole purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr. Darcy. It was a rational scheme, to be sure, but from what the report of their engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine, till she recollected that his, being the intimate friend of Bingley, and her, being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the expectation of one wedding made everybody eager for another, to supply the idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her sister must bring them more frequently together, and her neighbors at Lucas Lodge, therefore, for through their communication with the Collins's, the report she concluded had reached Lady Catherine, had only set that down as almost certain and immediate, which she had looked forward to as possible at some future time. In revolving Lady Catherine's expressions, however, she could not help feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her persisting in this interference. From what she had said of her resolution to prevent their marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she must meditate an application to her nephew, and how he might take a similar representation of the evils attached to a connection with her, she dared not pronounce. She knew not the exact degree of his affection for his aunt, or his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose that he thought much higher of her ladyship than she could do, and it was certain that, in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with one, whose immediate connections were so unequal to his own, his aunt would address him on his weakest side. With his notions of dignity, he would probably feel that the arguments, which to Elizabeth had appeared weak and ridiculous, contained much good sense and solid reasoning. If he had been wavering before as to what he should do, which had often seemed likely, the advice and entreaty of so near a relation might settle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy as dignity unblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady Catherine might see him in her way through town, and his engagement to Bingley of coming again to Netherfield must give way. If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise should come to his friend within a few days, she added, I shall know how to understand it. I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of his constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting me, when he might have obtained my affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him at all. The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their visitor had been, was very great, but they obligingly satisfied it, with the same kind of supposition which had appeased Mrs. Bennet's curiosity, and Elizabeth was spared from much teasing on the subject. The next morning, as she was going downstairs, she was met by her father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand. Lizzie, said he, I was going to look for you, come into my room. She followed him thither, and her curiosity to know what he had to tell her was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it might be from Lady Catherine, and she anticipated with dismay all the consequent explanations. She followed her father to the fireplace, and they both sat down. He then said, I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its contents. I did not know before that I had two daughters on the brink of matrimony. Let me congratulate you on a very important conquest. The colour now rushed into Elizabeth's cheeks in the instantaneous conviction of its being a letter from the nephew instead of the aunt, and she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained himself at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to herself when her father continued. You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such matters as these, but I think I may defy even your sagacity to discover the name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins. For Mr. Collins? And what can he have to say? Something very much to the purpose, of course. He begins with congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of which it seems he has been told by some of the good-natured gossiping lucases. I shall not sport with your impatience by reading what he says on that point. What relates to yourself is as follows. Having thus offered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on this happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another, of which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennett after her elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate may be reasonably looked up to as one of the most illustrious personages in this land. Can you possibly guess Lizzie, who is meant by this? This young gentleman is blessed in a peculiar way with everything the heart of mortal can most desire, splendid property, noble kindred, and extensive patronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin Elizabeth and yourself of what evils you may incur by a precipitated closure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you'll be inclined to take immediate advantage of. Have you any idea, Lizzie, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out. My motive for cautioning you is as follows. We have reason to imagine that his aunt, Lady Catherine de Burg, does not look on the match with a friendly eye. Mr. Darcy, you see, is the man. Now, Lizzie, I think I have surprised you. Could he or the Lucases have pitched on any man within the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie more effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any woman but to see a blemish, and you probably never looked at you in his life. It is admirable. Elizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could only force one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so little agreeable to her. Are you not diverted? Oh, yes. Pray, read on. After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she felt on the occasion. When it became apparent that on the score of some family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give a consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and her noble admirer may be well aware of what they are about, and not run hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned. Mr. Collins, moreover, adds, I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia's sad business has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their living together before the marriage took place should be so generally known. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain from declaring my amazement at hearing that you received the young couple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an encouragement of vice. Had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should very strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them as a Christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their names to be mentioned in your hearing. That is his notion of Christian forgiveness. The rest of his letter is only about his dear Charlotte's situation, and his expectation of a young Olive branch. But, Lizzy, you look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be mis-ish, I hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. But what do we live but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn? Oh! cried Elizabeth. I am excessively diverted. But it is so strange. Yes, that is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man, it would have been nothing. But his, perfect indifference, and your pointed dislike make it so delightfully absurd. Much as I abominate writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins' correspondence for any consideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving him the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and hypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine about this report? Did she call to review her consent? To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh, and as it had been asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by his repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her feelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh when she would rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her by what he said of Mr. Darcy's indifference, and she could do nothing but wonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that, perhaps, instead of his seeing too little, she might have fancied too much. CHAPTER XVIII Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, as Elizabeth half-expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy with him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine's visit. The gentlemen arrived early, and before Mrs. Bennet had time to tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the habit of walking, Mary could never spare time, but the remaining five set off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty and Darcy were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either. Kitty was too much afraid of him to talk, Elizabeth was secretly forming a desperate resolution, and perhaps he might be doing the same. They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon Mariah, and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern, when Kitty left them she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the moment for her resolution to be executed, and while her courage was high, she immediately said, Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature, and for the sake of giving relief to my own feelings, can not how much I may be wounding yours. I can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express. I am sorry, exceedingly sorry, replied Darcy in a tone of surprise and emotion, that you have ever been informed of what may in a mistaken light have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardner was so little to be trusted. You must not blame my aunt, Lydia's thoughtlessness first portrayed to me that you had been concerned in the matter, and of course I could not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble and bear so many mortifications for the sake of discovering them. If you will thank me," he replied, let it be for yourself alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your family owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of you." Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word after a short pause her companion added, You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever. Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of a situation, now forced herself to speak, and immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The happiness which this reply produced was such as he had probably never felt before, and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the expression of heartfelt delight diffused over his face, became him. But though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of feelings, which improving of what important she was to him, made his affection every moment more valuable. They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding to the efforts of his aunt, who did call on him in her return through London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the substance of her conversation with Elizabeth, dwelling emphatically on every expression of the latter which, in her ladyship's apprehension, particularly denoted her perverseness and assurance. In the belief that such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise from her nephew, which she had refused to give. But, unluckily for her ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrary wise. It taught me to hope, said he, as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before.  Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, Yes, you know enough of my frankness to believe me capable of that.  What did you say of me that I did not deserve? For though your accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence. We will not quarrel for the greater shame of blame and acts to that evening, said Elizabeth. The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable. But since then we have both, I hope, improved in civility. I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. You are reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget. Had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner, those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely conceive how they have tortured me. Though it was some time I confessed before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice. I was subtly very far from expecting them to make so strong an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their ever being felt in such a way. I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper feeling. I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible way that would induce you to accept me. Oh, do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it. Darcy mentioned his letter. Did it, said he, did it soon make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents? She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her former prejudices had been removed. I knew, said he, that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part especially, the opening of it, which I should dredge or having the power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly make you hate me. The letter shall certainly be burnt if you believe it essential to the preservation of my regard. But though we have both reason to think my opinion is not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that implies. When I wrote that letter, replied Darcy, I believe myself perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit. The letter perhaps began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings of the person who wrote and the person who received it are now so widely different from what they then were that every unpleasant circumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past, as its remembrance gives you pleasure. I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. Your retrospections must be so totally void of reproach that the contentment arising from them is not a philosophy, but what is much better, of innocence. But with me it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude which cannot, which ought not, to be repelled.  In practice, though not in principle. As a child I was taught what is right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. Unfortunately in only son, for many years in only child, I was spoiled by my parents, who though good themselves, my father particularly all that was benevolent and amiable, allowed and courage almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyond my own family circle, to think meanly of all the rest of the world, to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I was from eight to eight and twenty, and such I might still have been, but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth. What do I not owe you? You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased. Had you then persuaded yourself that I should? Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be wishing, expecting my addresses. My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally I assure you. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often leave me wrong. How you must have hated me after that evening? Hate you? I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began to take a proper direction. I was almost afraid of asking what you thought of me when we met at Pemberley. You blamed me for coming. No, indeed! I felt nothing but surprise. Your surprise could not be greater than mine in being noticed by you. My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I confessed that I did not expect to receive more than my due. My object, then, replied Darcy, was to show you by every civility in my power that I was not so mean as to resent the past, and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill-opinion, by letting you see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes introduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an hour after I had seen you. He then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance, and of her disappointment at its sudden interruption, which naturally leading to the cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution of following her from Derbyshire and quest of her sister had been formed before he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness there had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must comprehend. She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject to each to be dwelt on further. After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know anything about it, they found at last on examining their watches that it was time to be at home. What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane? was a wonder which introduced the discussion of their affairs. Darcy was delighted with their engagement. His friend had given him the earliest information of it. I must ask whether you were surprised, said Elizabeth. Not at all. When I went away I felt that it would soon happen. That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much. And though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much the case. On the evening before my going to London, said he, I made a confession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I told him of all that had occurred to make my former interference in his affairs absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had the slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent to him, and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together. Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his friend. Did you speak from your own observation, said she, when you told him that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring? From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visits which I had lately made here, and I was convinced of her affection. And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to him? It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had preventing his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but his reliance on mine made everything easy. I was obliged to confess one thing, which, for a time, and not unjustly offended him. I could not allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months last winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was angry. But his anger I am persuaded lasted no longer than he remained in any doubt of your sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me now. Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful friend, so easily guided that his worth was invaluable, but she checked herself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laughed at, and it was rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley, which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he continued the conversation till they reached the house. In the hall they parted. My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to? was a question which Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she entered their room, and from all the others when they sat down to table. She had only to say and reply that they had wandered about till she was beyond her own knowledge. She coloured as she spoke, but neither that nor anything else awakened a suspicion of the truth. The evening passed quietly, unmarked by anything extraordinary. The acknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged were silent. Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth, and Elizabeth agitated and confused, rather knew that she was happy, than felt herself to be so. For besides the immediate embarrassment, there were other evils before her. She anticipated what would be felt in the family when her situation became known. She was aware that no one liked him but Jane, and even feared that with the others it was a dislike which not all his fortune and consequence might do away. At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far from Miss Bennet's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here. You are joking, Lizzy! This cannot be! Engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no, you shall not deceive me! I know it to