Chapter 1


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

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

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

Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.

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

Mr. Bennet made no answer.

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

"_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it."

This was invitation enough.

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

"What is his name?"

"Bingley."

"Is he married or single?"

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

"How so? How can it affect them?"

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

"Is that his design in settling here?"

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

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

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

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

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

"It is more than I engage for, I assure you."

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

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

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

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

"Mr. Bennet, how _can_ you abuse your own children in such a way? You
take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves."

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

"Ah, you do not know what I suffer."

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

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

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

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


Chapter 2


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

"I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy."

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for Heaven's sake! Have a little
compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces."

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

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

"To-morrow fortnight."

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

"Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce
Mr. Bingley to _her_."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am sick of Mr. Bingley," cried his wife.

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

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

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

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

"What an excellent father you have, girls!" said she, when the door was
shut. "I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness;
or me, either, for that matter. At our time of life it is not so
pleasant, I can tell you, to be making new acquaintances every day; but
for your sakes, we would do anything. Lydia, my love, though you _are_
the youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next
ball."

"Oh!" said Lydia stoutly, "I am not afraid; for though I _am_ the
youngest, I'm the tallest."

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


Chapter 3


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

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

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

An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already
had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her
housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley
was obliged to be in town the following day, and, consequently, unable
to accept the honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite
disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town
so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that
he might be always flying about from one place to another, and never
settled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears
a little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to get
a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley
was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly.
The girls grieved over such a number of ladies, but were comforted the
day before the ball by hearing, that instead of twelve he brought only
six with him from London--his five sisters and a cousin. And when
the party entered the assembly room it consisted of only five
altogether--Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and
another young man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"_You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room," said Mr.
Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.

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

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

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

The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs.
Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield
party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been
distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this as
her mother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane's
pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most
accomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been
fortunate enough never to be without partners, which was all that they
had yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good
spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they
were the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up. With
a book he was regardless of time; and on the present occasion he had a
good deal of curiosity as to the event of an evening which had raised
such splendid expectations. He had rather hoped that his wife's views on
the stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found out that he had a
different story to hear.

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

"If he had had any compassion for _me_," cried her husband impatiently,
"he would not have danced half so much! For God's sake, say no more of
his partners. Oh that he had sprained his ankle in the first dance!"

"Oh! my dear, I am quite delighted with him. He is so excessively
handsome! And his sisters are charming women. I never in my life saw
anything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace upon Mrs.
Hurst's gown--"

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

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


Chapter 4


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

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

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

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

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

"Dear Lizzy!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Chapter 5


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

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

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

"_You_ began the evening well, Charlotte," said Mrs. Bennet with civil
self-command to Miss Lucas. "_You_ were Mr. Bingley's first choice."

"Yes; but he seemed to like his second better."

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

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

"Upon my word! Well, that is very decided indeed--that does seem as
if--but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know."

"_My_ overhearings were more to the purpose than _yours_, Eliza," said
Charlotte. "Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend,
is he?--poor Eliza!--to be only just _tolerable_."

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

"Are you quite sure, ma'am?--is not there a little mistake?" said Jane.
"I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her."

"Aye--because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he
could not help answering her; but she said he seemed quite angry at
being spoke to."

"Miss Bingley told me," said Jane, "that he never speaks much,
unless among his intimate acquaintances. With _them_ he is remarkably
agreeable."

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

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

"Another time, Lizzy," said her mother, "I would not dance with _him_,
if I were you."

"I believe, ma'am, I may safely promise you _never_ to dance with him."

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

"That is very true," replied Elizabeth, "and I could easily forgive
_his_ pride, if he had not mortified _mine_."

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

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

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

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


Chapter 6


The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit
was soon returned in due form. Miss Bennet's pleasing manners grew on
the goodwill of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was
found to be intolerable, and the younger sisters not worth speaking to,
a wish of being better acquainted with _them_ was expressed towards
the two eldest. By Jane, this attention was received with the greatest
pleasure, but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment
of everybody, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them;
though their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value as arising in
all probability from the influence of their brother's admiration. It
was generally evident whenever they met, that he _did_ admire her and
to _her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference
which she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a
way to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it
was not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane
united, with great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and a
uniform cheerfulness of manner which would guard her from the suspicions
of the impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas.

"It may perhaps be pleasant," replied Charlotte, "to be able to impose
on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be
so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill
from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and
it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in
the dark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every
attachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all
_begin_ freely--a slight preference is natural enough; but there are
very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without
encouragement. In nine cases out of ten a women had better show _more_
affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he
may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on."

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

"Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane's disposition as you do."

"But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to conceal
it, he must find it out."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer."

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

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

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

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

"You are severe on us."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst
the less polished societies of the world. Every savage can dance."

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

"You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir."

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

"Never, sir."

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

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

"You have a house in town, I conclude?"

Mr. Darcy bowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mr. Darcy is all politeness," said Elizabeth, smiling.

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

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

"I can guess the subject of your reverie."

"I should imagine not."

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

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

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

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

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

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

"Nay, if you are serious about it, I shall consider the matter is
absolutely settled. You will be having a charming mother-in-law, indeed;
and, of course, she will always be at Pemberley with you."

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


Chapter 7


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes--but as it happens, they are all of them very clever."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"MY DEAR FRIEND,--

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

"CAROLINE BINGLEY"

"With the officers!" cried Lydia. "I wonder my aunt did not tell us of
_that_."

"Dining out," said Mrs. Bennet, "that is very unlucky."

"Can I have the carriage?" said Jane.

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

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

"Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley's chaise to go to Meryton,
and the Hursts have no horses to theirs."

"I had much rather go in the coach."

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

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

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

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

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

"MY DEAREST LIZZY,--

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

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

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

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

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

"I shall be very fit to see Jane--which is all I want."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Chapter 8


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Certainly not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That is capital," added her sister, and they both laughed heartily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," cried Elizabeth; "I am
_not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying
books."

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

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

"I wish it may."

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

"With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it."

"I am talking of possibilities, Charles."

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

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

"Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?" said Miss Bingley; "will
she be as tall as I am?"

"I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or
rather taller."

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

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

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

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

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

"Nor I, I am sure," said Miss Bingley.

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

"Yes, I do comprehend a great deal in it."

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

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

"I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women.
I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and
that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones being sent for
immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could
be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most
eminent physicians. This she would not hear of; but she was not so
unwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled
that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet
were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters
declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness,
however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief
to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every
attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister.


Chapter 9


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

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

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

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

"You may depend upon it, Madam," said Miss Bingley, with cold civility,
"that Miss Bennet will receive every possible attention while she
remains with us."

Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.

"I am sure," she added, "if it was not for such good friends I do not
know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers
a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is
always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest
temper I have ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are
nothing to _her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a
charming prospect over the gravel walk. I do not know a place in the
country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it
in a hurry, I hope, though you have but a short lease."

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

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

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

"Oh! yes--I understand you perfectly."

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

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

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

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

"Yes, but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at
least that advantage."

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

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

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

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

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

"When I am in the country," he replied, "I never wish to leave it;
and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their
advantages, and I can be equally happy in either."

"Aye--that is because you have the right disposition. But that
gentleman," looking at Darcy, "seemed to think the country was nothing
at all."

"Indeed, Mamma, you are mistaken," said Elizabeth, blushing for her
mother. "You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there was not
such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in the town,
which you must acknowledge to be true."

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

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

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

"Did Charlotte dine with you?"

"No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince-pies. For
my part, Mr. Bingley, I always keep servants that can do their own work;
_my_ daughters are brought up very differently. But everybody is to
judge for themselves, and the Lucases are a very good sort of girls,
I assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that I think
Charlotte so _very_ plain--but then she is our particular friend."

"She seems a very pleasant young woman."

"Oh! dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself
has often said so, and envied me Jane's beauty. I do not like to boast
of my own child, but to be sure, Jane--one does not often see anybody
better looking. It is what everybody says. I do not trust my own
partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a man at my brother
Gardiner's in town so much in love with her that my sister-in-law was
sure he would make her an offer before we came away. But, however, he
did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses
on her, and very pretty they were."

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

"I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love," said Darcy.

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

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

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

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

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

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


Chapter 10


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

Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in
attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual
commendations of the lady, either on his handwriting, or on the evenness
of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern
with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was
exactly in union with her opinion of each.

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

He made no answer.

"You write uncommonly fast."

"You are mistaken. I write rather slowly."

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

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

"Pray tell your sister that I long to see her."

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

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

"Thank you--but I always mend my own."

"How can you contrive to write so even?"

He was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My style of writing is very different from yours."

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

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

"Your humility, Mr. Bingley," said Elizabeth, "must disarm reproof."

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

"And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter; Darcy must speak for
himself."

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

"To yield readily--easily--to the _persuasion_ of a friend is no merit
with you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Indeed I do not dare."

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

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

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

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

"Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?"

"Oh! yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Phillips be placed
in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great-uncle the
judge. They are in the same profession, you know, only in different
lines. As for your Elizabeth's picture, you must not have it taken, for
what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Chapter 11


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I should like balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they were
carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably
tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much
more rational if conversation instead of dancing were made the order of
the day."

"Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be
near so much like a ball."

Miss Bingley made no answer, and soon afterwards she got up and walked
about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well; but
Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In
the desperation of her feelings, she resolved on one effort more, and,
turning to Elizabeth, said:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Such as vanity and pride."

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

Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.

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

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

"No," said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough,
but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch
for. It is, I believe, too little yielding--certainly too little for the
convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others
so soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings
are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper
would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost
forever."

"_That_ is a failing indeed!" cried Elizabeth. "Implacable resentment
_is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I
really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me."

"There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular
evil--a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome."

"And _your_ defect is to hate everybody."

"And yours," he replied with a smile, "is willfully to misunderstand
them."

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

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


Chapter 12


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

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

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

To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence--Elizabeth had been at
Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked--and Miss
Bingley was uncivil to _her_, and more teasing than usual to himself.
He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration
should _now_ escape him, nothing that could elevate her with the hope
of influencing his felicity; sensible that if such an idea had been
suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight
in confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke
ten words to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were
at one time left by themselves for half-an-hour, he adhered most
conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her.

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

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

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


Chapter 13


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

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

"The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a stranger."

Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled. "A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr.
Bingley, I am sure! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see Mr.
Bingley. But--good Lord! how unlucky! There is not a bit of fish to be
got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell--I must speak to Hill this
moment."

"It is _not_ Mr. Bingley," said her husband; "it is a person whom I
never saw in the whole course of my life."

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

After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus explained:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dear Sir,--

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

"WILLIAM COLLINS"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate."

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

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

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


Chapter 14


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

"That is all very proper and civil, I am sure," said Mrs. Bennet, "and
I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies
in general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?"

"The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane
from Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence."

"I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any family?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Chapter 15


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

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

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

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

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

Lydia's intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every sister
except Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them,
at the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him,
and have his library to himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed
him after breakfast; and there he would continue, nominally engaged with
one of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr.
Bennet, with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such
doings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been
always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told
Elizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other room of the
house, he was used to be free from them there; his civility, therefore,
was most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their
walk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact much better fitted for a walker
than a reader, was extremely pleased to close his large book, and go.

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

But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom
they had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking
with another officer on the other side of the way. The officer was
the very Mr. Denny concerning whose return from London Lydia came
to inquire, and he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the
stranger's air, all wondered who he could be; and Kitty and Lydia,
determined if possible to find out, led the way across the street, under
pretense of wanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately
had just gained the pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, had
reached the same spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated
permission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with
him the day before from town, and he was happy to say had accepted a
commission in their corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the
young man wanted only regimentals to make him completely charming.
His appearance was greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of
beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address.
The introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness
of conversation--a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and
unassuming; and the whole party were still standing and talking together
very agreeably, when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy
and Bingley were seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the
ladies of the group, the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and
began the usual civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and
Miss Bennet the principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to
Longbourn on purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated
it with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes
on Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by the sight of the
stranger, and Elizabeth happening to see the countenance of both as they
looked at each other, was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting.
Both changed colour, one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham,
after a few moments, touched his hat--a salutation which Mr. Darcy just
deigned to return. What could be the meaning of it? It was impossible to
imagine; it was impossible not to long to know.

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

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

Mrs. Phillips was always glad to see her nieces; and the two eldest,
from their recent absence, were particularly welcome, and she was
eagerly expressing her surprise at their sudden return home, which, as
their own carriage had not fetched them, she should have known nothing
about, if she had not happened to see Mr. Jones's shop-boy in the
street, who had told her that they were not to send any more draughts to
Netherfield because the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility
was claimed towards Mr. Collins by Jane's introduction of him. She
received him with her very best politeness, which he returned with
as much more, apologising for his intrusion, without any previous
acquaintance with her, which he could not help flattering himself,
however, might be justified by his relationship to the young ladies who
introduced him to her notice. Mrs. Phillips was quite awed by such an
excess of good breeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon
put to an end by exclamations and inquiries about the other; of whom,
however, she could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that
Mr. Denny had brought him from London, and that he was to have a
lieutenant's commission in the ----shire. She had been watching him the
last hour, she said, as he walked up and down the street, and had Mr.
Wickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued the
occupation, but unluckily no one passed windows now except a few of the
officers, who, in comparison with the stranger, were become "stupid,
disagreeable fellows." Some of them were to dine with the Phillipses
the next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr.
Wickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn
would come in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Phillips
protested that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery
tickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such
delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr.
Collins repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured
with unwearying civility that they were perfectly needless.

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

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


Chapter 16


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

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

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

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

With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham and the
officers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; to the young
ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a kind
listener in Mrs. Phillips, and was by her watchfulness, most abundantly
supplied with coffee and muffin. When the card-tables were placed, he
had the opportunity of obliging her in turn, by sitting down to whist.

"I know little of the game at present," said he, "but I shall be glad
to improve myself, for in my situation in life--" Mrs. Phillips was very
glad for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason.

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

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

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

Elizabeth could not but look surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

"I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an
ill-tempered man." Wickham only shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

"It was the prospect of constant society, and good society," he added,
"which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I knew it to be
a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me
further by his account of their present quarters, and the very great
attentions and excellent acquaintances Meryton had procured them.
Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and
my spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society.
A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have
now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I
was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in
possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we
were speaking of just now."

"Indeed!"

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

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

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

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

"Some time or other he _will_ be--but it shall not be by _me_. Till I
can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give his money
freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the
poor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride--for he is very proud of what
his father was--have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family,
to degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the
Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride,
which, with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and
careful guardian of his sister, and you will hear him generally cried up
as the most attentive and best of brothers."

"What sort of girl is Miss Darcy?"

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

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

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

"Not at all."

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

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

The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round
the other table and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin
Elizabeth and Mrs. Phillips. The usual inquiries as to his success was
made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every
point; but when Mrs. Phillips began to express her concern thereupon,
he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least
importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged
that she would not make herself uneasy.

"I know very well, madam," said he, "that when persons sit down to a
card-table, they must take their chances of these things, and happily I
am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There
are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady
Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding
little matters."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and
they continued talking together, with mutual satisfaction till supper
put an end to cards, and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr.
Wickham's attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise
of Mrs. Phillips's supper party, but his manners recommended him to
everybody. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done
gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could
think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all
the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name
as they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia
talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the
fish she had won; and Mr. Collins in describing the civility of Mr. and
Mrs. Phillips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses
at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing
that he crowded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage
before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House.


Chapter 17


Elizabeth related to Jane the next day what had passed between Mr.
Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern; she
knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr.
Bingley's regard; and yet, it was not in her nature to question the
veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham. The
possibility of his having endured such unkindness, was enough to
interest all her tender feelings; and nothing remained therefore to be
done, but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each,
and throw into the account of accident or mistake whatever could not be
otherwise explained.

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

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

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

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

"It is difficult indeed--it is distressing. One does not know what to
think."

"I beg your pardon; one knows exactly what to think."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Chapter 18


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

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

But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect
of her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her
spirits; and having told all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she had
not seen for a week, she was soon able to make a voluntary transition
to the oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her particular
notice. The first two dances, however, brought a return of distress;
they were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn,
apologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without being
aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a disagreeable
partner for a couple of dances can give. The moment of her release from
him was ecstasy.

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

"I dare say you will find him very agreeable."

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

When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her
hand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her in a whisper, not to be a
simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant
in the eyes of a man ten times his consequence. Elizabeth made no
answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which
she was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and
reading in her neighbours' looks, their equal amazement in beholding
it. They stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to
imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at
first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would
be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made
some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again
silent. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time
with:--"It is _your_ turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked
about the dance, and _you_ ought to make some sort of remark on the size
of the room, or the number of couples."

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

"Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may
observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. But
_now_ we may be silent."

"Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?"

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

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

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

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

"I must not decide on my own performance."

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

The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of _hauteur_ overspread his
features, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though blaming herself
for her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a
constrained manner said, "Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners
as may ensure his _making_ friends--whether he may be equally capable of
_retaining_ them, is less certain."

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

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

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

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

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

"What think you of books?" said he, smiling.

"Books--oh! no. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same
feelings."

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

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

"The _present_ always occupies you in such scenes--does it?" said he,
with a look of doubt.

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

"I am," said he, with a firm voice.

"And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?"

"I hope not."

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

"May I ask to what these questions tend?"

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

"And what is your success?"

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

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

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

"I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours," he coldly replied.
She said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in
silence; and on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree,
for in Darcy's breast there was a tolerable powerful feeling towards
her, which soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against
another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?"

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

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

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

"I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley's sincerity," said Elizabeth warmly;
"but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances only. Mr.
Bingley's defense of his friend was a very able one, I dare say; but
since he is unacquainted with several parts of the story, and has learnt
the rest from that friend himself, I shall venture to still think of
both gentlemen as I did before."

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

"I have found out," said he, "by a singular accident, that there is now
in the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to overhear the
gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who does the honours of
the house the names of his cousin Miss de Bourgh, and of her mother Lady
Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would have
thought of my meeting with, perhaps, a nephew of Lady Catherine de
Bourgh in this assembly! I am most thankful that the discovery is made
in time for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to
do, and trust he will excuse my not having done it before. My total
ignorance of the connection must plead my apology."

"You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy!"

"Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it earlier.
I believe him to be Lady Catherine's _nephew_. It will be in my power to
assure him that her ladyship was quite well yesterday se'nnight."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was teased by
Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her side, and though
he could not prevail on her to dance with him again, put it out of her
power to dance with others. In vain did she entreat him to stand up with
somebody else, and offer to introduce him to any young lady in the room.
He assured her, that as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to it;
that his chief object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to
her and that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her
the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. She owed
her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often joined them, and
good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins's conversation to herself.

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

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

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

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


Chapter 19


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

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

Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise, Mrs.
Bennet answered instantly, "Oh dear!--yes--certainly. I am sure Lizzy
will be very happy--I am sure she can have no objection. Come, Kitty, I
want you up stairs." And, gathering her work together, she was hastening
away, when Elizabeth called out:

"Dear madam, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must excuse
me. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not hear. I am
going away myself."

"No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you to stay where you are." And upon
Elizabeth's seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about to
escape, she added: "Lizzy, I _insist_ upon your staying and hearing Mr.
Collins."

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

"Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from
doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You
would have been less amiable in my eyes had there _not_ been this little
unwillingness; but allow me to assure you, that I have your respected
mother's permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the
purport of my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to
dissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as
soon as I entered the house, I singled you out as the companion of
my future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this
subject, perhaps it would be advisable for me to state my reasons for
marrying--and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with the design
of selecting a wife, as I certainly did."

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

"My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for
every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example
of matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am convinced that it will
add very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly--which perhaps I ought
to have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and
recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling
patroness. Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked
too!) on this subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I
left Hunsford--between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was
arranging Miss de Bourgh's footstool, that she said, 'Mr. Collins, you
must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose
a gentlewoman for _my_ sake; and for your _own_, let her be an active,
useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small
income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as
you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.' Allow me, by the
way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice
and kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the
advantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond
anything I can describe; and your wit and vivacity, I think, must be
acceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and
respect which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general
intention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my views
were directed towards Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I
can assure you there are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that
being, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honoured
father (who, however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy
myself without resolving to choose a wife from among his daughters, that
the loss to them might be as little as possible, when the melancholy
event takes place--which, however, as I have already said, may not
be for several years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and
I flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And now nothing
remains for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the
violence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and
shall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well
aware that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds
in the four per cents, which will not be yours till after your mother's
decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head,
therefore, I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure yourself that
no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married."

It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.

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

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

"Upon my word, sir," cried Elizabeth, "your hope is a rather
extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not
one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so
daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second
time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal. You could not make _me_
happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who
could make you so. Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I
am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the
situation."

"Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so," said Mr. Collins
very gravely--"but I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all
disapprove of you. And you may be certain when I have the honour of
seeing her again, I shall speak in the very highest terms of your
modesty, economy, and other amiable qualification."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Chapter 20


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

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

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

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

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

She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her
husband, called out as she entered the library, "Oh! Mr. Bennet, you
are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You must come and make
Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him, and if you
do not make haste he will change his mind and not have _her_."

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

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

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

"And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems an hopeless business."

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

"Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion."

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

"Come here, child," cried her father as she appeared. "I have sent for
you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made
you an offer of marriage. Is it true?" Elizabeth replied that it was.
"Very well--and this offer of marriage you have refused?"

"I have, sir."

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

"Yes, or I will never see her again."

"An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must
be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you
again if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again
if you _do_."

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

"What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, in talking this way? You promised me to
_insist_ upon her marrying him."

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

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

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

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

Charlotte hardly had time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty,
who came to tell the same news; and no sooner had they entered the
breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on
the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating
her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her
family. "Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas," she added in a melancholy tone,
"for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me. I am cruelly used,
nobody feels for my poor nerves."

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

"Aye, there she comes," continued Mrs. Bennet, "looking as unconcerned
as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided
she can have her own way. But I tell you, Miss Lizzy--if you take it
into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way,
you will never get a husband at all--and I am sure I do not know who is
to maintain you when your father is dead. I shall not be able to keep
you--and so I warn you. I have done with you from this very day. I told
you in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you again,
and you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking
to undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in talking
to anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have
no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it
is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied."

Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that
any attempt to reason with her or soothe her would only increase the
irritation. She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of
them, till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered the room with
an air more stately than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to
the girls, "Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold
your tongues, and let me and Mr. Collins have a little conversation
together."

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

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


Chapter 21


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

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

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

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

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

Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came
from Netherfield. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little,
hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady's fair, flowing hand; and
Elizabeth saw her sister's countenance change as she read it, and saw
her dwelling intently on some particular passages. Jane recollected
herself soon, and putting the letter away, tried to join with her usual
cheerfulness in the general conversation; but Elizabeth felt an anxiety
on the subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no
sooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from Jane
invited her to follow her up stairs. When they had gained their own room,
Jane, taking out the letter, said:

"This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains has surprised me a good
deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on
their way to town--and without any intention of coming back again. You
shall hear what she says."

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

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

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

"When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which
took him to London might be concluded in three or four days; but as we
are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when
Charles gets to town he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have
determined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend
his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintances are
already there for the winter; I wish that I could hear that you, my
dearest friend, had any intention of making one of the crowd--but of
that I despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may
abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your
beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the
three of whom we shall deprive you."

"It is evident by this," added Jane, "that he comes back no more this
winter."

"It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean that he _should_."

"Why will you think so? It must be his own doing. He is his own
master. But you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage which
particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_."

"Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister; and, to confess the truth,
_we_ are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think
Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments;
and the affection she inspires in Louisa and myself is heightened into
something still more interesting, from the hope we dare entertain of
her being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before
mentioned to you my feelings on this subject; but I will not leave the
country without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them
unreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already; he will have
frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing;
her relations all wish the connection as much as his own; and a sister's
partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most
capable of engaging any woman's heart. With all these circumstances to
favour an attachment, and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest
Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness
of so many?"

"What do you think of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?" said Jane as she
finished it. "Is it not clear enough? Does it not expressly declare that
Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she is
perfectly convinced of her brother's indifference; and that if she
suspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to
put me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?"

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

"Most willingly."

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

Jane shook her head.

"Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. No one who has ever seen you
together can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley, I am sure, cannot. She
is not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr.
Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the
case is this: We are not rich enough or grand enough for them; and she
is the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion
that when there has been _one_ intermarriage, she may have less trouble
in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and
I dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But,
my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley
tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest
degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on
Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that, instead
of being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Chapter 22


The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases and again during the
chief of the day was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins.
Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. "It keeps him in good
humour," said she, "and I am more obliged to you than I can express."
Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and
that it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was
very amiable, but Charlotte's kindness extended farther than Elizabeth
had any conception of; its object was nothing else than to secure her
from any return of Mr. Collins's addresses, by engaging them towards
herself. Such was Miss Lucas's scheme; and appearances were so
favourable, that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost
secure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very
soon. But here she did injustice to the fire and independence of his
character, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next
morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw
himself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins,
from a conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to
conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known
till its success might be known likewise; for though feeling almost
secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging,
he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday.
His reception, however, was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas
perceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and
instantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had
she dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there.

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

Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent;
and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins's present
circumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom
they could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were
exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate, with more
interest than the matter had ever excited before, how many years longer
Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided
opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the
Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife
should make their appearance at St. James's. The whole family, in short,
were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The younger girls formed hopes
of _coming out_ a year or two sooner than they might otherwise have
done; and the boys were relieved from their apprehension of Charlotte's
dying an old maid. Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had
gained her point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were
in general satisfactory. Mr. Collins, to be sure, was neither sensible
nor agreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must
be imaginary. But still he would be her husband. Without thinking highly
either of men or matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it was
the only provision for well-educated young women of small fortune,
and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest
preservative from want. This preservative she had now obtained; and at
the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, she felt all
the good luck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business
was the surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship
she valued beyond that of any other person. Elizabeth would wonder,
and probably would blame her; and though her resolution was not to be
shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such a disapprobation. She resolved
to give her the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins,
when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had
passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very
dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the
curiosity excited by his long absence burst forth in such very direct
questions on his return as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was
at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to
publish his prosperous love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally
surprised that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to
understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her
younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him.
She rated his abilities much higher than any of the others; there was
a solidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though by no
means so clever as herself, she thought that if encouraged to read
and improve himself by such an example as hers, he might become a very
agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of this
kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a
private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before.

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

"Engaged to Mr. Collins! My dear Charlotte--impossible!"

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

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

But Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong effort
for it, was able to assure with tolerable firmness that the prospect of
their relationship was highly grateful to her, and that she wished her
all imaginable happiness.

"I see what you are feeling," replied Charlotte. "You must be surprised,
very much surprised--so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to marry
you. But when you have had time to think it over, I hope you will be
satisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic, you know; I never
was. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins's
character, connection, and situation in life, I am convinced that my
chance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on
entering the marriage state."

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


Chapter 23


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting
the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised
letter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to
their father, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a
twelvemonth's abode in the family might have prompted. After discharging
his conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them, with many
rapturous expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection
of their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was
merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had been so ready
to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at Longbourn, whither
he hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; for Lady Catherine,
he added, so heartily approved his marriage, that she wished it to take
place as soon as possible, which he trusted would be an unanswerable
argument with his amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him
the happiest of men.

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

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

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

As for Jane, _her_ anxiety under this suspense was, of course, more
painful than Elizabeth's, but whatever she felt she was desirous of
concealing, and between herself and Elizabeth, therefore, the subject
was never alluded to. But as no such delicacy restrained her mother,
an hour seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her
impatience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he
did not come back she would think herself very ill used. It needed
all Jane's steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable
tranquillity.

Mr. Collins returned most punctually on Monday fortnight, but his
reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his
first introduction. He was too happy, however, to need much attention;
and luckily for the others, the business of love-making relieved them
from a great deal of his company. The chief of every day was spent by
him at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time
to make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed.

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

"Indeed, Mr. Bennet," said she, "it is very hard to think that Charlotte
Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that I should be forced to
make way for _her_, and live to see her take her place in it!"

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

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

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

"What should not you mind?"

"I should not mind anything at all."

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

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

"I leave it to yourself to determine," said Mr. Bennet.


Chapter 24


Miss Bingley's letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first
sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for
the winter, and concluded with her brother's regret at not having had
time to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left
the country.

Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest
of the letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the
writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy's praise occupied
the chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on, and Caroline
boasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict
the accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former
letter. She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother's being an
inmate of Mr. Darcy's house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of
the latter with regard to new furniture.

Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this,
heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern
for her sister, and resentment against all others. To Caroline's
assertion of her brother's being partial to Miss Darcy she paid no
credit. That he was really fond of Jane, she doubted no more than she
had ever done; and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she
could not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness
of temper, that want of proper resolution, which now made him the slave
of his designing friends, and led him to sacrifice of his own happiness
to the caprice of their inclination. Had his own happiness, however,
been the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in
whatever manner he thought best, but her sister's was involved in it, as
she thought he must be sensible himself. It was a subject, in short,
on which reflection would be long indulged, and must be unavailing. She
could think of nothing else; and yet whether Bingley's regard had really
died away, or were suppressed by his friends' interference; whether
he had been aware of Jane's attachment, or whether it had escaped his
observation; whatever were the case, though her opinion of him must be
materially affected by the difference, her sister's situation remained
the same, her peace equally wounded.

A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her feelings to
Elizabeth; but at last, on Mrs. Bennet's leaving them together, after a
longer irritation than usual about Netherfield and its master, she could
not help saying:

"Oh, that my dear mother had more command over herself! She can have no
idea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But
I will not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall
all be as we were before."

Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said
nothing.

"You doubt me," cried Jane, slightly colouring; "indeed, you have
no reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my
acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear,
and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not _that_ pain. A
little time, therefore--I shall certainly try to get the better."

With a stronger voice she soon added, "I have this comfort immediately,
that it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it
has done no harm to anyone but myself."

"My dear Jane!" exclaimed Elizabeth, "you are too good. Your sweetness
and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say
to you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you
deserve."

Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back
the praise on her sister's warm affection.

"Nay," said Elizabeth, "this is not fair. _You_ wish to think all the
world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody. I only want
to think _you_ perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not
be afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your
privilege of universal good-will. You need not. There are few people
whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see
of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms
my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the
little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or
sense. I have met with two instances lately, one I will not mention; the
other is Charlotte's marriage. It is unaccountable! In every view it is
unaccountable!"

"My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will
ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference
of situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins's respectability, and
Charlotte's steady, prudent character. Remember that she is one of a
large family; that as to fortune, it is a most eligible match; and be
ready to believe, for everybody's sake, that she may feel something like
regard and esteem for our cousin."

"To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no one else
could be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I persuaded that
Charlotte had any regard for him, I should only think worse of her
understanding than I now do of her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a
conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man; you know he is, as well as
I do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the woman who married him
cannot have a proper way of thinking. You shall not defend her, though
it is Charlotte Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual,
change the meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade
yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility of
danger security for happiness."

"I must think your language too strong in speaking of both," replied
Jane; "and I hope you will be convinced of it by seeing them happy
together. But enough of this. You alluded to something else. You
mentioned _two_ instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but I entreat
you, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking _that person_ to blame, and
saying your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy
ourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively young man
to be always so guarded and circumspect. It is very often nothing but
our own vanity that deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than
it does."

"And men take care that they should."

"If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea
of there being so much design in the world as some persons imagine."

"I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley's conduct to design,"
said Elizabeth; "but without scheming to do wrong, or to make others
unhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness,
want of attention to other people's feelings, and want of resolution,
will do the business."

"And do you impute it to either of those?"

"Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by saying what
I think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you can."

"You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him?"

"Yes, in conjunction with his friend."

"I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can
only wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me, no other woman can
secure it."

"Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his
happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they
may wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great
connections, and pride."

"Beyond a doubt, they _do_ wish him to choose Miss Darcy," replied Jane;
"but this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have
known her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love
her better. But, whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely
they should have opposed their brother's. What sister would think
herself at liberty to do it, unless there were something very
objectionable? If they believed him attached to me, they would not try
to part us; if he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an
affection, you make everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most
unhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been
mistaken--or, at least, it is light, it is nothing in comparison of what
I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it in
the best light, in the light in which it may be understood."

Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley's
name was scarcely ever mentioned between them.

Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no
more, and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account
for it clearly, there was little chance of her ever considering it with
less perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to convince her of what she
did not believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely the
effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw her
no more; but though the probability of the statement was admitted at
the time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet's best
comfort was that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.

Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. "So, Lizzy," said he one day,
"your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate her. Next to
being married, a girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then.
It is something to think of, and it gives her a sort of distinction
among her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to
be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough in
Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham
be _your_ man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably."

"Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not
all expect Jane's good fortune."

"True," said Mr. Bennet, "but it is a comfort to think that whatever of
that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will make
the most of it."

Mr. Wickham's society was of material service in dispelling the gloom
which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn
family. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now
added that of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had already
heard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him,
was now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was
pleased to know how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they
had known anything of the matter.

Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be
any extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the society
of Hertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always pleaded for
allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes--but by everybody else
Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.


Chapter 25


After a week spent in professions of love and schemes of felicity,
Mr. Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of
Saturday. The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his
side, by preparations for the reception of his bride; as he had reason
to hope, that shortly after his return into Hertfordshire, the day would
be fixed that was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave of his
relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished his fair
cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father another
letter of thanks.

On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving
her brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend the Christmas
at Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly
superior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield
ladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived
by trade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so
well-bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger
than Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Phillips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant
woman, and a great favourite with all her Longbourn nieces. Between the
two eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a particular regard.
They had frequently been staying with her in town.

The first part of Mrs. Gardiner's business on her arrival was to
distribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When this was
done she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen.
Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They
had all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her
girls had been upon the point of marriage, and after all there was
nothing in it.

"I do not blame Jane," she continued, "for Jane would have got Mr.
Bingley if she could. But Lizzy! Oh, sister! It is very hard to think
that she might have been Mr. Collins's wife by this time, had it not
been for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very room,
and she refused him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have
a daughter married before I have, and that the Longbourn estate is just
as much entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful people indeed,
sister. They are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of
them, but so it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted
so in my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves
before anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is the
greatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us, of
long sleeves."

Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before,
in the course of Jane and Elizabeth's correspondence with her, made her
sister a slight answer, and, in compassion to her nieces, turned the
conversation.

When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. "It
seems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane," said she. "I am
sorry it went off. But these things happen so often! A young man, such
as you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl
for a few weeks, and when accident separates them, so easily forgets
her, that these sort of inconsistencies are very frequent."

"An excellent consolation in its way," said Elizabeth, "but it will not
do for _us_. We do not suffer by _accident_. It does not often
happen that the interference of friends will persuade a young man of
independent fortune to think no more of a girl whom he was violently in
love with only a few days before."

"But that expression of 'violently in love' is so hackneyed, so
doubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is as
often applied to feelings which arise from a half-hour's acquaintance,
as to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how _violent was_ Mr. Bingley's
love?"

"I never saw a more promising inclination; he was growing quite
inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every time
they met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball he
offended two or three young ladies, by not asking them to dance; and I
spoke to him twice myself, without receiving an answer. Could there be
finer symptoms? Is not general incivility the very essence of love?"

"Oh, yes!--of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt. Poor
Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get
over it immediately. It had better have happened to _you_, Lizzy; you
would have laughed yourself out of it sooner. But do you think she
would be prevailed upon to go back with us? Change of scene might be
of service--and perhaps a little relief from home may be as useful as
anything."

Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded
of her sister's ready acquiescence.

"I hope," added Mrs. Gardiner, "that no consideration with regard to
this young man will influence her. We live in so different a part of
town, all our connections are so different, and, as you well know, we go
out so little, that it is very improbable that they should meet at all,
unless he really comes to see her."

"And _that_ is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his
friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in such
a part of London! My dear aunt, how could you think of it? Mr. Darcy may
perhaps have _heard_ of such a place as Gracechurch Street, but he
would hardly think a month's ablution enough to cleanse him from its
impurities, were he once to enter it; and depend upon it, Mr. Bingley
never stirs without him."

"So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does not Jane
correspond with his sister? _She_ will not be able to help calling."

"She will drop the acquaintance entirely."

But in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to place this
point, as well as the still more interesting one of Bingley's being
withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude on the subject which
convinced her, on examination, that she did not consider it entirely
hopeless. It was possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that
his affection might be reanimated, and the influence of his friends
successfully combated by the more natural influence of Jane's
attractions.

Miss Bennet accepted her aunt's invitation with pleasure; and the
Bingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the same time, than as she
hoped by Caroline's not living in the same house with her brother,
she might occasionally spend a morning with her, without any danger of
seeing him.

The Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the Phillipses,
the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its
engagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment
of her brother and sister, that they did not once sit down to a family
dinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always
made part of it--of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and
on these occasions, Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth's
warm commendation, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing them,
from what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their preference
of each other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy; and
she resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before she left
Hertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of encouraging such
an attachment.

To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure,
unconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago,
before her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very
part of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many
acquaintances in common; and though Wickham had been little there since
the death of Darcy's father, it was yet in his power to give her fresher
intelligence of her former friends than she had been in the way of
procuring.

Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by
character perfectly well. Here consequently was an inexhaustible subject
of discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberley with the minute
description which Wickham could give, and in bestowing her tribute of
praise on the character of its late possessor, she was delighting both
him and herself. On being made acquainted with the present Mr. Darcy's
treatment of him, she tried to remember some of that gentleman's
reputed disposition when quite a lad which might agree with it, and
was confident at last that she recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam
Darcy formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured boy.


Chapter 26


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

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

"My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed."

"Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise."

"Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of
myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I
can prevent it."

"Elizabeth, you are not serious now."

"I beg your pardon, I will try again. At present I am not in love with
Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison,
the most agreeable man I ever saw--and if he becomes really attached to
me--I believe it will be better that he should not. I see the imprudence
of it. Oh! _that_ abominable Mr. Darcy! My father's opinion of me does
me the greatest honour, and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My
father, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I
should be very sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy; but
since we see every day that where there is affection, young people
are seldom withheld by immediate want of fortune from entering into
engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many
of my fellow-creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that it
would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not
to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first
object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short,
I will do my best."

"Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so very
often. At least, you should not _remind_ your mother of inviting him."

"As I did the other day," said Elizabeth with a conscious smile: "very
true, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do not imagine
that he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been
so frequently invited this week. You know my mother's ideas as to the
necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my
honour, I will try to do what I think to be the wisest; and now I hope
you are satisfied."

Her aunt assured her that she was, and Elizabeth having thanked her for
the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice
being given on such a point, without being resented.

Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted
by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode with the Lucases,
his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was
now fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think
it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured tone, that
she "_wished_ they might be happy." Thursday was to be the wedding day,
and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she
rose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother's ungracious and
reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her
out of the room. As they went downstairs together, Charlotte said:

"I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza."

"_That_ you certainly shall."

"And I have another favour to ask you. Will you come and see me?"

"We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire."

"I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to
come to Hunsford."

Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the
visit.

"My father and Maria are coming to me in March," added Charlotte, "and I
hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as
welcome as either of them."

The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from
the church door, and everybody had as much to say, or to hear, on
the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their
correspondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that
it should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never
address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over,
and though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the
sake of what had been, rather than what was. Charlotte's first letters
were received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be
curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would
like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce herself to
be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte
expressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She
wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing
which she could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and
roads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine's behaviour was most
friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins's picture of Hunsford and
Rosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait
for her own visit there to know the rest.

Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce their
safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped it
would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys.

Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience
generally is. Jane had been a week in town without either seeing or
hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that
her last letter to her friend from Longbourn had by some accident been
lost.

"My aunt," she continued, "is going to-morrow into that part of the
town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor Street."

She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley.
"I did not think Caroline in spirits," were her words, "but she was very
glad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming
to London. I was right, therefore, my last letter had never reached
her. I inquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much
engaged with Mr. Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that
Miss Darcy was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was
not long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall
see them soon here."

Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her that
accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister's being in town.

Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to
persuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be
blind to Miss Bingley's inattention. After waiting at home every morning
for a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the
visitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet more,
the alteration of her manner would allow Jane to deceive herself no
longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister will
prove what she felt.

"My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in her
better judgement, at my expense, when I confess myself to have been
entirely deceived in Miss Bingley's regard for me. But, my dear sister,
though the event has proved you right, do not think me obstinate if I
still assert that, considering what her behaviour was, my confidence was
as natural as your suspicion. I do not at all comprehend her reason for
wishing to be intimate with me; but if the same circumstances were to
happen again, I am sure I should be deceived again. Caroline did not
return my visit till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I
receive in the meantime. When she did come, it was very evident that
she had no pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal apology, for not
calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and was
in every respect so altered a creature, that when she went away I was
perfectly resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity,
though I cannot help blaming her. She was very wrong in singling me out
as she did; I can safely say that every advance to intimacy began on
her side. But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been acting
wrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for her brother is the
cause of it. I need not explain myself farther; and though _we_ know
this anxiety to be quite needless, yet if she feels it, it will easily
account for her behaviour to me; and so deservedly dear as he is to
his sister, whatever anxiety she must feel on his behalf is natural and
amiable. I cannot but wonder, however, at her having any such fears now,
because, if he had at all cared about me, we must have met, long ago.
He knows of my being in town, I am certain, from something she said
herself; and yet it would seem, by her manner of talking, as if she
wanted to persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Darcy. I
cannot understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should
be almost tempted to say that there is a strong appearance of duplicity
in all this. But I will endeavour to banish every painful thought,
and think only of what will make me happy--your affection, and the
invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from you very
soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never returning to Netherfield
again, of giving up the house, but not with any certainty. We had better
not mention it. I am extremely glad that you have such pleasant accounts
from our friends at Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir William and
Maria. I am sure you will be very comfortable there.--Yours, etc."

This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned as she
considered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister at least.
All expectation from the brother was now absolutely over. She would not
even wish for a renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on
every review of it; and as a punishment for him, as well as a possible
advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr.
Darcy's sister, as by Wickham's account, she would make him abundantly
regret what he had thrown away.

Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise
concerning that gentleman, and required information; and Elizabeth
had such to send as might rather give contentment to her aunt than to
herself. His apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over,
he was the admirer of some one else. Elizabeth was watchful enough to
see it all, but she could see it and write of it without material pain.
Her heart had been but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied
with believing that _she_ would have been his only choice, had fortune
permitted it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most
remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering himself
agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in this case than
in Charlotte's, did not quarrel with him for his wish of independence.
Nothing, on the contrary, could be more natural; and while able to
suppose that it cost him a few struggles to relinquish her, she was
ready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very
sincerely wish him happy.

All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating the
circumstances, she thus went on: "I am now convinced, my dear aunt, that
I have never been much in love; for had I really experienced that pure
and elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name, and
wish him all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only cordial
towards _him_; they are even impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find
out that I hate her at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to
think her a very good sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My
watchfulness has been effectual; and though I certainly should be a more
interesting object to all my acquaintances were I distractedly in love
with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance.
Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly. Kitty and Lydia take
his defection much more to heart than I do. They are young in the
ways of the world, and not yet open to the mortifying conviction that
handsome young men must have something to live on as well as the plain."


Chapter 27


With no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise
diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and
sometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take
Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of
going thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on the plan
and she gradually learned to consider it herself with greater pleasure
as well as greater certainty. Absence had increased her desire of seeing
Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There
was novelty in the scheme, and as, with such a mother and such
uncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change
was not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would moreover give her
a peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have
been very sorry for any delay. Everything, however, went on smoothly,
and was finally settled according to Charlotte's first sketch. She was
to accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement
of spending a night in London was added in time, and the plan became
perfect as plan could be.

The only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss her,
and who, when it came to the point, so little liked her going, that he
told her to write to him, and almost promised to answer her letter.

The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on
his side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that
Elizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the
first to listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner
of bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of
what she was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their
opinion of her--their opinion of everybody--would always coincide, there
was a solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her to
him with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced that,
whether married or single, he must always be her model of the amiable
and pleasing.

Her fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her
think him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a
good-humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say
that could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much
delight as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but
she had known Sir William's too long. He could tell her nothing new of
the wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were
worn out, like his information.

It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early
as to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner's
door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival; when
they entered the passage she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth,
looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and
lovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls,
whose eagerness for their cousin's appearance would not allow them to
wait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen
her for a twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and
kindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and
shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres.

Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first object was her
sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to
her minute inquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her
spirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however,
to hope that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the
particulars also of Miss Bingley's visit in Gracechurch Street, and
repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and
herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the
acquaintance.

Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham's desertion, and
complimented her on bearing it so well.

"But my dear Elizabeth," she added, "what sort of girl is Miss King? I
should be sorry to think our friend mercenary."

"Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs,
between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end,
and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me,
because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get
a girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is
mercenary."

"If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know
what to think."

"She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her."

"But he paid her not the smallest attention till her grandfather's death
made her mistress of this fortune."

"No--why should he? If it were not allowable for him to gain _my_
affections because I had no money, what occasion could there be for
making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally
poor?"

"But there seems an indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her
so soon after this event."

"A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant
decorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does not object to it,
why should _we_?"

"_Her_ not objecting does not justify _him_. It only shows her being
deficient in something herself--sense or feeling."

"Well," cried Elizabeth, "have it as you choose. _He_ shall be
mercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish."

"No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry, you know,
to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire."

"Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in
Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not
much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow
where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has
neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones
worth knowing, after all."

"Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment."

Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the
unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in
a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.

"We have not determined how far it shall carry us," said Mrs. Gardiner,
"but, perhaps, to the Lakes."

No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her
acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. "Oh, my dear,
dear aunt," she rapturously cried, "what delight! what felicity! You
give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What
are young men to rocks and mountains? Oh! what hours of transport
we shall spend! And when we _do_ return, it shall not be like other
travellers, without being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We
_will_ know where we have gone--we _will_ recollect what we have seen.
Lakes, mountains, and rivers shall not be jumbled together in our
imaginations; nor when we attempt to describe any particular scene,
will we begin quarreling about its relative situation. Let _our_
first effusions be less insupportable than those of the generality of
travellers."


Chapter 28


Every object in the next day's journey was new and interesting to
Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state of enjoyment; for she had
seen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health,
and the prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight.

When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was in
search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view.
The palings of Rosings Park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth
smiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants.

At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the
road, the house standing in it, the green pales, and the laurel hedge,
everything declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte
appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate which
led by a short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of
the whole party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing
at the sight of each other. Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the
liveliest pleasure, and Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with
coming when she found herself so affectionately received. She saw
instantly that her cousin's manners were not altered by his marriage;
his formal civility was just what it had been, and he detained her some
minutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his inquiries after all her
family. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing out the
neatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as soon as they
were in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time, with ostentatious
formality to his humble abode, and punctually repeated all his wife's
offers of refreshment.

Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help
in fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its
aspect and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her,
as if wishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But
though everything seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to
gratify him by any sigh of repentance, and rather looked with wonder at
her friend that she could have so cheerful an air with such a companion.
When Mr. Collins said anything of which his wife might reasonably be
ashamed, which certainly was not unseldom, she involuntarily turned her
eye on Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a faint blush; but
in general Charlotte wisely did not hear. After sitting long enough to
admire every article of furniture in the room, from the sideboard to
the fender, to give an account of their journey, and of all that had
happened in London, Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the
garden, which was large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of
which he attended himself. To work in this garden was one of his most
respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of countenance
with which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and
owned she encouraged it as much as possible. Here, leading the way
through every walk and cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an
interval to utter the praises he asked for, every view was pointed out
with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind. He could number the
fields in every direction, and could tell how many trees there were in
the most distant clump. But of all the views which his garden, or which
the country or kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with the
prospect of Rosings, afforded by an opening in the trees that bordered
the park nearly opposite the front of his house. It was a handsome
modern building, well situated on rising ground.

From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two meadows;
but the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white
frost, turned back; and while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte
took her sister and friend over the house, extremely well pleased,
probably, to have the opportunity of showing it without her husband's
help. It was rather small, but well built and convenient; and everything
was fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency of which
Elizabeth gave Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be
forgotten, there was really an air of great comfort throughout, and by
Charlotte's evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must be often
forgotten.

She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It
was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining
in, observed:

"Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine
de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will
be delighted with her. She is all affability and condescension, and I
doubt not but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice
when service is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying she
will include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she
honours us during your stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is
charming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed
to walk home. Her ladyship's carriage is regularly ordered for us. I
_should_ say, one of her ladyship's carriages, for she has several."

"Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed," added
Charlotte, "and a most attentive neighbour."

"Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of
woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference."

The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news,
and telling again what had already been written; and when it closed,
Elizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to meditate upon
Charlotte's degree of contentment, to understand her address in guiding,
and composure in bearing with, her husband, and to acknowledge that it
was all done very well. She had also to anticipate how her visit
would pass, the quiet tenor of their usual employments, the vexatious
interruptions of Mr. Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse with
Rosings. A lively imagination soon settled it all.

About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready
for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in
confusion; and, after listening a moment, she heard somebody running
up stairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after her. She opened
the door and met Maria in the landing place, who, breathless with
agitation, cried out--

"Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the dining-room, for
there is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make
haste, and come down this moment."

Elizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing more,
and down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the lane, in
quest of this wonder; It was two ladies stopping in a low phaeton at the
garden gate.

"And is this all?" cried Elizabeth. "I expected at least that the pigs
were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her
daughter."

"La! my dear," said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, "it is not
Lady Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them;
the other is Miss de Bourgh. Only look at her. She is quite a little
creature. Who would have thought that she could be so thin and small?"

"She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all this wind.
Why does she not come in?"

"Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours
when Miss de Bourgh comes in."

"I like her appearance," said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas. "She
looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well. She will
make him a very proper wife."

Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in conversation
with the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth's high diversion, was
stationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the greatness
before him, and constantly bowing whenever Miss de Bourgh looked that
way.

At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on, and
the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw the two
girls than he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, which
Charlotte explained by letting them know that the whole party was asked
to dine at Rosings the next day.


Chapter 29


Mr. Collins's triumph, in consequence of this invitation, was complete.
The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to his wondering
visitors, and of letting them see her civility towards himself and his
wife, was exactly what he had wished for; and that an opportunity
of doing it should be given so soon, was such an instance of Lady
Catherine's condescension, as he knew not how to admire enough.

"I confess," said he, "that I should not have been at all surprised by
her ladyship's asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening at
Rosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that it
would happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this? Who
could have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine there
(an invitation, moreover, including the whole party) so immediately
after your arrival!"

"I am the less surprised at what has happened," replied Sir William,
"from that knowledge of what the manners of the great really are, which
my situation in life has allowed me to acquire. About the court, such
instances of elegant breeding are not uncommon."

Scarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but their
visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in what
they were to expect, that the sight of such rooms, so many servants, and
so splendid a dinner, might not wholly overpower them.

When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to Elizabeth--

"Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady
Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us which
becomes herself and her daughter. I would advise you merely to put on
whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest--there is no occasion
for anything more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you
for being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank
preserved."

While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different
doors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much
objected to be kept waiting for her dinner. Such formidable accounts of
her ladyship, and her manner of living, quite frightened Maria Lucas
who had been little used to company, and she looked forward to her
introduction at Rosings with as much apprehension as her father had done
to his presentation at St. James's.

As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a
mile across the park. Every park has its beauty and its prospects; and
Elizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she could not be in such
raptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene to inspire, and was but
slightly affected by his enumeration of the windows in front of the
house, and his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally
cost Sir Lewis de Bourgh.

When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria's alarm was every
moment increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly calm.
Elizabeth's courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing of Lady
Catherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary talents or
miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money or rank she thought
she could witness without trepidation.

From the entrance-hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a
rapturous air, the fine proportion and the finished ornaments, they
followed the servants through an ante-chamber, to the room where Lady
Catherine, her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. Her ladyship,
with great condescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins had
settled it with her husband that the office of introduction should
be hers, it was performed in a proper manner, without any of those
apologies and thanks which he would have thought necessary.

In spite of having been at St. James's Sir William was so completely
awed by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage
enough to make a very low bow, and take his seat without saying a word;
and his daughter, frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge
of her chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth found herself
quite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her
composedly. Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked
features, which might once have been handsome. Her air was not
conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them such as to make her
visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered formidable by
silence; but whatever she said was spoken in so authoritative a tone,
as marked her self-importance, and brought Mr. Wickham immediately to
Elizabeth's mind; and from the observation of the day altogether, she
believed Lady Catherine to be exactly what he represented.

When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment
she soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the
daughter, she could almost have joined in Maria's astonishment at her
being so thin and so small. There was neither in figure nor face any
likeness between the ladies. Miss de Bourgh was pale and sickly; her
features, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very
little, except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance
there was nothing remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening
to what she said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before
her eyes.

After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows to
admire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point out its beauties,
and Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much better worth
looking at in the summer.

The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants and
all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised; and, as he had
likewise foretold, he took his seat at the bottom of the table, by her
ladyship's desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish
nothing greater. He carved, and ate, and praised with delighted
alacrity; and every dish was commended, first by him and then by Sir
William, who was now enough recovered to echo whatever his son-in-law
said, in a manner which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear.
But Lady Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and
gave most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the table proved
a novelty to them. The party did not supply much conversation. Elizabeth
was ready to speak whenever there was an opening, but she was seated
between Charlotte and Miss de Bourgh--the former of whom was engaged in
listening to Lady Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all
dinner-time. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little
Miss de Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish, and fearing
she was indisposed. Maria thought speaking out of the question, and the
gentlemen did nothing but eat and admire.

When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to
be done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any
intermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every
subject in so decisive a manner, as proved that she was not used to
have her judgement controverted. She inquired into Charlotte's domestic
concerns familiarly and minutely, gave her a great deal of advice as
to the management of them all; told her how everything ought to be
regulated in so small a family as hers, and instructed her as to the
care of her cows and her poultry. Elizabeth found that nothing was
beneath this great lady's attention, which could furnish her with an
occasion of dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse
with Mrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and
Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew
the least, and who she observed to Mrs. Collins was a very genteel,
pretty kind of girl. She asked her, at different times, how many sisters
she had, whether they were older or younger than herself, whether any of
them were likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where they
had been educated, what carriage her father kept, and what had been
her mother's maiden name? Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of
her questions but answered them very composedly. Lady Catherine then
observed,

"Your father's estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think. For your
sake," turning to Charlotte, "I am glad of it; but otherwise I see no
occasion for entailing estates from the female line. It was not thought
necessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh's family. Do you play and sing, Miss
Bennet?"

"A little."

"Oh! then--some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our
instrument is a capital one, probably superior to----You shall try it
some day. Do your sisters play and sing?"

"One of them does."

"Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned. The Miss
Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an income as yours. Do
you draw?"

"No, not at all."

"What, none of you?"

"Not one."

"That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother
should have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters."

"My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates London."

"Has your governess left you?"

"We never had any governess."

"No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home
without a governess! I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must
have been quite a slave to your education."

Elizabeth could hardly help smiling as she assured her that had not been
the case.

"Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess, you
must have been neglected."

"Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as
wished to learn never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to
read, and had all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be
idle, certainly might."

"Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent, and if I had
known your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage
one. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady
and regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is
wonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that
way. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces
of Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and
it was but the other day that I recommended another young person,
who was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite
delighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalf's
calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. 'Lady
Catherine,' said she, 'you have given me a treasure.' Are any of your
younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?"

"Yes, ma'am, all."

"All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the second. The
younger ones out before the elder ones are married! Your younger sisters
must be very young?"

"Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps _she_ is full young to be
much in company. But really, ma'am, I think it would be very hard upon
younger sisters, that they should not have their share of society and
amusement, because the elder may not have the means or inclination to
marry early. The last-born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth
at the first. And to be kept back on _such_ a motive! I think it would
not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind."

"Upon my word," said her ladyship, "you give your opinion very decidedly
for so young a person. Pray, what is your age?"

"With three younger sisters grown up," replied Elizabeth, smiling, "your
ladyship can hardly expect me to own it."

Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer;
and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever
dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.

"You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, therefore you need not
conceal your age."

"I am not one-and-twenty."

When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the card-tables
were placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat
down to quadrille; and as Miss de Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the
two girls had the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her
party. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was
uttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson
expressed her fears of Miss de Bourgh's being too hot or too cold, or
having too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the
other table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking--stating the mistakes
of the three others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins
was employed in agreeing to everything her ladyship said, thanking her
for every fish he won, and apologising if he thought he won too many.
Sir William did not say much. He was storing his memory with anecdotes
and noble names.

When Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they chose,
the tables were broken up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins,
gratefully accepted and immediately ordered. The party then gathered
round the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they were
to have on the morrow. From these instructions they were summoned by
the arrival of the coach; and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr.
Collins's side and as many bows on Sir William's they departed. As soon
as they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her cousin
to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, for
Charlotte's sake, she made more favourable than it really was. But her
commendation, though costing her some trouble, could by no means satisfy
Mr. Collins, and he was very soon obliged to take her ladyship's praise
into his own hands.


Chapter 30


Sir William stayed only a week at Hunsford, but his visit was long
enough to convince him of his daughter's being most comfortably settled,
and of her possessing such a husband and such a neighbour as were not
often met with. While Sir William was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his
morning to driving him out in his gig, and showing him the country; but
when he went away, the whole family returned to their usual employments,
and Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her
cousin by the alteration, for the chief of the time between breakfast
and dinner was now passed by him either at work in the garden or in
reading and writing, and looking out of the window in his own book-room,
which fronted the road. The room in which the ladies sat was backwards.
Elizabeth had at first rather wondered that Charlotte should not prefer
the dining-parlour for common use; it was a better sized room, and had a
more pleasant aspect; but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent
reason for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been
much less in his own apartment, had they sat in one equally lively; and
she gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement.

From the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and
were indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what carriages went
along, and how often especially Miss de Bourgh drove by in her phaeton,
which he never failed coming to inform them of, though it happened
almost every day. She not unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and
had a few minutes' conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever
prevailed upon to get out.

Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to Rosings, and
not many in which his wife did not think it necessary to go likewise;
and till Elizabeth recollected that there might be other family livings
to be disposed of, she could not understand the sacrifice of so many
hours. Now and then they were honoured with a call from her ladyship,
and nothing escaped her observation that was passing in the room during
these visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work,
and advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement
of the furniture; or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she
accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding
out that Mrs. Collins's joints of meat were too large for her family.

Elizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady was not in
commission of the peace of the county, she was a most active magistrate
in her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were carried to her
by Mr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to
be quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she sallied forth into the
village to settle their differences, silence their complaints, and scold
them into harmony and plenty.

The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week;
and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being only one
card-table in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart
of the first. Their other engagements were few, as the style of living
in the neighbourhood in general was beyond Mr. Collins's reach. This,
however, was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the whole she spent her time
comfortably enough; there were half-hours of pleasant conversation with
Charlotte, and the weather was so fine for the time of year that she had
often great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where she
frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine, was
along the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was
a nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but herself, and
where she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine's curiosity.

In this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away.
Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to bring an
addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be
important. Elizabeth had heard soon after her arrival that Mr. Darcy was
expected there in the course of a few weeks, and though there were not
many of her acquaintances whom she did not prefer, his coming would
furnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and
she might be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley's designs on him
were, by his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently
destined by Lady Catherine, who talked of his coming with the greatest
satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration, and
seemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen by
Miss Lucas and herself.

His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was walking
the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane,
in order to have the earliest assurance of it, and after making his
bow as the carriage turned into the Park, hurried home with the great
intelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his
respects. There were two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for
Mr. Darcy had brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of
his uncle Lord ----, and, to the great surprise of all the party, when
Mr. Collins returned, the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte had seen
them from her husband's room, crossing the road, and immediately running
into the other, told the girls what an honour they might expect, adding:

"I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy would
never have come so soon to wait upon me."

Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment,
before their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly
afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam,
who led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and
address most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been
used to look in Hertfordshire--paid his compliments, with his usual
reserve, to Mrs. Collins, and whatever might be his feelings toward her
friend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely
curtseyed to him without saying a word.

Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the
readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but
his cousin, after having addressed a slight observation on the house and
garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without speaking to anybody.
At length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to inquire of
Elizabeth after the health of her family. She answered him in the usual
way, and after a moment's pause, added:

"My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never
happened to see her there?"

She was perfectly sensible that he never had; but she wished to see
whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed between
the Bingleys and Jane, and she thought he looked a little confused as he
answered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The
subject was pursued no farther, and the gentlemen soon afterwards went
away.


Chapter 31


Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners were very much admired at the Parsonage,
and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasures
of their engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they
received any invitation thither--for while there were visitors in the
house, they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day,
almost a week after the gentlemen's arrival, that they were honoured by
such an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to
come there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very little
of Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had called at the
Parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr. Darcy they had seen
only at church.

The invitation was accepted of course, and at a proper hour they joined
the party in Lady Catherine's drawing-room. Her ladyship received
them civilly, but it was plain that their company was by no means so
acceptable as when she could get nobody else; and she was, in fact,
almost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them, especially to Darcy,
much more than to any other person in the room.

Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them; anything was a
welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins's pretty friend had
moreover caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by her, and
talked so agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying
at home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so
well entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much
spirit and flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself,
as well as of Mr. Darcy. _His_ eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned
towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship, after a
while, shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not
scruple to call out:

"What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking
of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is."

"We are speaking of music, madam," said he, when no longer able to avoid
a reply.

"Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I
must have my share in the conversation if you are speaking of music.
There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment
of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt,
I should have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her health
had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have performed
delightfully. How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?"

Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister's proficiency.

"I am very glad to hear such a good account of her," said Lady
Catherine; "and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel
if she does not practice a good deal."

"I assure you, madam," he replied, "that she does not need such advice.
She practises very constantly."

"So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write
to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often
tell young ladies that no excellence in music is to be acquired without
constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that she
will never play really well unless she practises more; and though Mrs.
Collins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told
her, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs.
Jenkinson's room. She would be in nobody's way, you know, in that part
of the house."

Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt's ill-breeding, and made
no answer.

When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having
promised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the instrument. He
drew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then
talked, as before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away
from her, and making with his usual deliberation towards the pianoforte
stationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer's
countenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first
convenient pause, turned to him with an arch smile, and said:

"You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear
me? I will not be alarmed though your sister _does_ play so well. There
is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the
will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate
me."

"I shall not say you are mistaken," he replied, "because you could not
really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have
had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find
great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are
not your own."

Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to
Colonel Fitzwilliam, "Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of
me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky
in meeting with a person so able to expose my real character, in a part
of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of
credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention all
that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire--and, give me leave to
say, very impolitic too--for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such
things may come out as will shock your relations to hear."

"I am not afraid of you," said he, smilingly.

"Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of," cried Colonel
Fitzwilliam. "I should like to know how he behaves among strangers."

"You shall hear then--but prepare yourself for something very dreadful.
The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know,
was at a ball--and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced
only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain
knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a
partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact."

"I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly
beyond my own party."

"True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well, Colonel
Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders."

"Perhaps," said Darcy, "I should have judged better, had I sought an
introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers."

"Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?" said Elizabeth, still
addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. "Shall we ask him why a man of sense and
education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend
himself to strangers?"

"I can answer your question," said Fitzwilliam, "without applying to
him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble."

"I certainly have not the talent which some people possess," said Darcy,
"of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot
catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their
concerns, as I often see done."

"My fingers," said Elizabeth, "do not move over this instrument in the
masterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same
force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I
have always supposed it to be my own fault--because I will not take the
trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe _my_ fingers as
capable as any other woman's of superior execution."

Darcy smiled and said, "You are perfectly right. You have employed your
time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can
think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers."

Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know
what they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began playing again.
Lady Catherine approached, and, after listening for a few minutes, said
to Darcy:

"Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss if she practised more, and
could have the advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion
of fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne's. Anne would have
been a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn."

Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he assented to his
cousin's praise; but neither at that moment nor at any other could she
discern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his behaviour to Miss
de Bourgh she derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he might have
been just as likely to marry _her_, had she been his relation.

Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth's performance, mixing
with them many instructions on execution and taste. Elizabeth received
them with all the forbearance of civility, and, at the request of the
gentlemen, remained at the instrument till her ladyship's carriage was
ready to take them all home.


Chapter 32


Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to Jane
while Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village,
when she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain signal of a
visitor. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to
be Lady Catherine, and under that apprehension was putting away her
half-finished letter that she might escape all impertinent questions,
when the door opened, and, to her very great surprise, Mr. Darcy, and
Mr. Darcy only, entered the room.

He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for his
intrusion by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies were
to be within.

They then sat down, and when her inquiries after Rosings were made,
seemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely
necessary, therefore, to think of something, and in this emergence
recollecting _when_ she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and
feeling curious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty
departure, she observed:

"How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy!
It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you
all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day
before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?"

"Perfectly so, I thank you."

She found that she was to receive no other answer, and, after a short
pause added:

"I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever
returning to Netherfield again?"

"I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend
very little of his time there in the future. He has many friends, and
is at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually
increasing."

"If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for
the neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we
might possibly get a settled family there. But, perhaps, Mr. Bingley did
not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as
for his own, and we must expect him to keep it or quit it on the same
principle."

"I should not be surprised," said Darcy, "if he were to give it up as
soon as any eligible purchase offers."

Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his
friend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the
trouble of finding a subject to him.

He took the hint, and soon began with, "This seems a very comfortable
house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr.
Collins first came to Hunsford."

"I believe she did--and I am sure she could not have bestowed her
kindness on a more grateful object."

"Mr. Collins appears to be very fortunate in his choice of a wife."

"Yes, indeed, his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one
of the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made
him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding--though
I am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the
wisest thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and in a
prudential light it is certainly a very good match for her."

"It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so easy a
distance of her own family and friends."

"An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles."

"And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day's
journey. Yes, I call it a _very_ easy distance."

"I should never have considered the distance as one of the _advantages_
of the match," cried Elizabeth. "I should never have said Mrs. Collins
was settled _near_ her family."

"It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond
the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far."

As he spoke there was a sort of smile which Elizabeth fancied she
understood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and
Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered:

"I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her
family. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many
varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expenses of
travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the
case _here_. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not
such a one as will allow of frequent journeys--and I am persuaded my
friend would not call herself _near_ her family under less than _half_
the present distance."

Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, "_You_ cannot
have a right to such very strong local attachment. _You_ cannot have
been always at Longbourn."

Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of
feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and
glancing over it, said, in a colder voice:

"Are you pleased with Kent?"

A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either side
calm and concise--and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte
and her sister, just returned from her walk. The tete-a-tete surprised
them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which had occasioned his intruding
on Miss Bennet, and after sitting a few minutes longer without saying
much to anybody, went away.

"What can be the meaning of this?" said Charlotte, as soon as he was
gone. "My dear, Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he would never
have called us in this familiar way."

But when Elizabeth told of his silence; it did not seem very likely,
even to Charlotte's wishes, to be the case; and after various
conjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from
the difficulty of finding anything to do, which was the more probable
from the time of year. All field sports were over. Within doors there
was Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard-table, but gentlemen cannot
always be within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the
pleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the
two cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither
almost every day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes
separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their
aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he
had pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course recommended
him still more; and Elizabeth was reminded by her own satisfaction in
being with him, as well as by his evident admiration of her, of her
former favourite George Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw
there was less captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners,
she believed he might have the best informed mind.

But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage, it was more difficult
to understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there
ten minutes together without opening his lips; and when he did speak,
it seemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice--a sacrifice
to propriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really
animated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel
Fitzwilliam's occasionally laughing at his stupidity, proved that he was
generally different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told
her; and as she would liked to have believed this change the effect
of love, and the object of that love her friend Eliza, she set herself
seriously to work to find it out. She watched him whenever they were at
Rosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success. He
certainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that
look was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often
doubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it
seemed nothing but absence of mind.

She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his
being partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs.
Collins did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of
raising expectations which might only end in disappointment; for in her
opinion it admitted not of a doubt, that all her friend's dislike would
vanish, if she could suppose him to be in her power.


In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying
Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison the most pleasant man; he
certainly admired her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but,
to counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had considerable patronage
in the church, and his cousin could have none at all.


Chapter 33


More than once did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the park,
unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the
mischance that should bring him where no one else was brought, and, to
prevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him at first that
it was a favourite haunt of hers. How it could occur a second time,
therefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and even a third. It seemed like
wilful ill-nature, or a voluntary penance, for on these occasions it was
not merely a few formal inquiries and an awkward pause and then away,
but he actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He
never said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking
or of listening much; but it struck her in the course of their third
rencontre that he was asking some odd unconnected questions--about
her pleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her
opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins's happiness; and that in speaking of
Rosings and her not perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to
expect that whenever she came into Kent again she would be staying
_there_ too. His words seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel
Fitzwilliam in his thoughts? She supposed, if he meant anything, he must
mean an allusion to what might arise in that quarter. It distressed
her a little, and she was quite glad to find herself at the gate in the
pales opposite the Parsonage.

She was engaged one day as she walked, in perusing Jane's last letter,
and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not written in
spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy, she saw
on looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her. Putting away the
letter immediately and forcing a smile, she said:

"I did not know before that you ever walked this way."

"I have been making the tour of the park," he replied, "as I generally
do every year, and intend to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are
you going much farther?"

"No, I should have turned in a moment."

And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage
together.

"Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?" said she.

"Yes--if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He
arranges the business just as he pleases."

"And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least
pleasure in the great power of choice. I do not know anybody who seems
more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy."

"He likes to have his own way very well," replied Colonel Fitzwilliam.
"But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it
than many others, because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak
feelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and
dependence."

"In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of
either. Now seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and
dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going
wherever you chose, or procuring anything you had a fancy for?"

"These are home questions--and perhaps I cannot say that I have
experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater
weight, I may suffer from want of money. Younger sons cannot marry where
they like."

"Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often
do."

"Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not many
in my rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to
money."

"Is this," thought Elizabeth, "meant for me?" and she coloured at the
idea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, "And pray, what
is the usual price of an earl's younger son? Unless the elder brother is
very sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds."

He answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt
a silence which might make him fancy her affected with what had passed,
she soon afterwards said:

"I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of
having someone at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a
lasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps, his sister does as well
for the present, and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he
likes with her."

"No," said Colonel Fitzwilliam, "that is an advantage which he must
divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy."

"Are you indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make? Does your
charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes a
little difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she
may like to have her own way."

As she spoke she observed him looking at her earnestly; and the manner
in which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to
give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other
got pretty near the truth. She directly replied:

"You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare
say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a
very great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and
Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them."

"I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentlemanlike man--he
is a great friend of Darcy's."

"Oh! yes," said Elizabeth drily; "Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr.
Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him."

"Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ take care of him in
those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in
our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to
him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that
Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture."

"What is it you mean?"

"It is a circumstance which Darcy could not wish to be generally known,
because if it were to get round to the lady's family, it would be an
unpleasant thing."

"You may depend upon my not mentioning it."

"And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be
Bingley. What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated himself
on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most
imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other
particulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing
him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from
knowing them to have been together the whole of last summer."

"Did Mr. Darcy give you reasons for this interference?"

"I understood that there were some very strong objections against the
lady."

"And what arts did he use to separate them?"

"He did not talk to me of his own arts," said Fitzwilliam, smiling. "He
only told me what I have now told you."

Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with
indignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she
was so thoughtful.

"I am thinking of what you have been telling me," said she. "Your
cousin's conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?"

"You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?"

"I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his
friend's inclination, or why, upon his own judgement alone, he was to
determine and direct in what manner his friend was to be happy.
But," she continued, recollecting herself, "as we know none of the
particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed
that there was much affection in the case."

"That is not an unnatural surmise," said Fitzwilliam, "but it is a
lessening of the honour of my cousin's triumph very sadly."

This was spoken jestingly; but it appeared to her so just a picture
of Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an answer, and
therefore, abruptly changing the conversation talked on indifferent
matters until they reached the Parsonage. There, shut into her own room,
as soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption
of all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other
people could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There
could not exist in the world _two_ men over whom Mr. Darcy could have
such boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures
taken to separate Bingley and Jane she had never doubted; but she had
always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and arrangement
of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him, _he_ was
the cause, his pride and caprice were the cause, of all that Jane had
suffered, and still continued to suffer. He had ruined for a while
every hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart in the
world; and no one could say how lasting an evil he might have inflicted.

"There were some very strong objections against the lady," were Colonel
Fitzwilliam's words; and those strong objections probably were, her
having one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in
business in London.

"To Jane herself," she exclaimed, "there could be no possibility of
objection; all loveliness and goodness as she is!--her understanding
excellent, her mind improved, and her manners captivating. Neither
could anything be urged against my father, who, though with some
peculiarities, has abilities Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain, and
respectability which he will probably never reach." When she thought of
her mother, her confidence gave way a little; but she would not allow
that any objections _there_ had material weight with Mr. Darcy, whose
pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from the want of
importance in his friend's connections, than from their want of sense;
and she was quite decided, at last, that he had been partly governed
by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of retaining Mr.
Bingley for his sister.

The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned, brought on a
headache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening, that, added to
her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her
cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins,
seeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go and as much
as possible prevented her husband from pressing her; but Mr. Collins
could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine's being rather
displeased by her staying at home.


Chapter 34


When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself
as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the
examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her
being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any
revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering.
But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that
cheerfulness which had been used to characterise her style, and which,
proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself and kindly
disposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth
noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an
attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's
shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict, gave her
a keener sense of her sister's sufferings. It was some consolation
to think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the
next--and, a still greater, that in less than a fortnight she should
herself be with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of
her spirits, by all that affection could do.

She could not think of Darcy's leaving Kent without remembering that
his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear
that he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not
mean to be unhappy about him.

While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the
door-bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its
being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in
the evening, and might now come to inquire particularly after her.
But this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently
affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the
room. In an hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her
health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better.
She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and
then getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but
said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her
in an agitated manner, and thus began:

"In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be
repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love
you."

Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured,
doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement;
and the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for her,
immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides
those of the heart to be detailed; and he was not more eloquent on the
subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority--of
its being a degradation--of the family obstacles which had always
opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to
the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his
suit.

In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to
the compliment of such a man's affection, and though her intentions did
not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to
receive; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she
lost all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to
answer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with
representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite
of all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with
expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of
his hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt
of a favourable answer. He _spoke_ of apprehension and anxiety, but
his countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could
only exasperate farther, and, when he ceased, the colour rose into her
cheeks, and she said:

"In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to
express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however
unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should
be felt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude, I would now thank you. But I
cannot--I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly
bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to
anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be
of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented
the acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in
overcoming it after this explanation."

Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed
on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than
surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance
of his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the
appearance of composure, and would not open his lips till he believed
himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's feelings
dreadful. At length, with a voice of forced calmness, he said:

"And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting!
I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little _endeavour_ at
civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance."

"I might as well inquire," replied she, "why with so evident a desire
of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me
against your will, against your reason, and even against your character?
Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I _was_ uncivil? But I have
other provocations. You know I have. Had not my feelings decided against
you--had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you
think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has
been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most
beloved sister?"

As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion
was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she
continued:

"I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can
excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You dare not,
you cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if not the only means
of dividing them from each other--of exposing one to the censure of the
world for caprice and instability, and the other to its derision for
disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest
kind."

She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening
with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse.
He even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.

"Can you deny that you have done it?" she repeated.

With assumed tranquillity he then replied: "I have no wish of denying
that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your
sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_ I have been
kinder than towards myself."

Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection,
but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her.

"But it is not merely this affair," she continued, "on which my dislike
is founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of you was
decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received
many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to
say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself?
or under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others?"

"You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns," said Darcy,
in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.

"Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an
interest in him?"

"His misfortunes!" repeated Darcy contemptuously; "yes, his misfortunes
have been great indeed."

"And of your infliction," cried Elizabeth with energy. "You have reduced
him to his present state of poverty--comparative poverty. You have
withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for
him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence
which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this!
and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and
ridicule."

"And this," cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room,
"is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me!
I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this
calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps," added he, stopping in
his walk, and turning towards her, "these offenses might have been
overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the
scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These
bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater
policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of
my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by
reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.
Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and
just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your
connections?--to congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose
condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?"

Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to
the utmost to speak with composure when she said:

"You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your
declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern
which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more
gentlemanlike manner."

She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued:

"You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that
would have tempted me to accept it."

Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an
expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on:

"From the very beginning--from the first moment, I may almost say--of
my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest
belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of
the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of
disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a
dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the
last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry."

"You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your
feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been.
Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best
wishes for your health and happiness."

And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him
the next moment open the front door and quit the house.

The tumult of her mind, was now painfully great. She knew not how
to support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for
half-an-hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed,
was increased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of
marriage from Mr. Darcy! That he should have been in love with her for
so many months! So much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of
all the objections which had made him prevent his friend's marrying
her sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his
own case--was almost incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired
unconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable
pride--his shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to
Jane--his unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could
not justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr.
Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon
overcame the pity which the consideration of his attachment had for
a moment excited. She continued in very agitated reflections till the
sound of Lady Catherine's carriage made her feel how unequal she was to
encounter Charlotte's observation, and hurried her away to her room.


Chapter 35


Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations
which had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the
surprise of what had happened; it was impossible to think of anything
else; and, totally indisposed for employment, she resolved, soon after
breakfast, to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding
directly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy's
sometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park,
she turned up the lane, which led farther from the turnpike-road. The
park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed one
of the gates into the ground.

After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was
tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and
look into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent had
made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the
verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk,
when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which
edged the park; he was moving that way; and, fearful of its being Mr.
Darcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now
near enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced
her name. She had turned away; but on hearing herself called, though
in a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the
gate. He had by that time reached it also, and, holding out a letter,
which she instinctively took, said, with a look of haughty composure,
"I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you.
Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?" And then, with a
slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight.

With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity,
Elizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still increasing wonder,
perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter-paper, written
quite through, in a very close hand. The envelope itself was likewise
full. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated
from Rosings, at eight o'clock in the morning, and was as follows:--

"Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension
of its containing any repetition of those sentiments or renewal of those
offers which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any
intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes
which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the
effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion,
should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written
and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand
your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I
demand it of your justice.

"Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of equal
magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was,
that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley
from your sister, and the other, that I had, in defiance of various
claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate
prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. Wilfully and
wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged
favourite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other
dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect
its exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two young
persons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could
bear no comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was last
night so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope
to be in the future secured, when the following account of my actions
and their motives has been read. If, in the explanation of them, which
is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which
may be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity
must be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd.

"I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
others, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any other young
woman in the country. But it was not till the evening of the dance
at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a serious
attachment. I had often seen him in love before. At that ball, while I
had the honour of dancing with you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir
William Lucas's accidental information, that Bingley's attentions to
your sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage.
He spoke of it as a certain event, of which the time alone could
be undecided. From that moment I observed my friend's behaviour
attentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss
Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also
watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever,
but without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced
from the evening's scrutiny, that though she received his attentions
with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of
sentiment. If _you_ have not been mistaken here, _I_ must have been
in error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter
probable. If it be so, if I have been misled by such error to inflict
pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not
scruple to assert, that the serenity of your sister's countenance and
air was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction
that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be
easily touched. That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is
certain--but I will venture to say that my investigation and decisions
are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did not believe
her to be indifferent because I wished it; I believed it on impartial
conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. My objections to the
marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have
the utmost force of passion to put aside, in my own case; the want of
connection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. But
there were other causes of repugnance; causes which, though still
existing, and existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had
myself endeavoured to forget, because they were not immediately before
me. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your
mother's family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison to that
total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by
herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your
father. Pardon me. It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern
for the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this
representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that, to
have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure,
is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your elder sister, than
it is honourable to the sense and disposition of both. I will only say
farther that from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties
was confirmed, and every inducement heightened which could have led
me before, to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy
connection. He left Netherfield for London, on the day following, as
you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning.

"The part which I acted is now to be explained. His sisters' uneasiness
had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of feeling was
soon discovered, and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in
detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in
London. We accordingly went--and there I readily engaged in the office
of pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a choice. I
described, and enforced them earnestly. But, however this remonstrance
might have staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose
that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been
seconded by the assurance that I hesitated not in giving, of your
sister's indifference. He had before believed her to return his
affection with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley has great
natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgement than on his
own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself, was
no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into
Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the
work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much. There
is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair on which I do not
reflect with satisfaction; it is that I condescended to adopt the
measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister's being in
town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley; but her
brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might have met without
ill consequence is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me
enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this
concealment, this disguise was beneath me; it is done, however, and it
was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no
other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister's feelings, it
was unknowingly done and though the motives which governed me may to
you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn
them.

"With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured
Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his
connection with my family. Of what he has _particularly_ accused me I
am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more
than one witness of undoubted veracity.

"Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many
years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good
conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to
be of service to him; and on George Wickham, who was his godson, his
kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at
school, and afterwards at Cambridge--most important assistance, as his
own father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have
been unable to give him a gentleman's education. My father was not only
fond of this young man's society, whose manners were always engaging; he
had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be
his profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is
many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different
manner. The vicious propensities--the want of principle, which he was
careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape
the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself,
and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr.
Darcy could not have. Here again I shall give you pain--to what degree
you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham
has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from
unfolding his real character--it adds even another motive.

"My excellent father died about five years ago; and his attachment to
Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he particularly
recommended it to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner
that his profession might allow--and if he took orders, desired that a
valuable family living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There
was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long
survive mine, and within half a year from these events, Mr. Wickham
wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders,
he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more
immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he
could not be benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying
law, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would
be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than believed
him to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to
his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman; the
business was therefore soon settled--he resigned all claim to assistance
in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to
receive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection
between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him
to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town I believe he chiefly
lived, but his studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free
from all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation.
For about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the
incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to
me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he assured
me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He
had found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely
resolved on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in
question--of which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was
well assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could not
have forgotten my revered father's intentions. You will hardly blame
me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every
repetition to it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of
his circumstances--and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me
to others as in his reproaches to myself. After this period every
appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But
last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.

"I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself,
and which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold
to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your
secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to
the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself.
About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment formed
for her in London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided
over it, to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by
design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him
and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and
by her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,
whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to
her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and
to consent to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her
excuse; and after stating her imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed
the knowledge of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two
before the intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the
idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as
a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and
how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings prevented
any public exposure; but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place
immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr.
Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my sister's fortune, which
is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of
revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have
been complete indeed.

"This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have
been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as
false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr.
Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he
had imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered
at. Ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning either,
detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in
your inclination.

"You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night; but
I was not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to
be revealed. For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more
particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our
near relationship and constant intimacy, and, still more, as one of
the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted
with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of _me_
should make _my_ assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by
the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be
the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some
opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the
morning. I will only add, God bless you.

"FITZWILLIAM DARCY"


Chapter 36


If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to
contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of
its contents. But such as they were, it may well be supposed how eagerly
she went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited.
Her feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did
she first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power;
and steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could have no explanation
to give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong
prejudice against everything he might say, she began his account of what
had happened at Netherfield. She read with an eagerness which hardly
left her power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing what the
next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of
the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister's insensibility she
instantly resolved to be false; and his account of the real, the worst
objections to the match, made her too angry to have any wish of doing
him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied
her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and
insolence.

But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham--when
she read with somewhat clearer attention a relation of events which,
if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which
bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself--her
feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition.
Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished
to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, "This must be false!
This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!"--and when she had
gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the
last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not
regard it, that she would never look in it again.

In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on
nothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the letter
was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she
again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and
commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence.
The account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what
he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though
she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own
words. So far each recital confirmed the other; but when she came to the
will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living
was fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was
impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the
other; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did
not err. But when she read and re-read with the closest attention, the
particulars immediately following of Wickham's resigning all pretensions
to the living, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three
thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down
the letter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be
impartiality--deliberated on the probability of each statement--but with
little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read
on; but every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had
believed it impossible that any contrivance could so represent as to
render Mr. Darcy's conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a
turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole.

The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay at
Mr. Wickham's charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could
bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his
entrance into the ----shire Militia, in which he had engaged at the
persuasion of the young man who, on meeting him accidentally in town,
had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life
nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As
to his real character, had information been in her power, she had
never felt a wish of inquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had
established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried
to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of
integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of
Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those
casual errors under which she would endeavour to class what Mr. Darcy
had described as the idleness and vice of many years' continuance. But
no such recollection befriended her. She could see him instantly before
her, in every charm of air and address; but she could remember no more
substantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and
the regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After
pausing on this point a considerable while, she once more continued to
read. But, alas! the story which followed, of his designs on Miss
Darcy, received some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel
Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she was
referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam
himself--from whom she had previously received the information of his
near concern in all his cousin's affairs, and whose character she had no
reason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to
him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and
at length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never
have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his
cousin's corroboration.

She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation
between Wickham and herself, in their first evening at Mr. Phillips's.
Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was _now_
struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and
wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting
himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions
with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear
of seeing Mr. Darcy--that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that
_he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball
the very next week. She remembered also that, till the Netherfield
family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but
herself; but that after their removal it had been everywhere discussed;
that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy's
character, though he had assured her that respect for the father would
always prevent his exposing the son.

How differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned!
His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and
hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer
the moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at anything.
His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had
either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying
his vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most
incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter
and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not
but allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago
asserted his blamelessness in the affair; that proud and repulsive as
were his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their
acquaintance--an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much
together, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways--seen anything
that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust--anything that spoke him
of irreligious or immoral habits; that among his own connections he was
esteemed and valued--that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a
brother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his
sister as to prove him capable of _some_ amiable feeling; that had his
actions been what Mr. Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of
everything right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and
that friendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man
as Mr. Bingley, was incomprehensible.

She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham
could she think without feeling she had been blind, partial, prejudiced,
absurd.

"How despicably I have acted!" she cried; "I, who have prided myself
on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have
often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified
my vanity in useless or blameable mistrust! How humiliating is this
discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could
not have been more wretchedly blind! But vanity, not love, has been my
folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect
of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted
prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were
concerned. Till this moment I never knew myself."

From herself to Jane--from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line
which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy's explanation
_there_ had appeared very insufficient, and she read it again. Widely
different was the effect of a second perusal. How could she deny that
credit to his assertions in one instance, which she had been obliged to
give in the other? He declared himself to be totally unsuspicious of her
sister's attachment; and she could not help remembering what Charlotte's
opinion had always been. Neither could she deny the justice of his
description of Jane. She felt that Jane's feelings, though fervent, were
little displayed, and that there was a constant complacency in her air
and manner not often united with great sensibility.

When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were
mentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her sense
of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly
for denial, and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded as
having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first
disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind
than on hers.

The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed,
but it could not console her for the contempt which had thus been
self-attracted by the rest of her family; and as she considered
that Jane's disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest
relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt
by such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything she
had ever known before.

After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every
variety of thought--re-considering events, determining probabilities,
and reconciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and
so important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made
her at length return home; and she entered the house with the wish
of appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such
reflections as must make her unfit for conversation.

She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each
called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes, to take
leave--but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least
an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her
till she could be found. Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern
in missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no
longer an object; she could think only of her letter.


Chapter 37


The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning, and Mr. Collins having
been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting obeisance, was
able to bring home the pleasing intelligence, of their appearing in very
good health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the
melancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings. To Rosings he then
hastened, to console Lady Catherine and her daughter; and on his return
brought back, with great satisfaction, a message from her ladyship,
importing that she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of
having them all to dine with her.

Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that, had
she chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to her as
her future niece; nor could she think, without a smile, of what her
ladyship's indignation would have been. "What would she have said? how
would she have behaved?" were questions with which she amused herself.

Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings party. "I assure
you, I feel it exceedingly," said Lady Catherine; "I believe no one
feels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I am particularly
attached to these young men, and know them to be so much attached to
me! They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The
dear Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy
seemed to feel it most acutely, more, I think, than last year. His
attachment to Rosings certainly increases."

Mr. Collins had a compliment, and an allusion to throw in here, which
were kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter.

Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed out of
spirits, and immediately accounting for it by herself, by supposing that
she did not like to go home again so soon, she added:

"But if that is the case, you must write to your mother and beg that
you may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your
company, I am sure."

"I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation," replied
Elizabeth, "but it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town
next Saturday."

"Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I expected
you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There
can be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly
spare you for another fortnight."

"But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return."

"Oh! your father of course may spare you, if your mother can. Daughters
are never of so much consequence to a father. And if you will stay
another _month_ complete, it will be in my power to take one of you as
far as London, for I am going there early in June, for a week; and as
Dawson does not object to the barouche-box, there will be very good room
for one of you--and indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I
should not object to taking you both, as you are neither of you large."

"You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our
original plan."

Lady Catherine seemed resigned. "Mrs. Collins, you must send a servant
with them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea
of two young women travelling post by themselves. It is highly improper.
You must contrive to send somebody. I have the greatest dislike in
the world to that sort of thing. Young women should always be properly
guarded and attended, according to their situation in life. When my
niece Georgiana went to Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her
having two men-servants go with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter of
Mr. Darcy, of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have appeared with
propriety in a different manner. I am excessively attentive to all those
things. You must send John with the young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I
am glad it occurred to me to mention it; for it would really be
discreditable to _you_ to let them go alone."

"My uncle is to send a servant for us."

"Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad you
have somebody who thinks of these things. Where shall you change horses?
Oh! Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at the Bell, you will be
attended to."

Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their journey,
and as she did not answer them all herself, attention was necessary,
which Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or, with a mind so
occupied, she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection must be
reserved for solitary hours; whenever she was alone, she gave way to it
as the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a solitary
walk, in which she might indulge in all the delight of unpleasant
recollections.

Mr. Darcy's letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She
studied every sentence; and her feelings towards its writer were at
times widely different. When she remembered the style of his address,
she was still full of indignation; but when she considered how unjustly
she had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned against
herself; and his disappointed feelings became the object of compassion.
His attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect; but she
could not approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal,
or feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past
behaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and regret; and in
the unhappy defects of her family, a subject of yet heavier chagrin.
They were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at
them, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his
youngest daughters; and her mother, with manners so far from right
herself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently
united with Jane in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine
and Lydia; but while they were supported by their mother's indulgence,
what chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited,
irritable, and completely under Lydia's guidance, had been always
affronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless, would
scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While
there was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt with him; and while
Meryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they would be going there
forever.

Anxiety on Jane's behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr. Darcy's
explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good opinion,
heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was proved
to have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame, unless any
could attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his friend. How
grievous then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every
respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had
been deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family!

When to these recollections was added the development of Wickham's
character, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had
seldom been depressed before, were now so much affected as to make it
almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful.

Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of
her stay as they had been at first. The very last evening was spent
there; and her ladyship again inquired minutely into the particulars of
their journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing,
and was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right
way, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the
work of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh.

When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, wished them
a good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford again next year;
and Miss de Bourgh exerted herself so far as to curtsey and hold out her
hand to both.


Chapter 38


On Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few
minutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of
paying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary.

"I know not, Miss Elizabeth," said he, "whether Mrs. Collins has yet
expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I am very
certain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for
it. The favour of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We
know how little there is to tempt anyone to our humble abode. Our plain
manner of living, our small rooms and few domestics, and the little we
see of the world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like
yourself; but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension,
and that we have done everything in our power to prevent your spending
your time unpleasantly."

Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She
had spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of being with
Charlotte, and the kind attentions she had received, must make _her_
feel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified, and with a more smiling
solemnity replied:

"It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have passed your time not
disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most fortunately
having it in our power to introduce you to very superior society, and,
from our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of varying the
humble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that your Hunsford
visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation with regard to
Lady Catherine's family is indeed the sort of extraordinary advantage
and blessing which few can boast. You see on what a footing we are. You
see how continually we are engaged there. In truth I must acknowledge
that, with all the disadvantages of this humble parsonage, I should
not think anyone abiding in it an object of compassion, while they are
sharers of our intimacy at Rosings."

Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he was
obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility
and truth in a few short sentences.

"You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into
Hertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself at least that you will
be able to do so. Lady Catherine's great attentions to Mrs. Collins you
have been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust it does not appear
that your friend has drawn an unfortunate--but on this point it will be
as well to be silent. Only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth,
that I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in
marriage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one mind and one way of
thinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of
character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each
other."

Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where that was
the case, and with equal sincerity could add, that she firmly believed
and rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was not sorry, however, to
have the recital of them interrupted by the lady from whom they sprang.
Poor Charlotte! it was melancholy to leave her to such society! But she
had chosen it with her eyes open; and though evidently regretting that
her visitors were to go, she did not seem to ask for compassion. Her
home and her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and all their
dependent concerns, had not yet lost their charms.

At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels
placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate
parting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by
Mr. Collins, and as they walked down the garden he was commissioning her
with his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his thanks
for the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his
compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her
in, Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed,
when he suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had
hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies at Rosings.

"But," he added, "you will of course wish to have your humble respects
delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you
while you have been here."

Elizabeth made no objection; the door was then allowed to be shut, and
the carriage drove off.

"Good gracious!" cried Maria, after a few minutes' silence, "it seems
but a day or two since we first came! and yet how many things have
happened!"

"A great many indeed," said her companion with a sigh.

"We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there twice!
How much I shall have to tell!"

Elizabeth added privately, "And how much I shall have to conceal!"

Their journey was performed without much conversation, or any alarm; and
within four hours of their leaving Hunsford they reached Mr. Gardiner's
house, where they were to remain a few days.

Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her
spirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her
aunt had reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at
Longbourn there would be leisure enough for observation.

It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even for
Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy's proposals. To know
that she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish
Jane, and must, at the same time, so highly gratify whatever of her own
vanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such a temptation
to openness as nothing could have conquered but the state of indecision
in which she remained as to the extent of what she should communicate;
and her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried
into repeating something of Bingley which might only grieve her sister
further.


Chapter 39


It was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies set out
together from Gracechurch Street for the town of ----, in Hertfordshire;
and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet's carriage
was to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman's
punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room up stairs.
These two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily employed
in visiting an opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on guard, and
dressing a salad and cucumber.

After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set
out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming,
"Is not this nice? Is not this an agreeable surprise?"

"And we mean to treat you all," added Lydia, "but you must lend us the
money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there." Then, showing
her purchases--"Look here, I have bought this bonnet. I do not think
it is very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall
pull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any
better."

And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect
unconcern, "Oh! but there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and
when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I
think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what
one wears this summer, after the ----shire have left Meryton, and they
are going in a fortnight."

"Are they indeed!" cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction.

"They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to
take us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme;
and I dare say would hardly cost anything at all. Mamma would like to
go too of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall
have!"

"Yes," thought Elizabeth, "_that_ would be a delightful scheme indeed,
and completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton, and a whole
campful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset already by one poor
regiment of militia, and the monthly balls of Meryton!"

"Now I have got some news for you," said Lydia, as they sat down at
table. "What do you think? It is excellent news--capital news--and about
a certain person we all like!"

Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told he need
not stay. Lydia laughed, and said:

"Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the
waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse
things said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I am glad
he is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for
my news; it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is it not?
There is no danger of Wickham's marrying Mary King. There's for you! She
is gone down to her uncle at Liverpool: gone to stay. Wickham is safe."

"And Mary King is safe!" added Elizabeth; "safe from a connection
imprudent as to fortune."

"She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him."

"But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side," said Jane.

"I am sure there is not on _his_. I will answer for it, he never cared
three straws about her--who could about such a nasty little freckled
thing?"

Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such
coarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the _sentiment_
was little other than her own breast had harboured and fancied liberal!

As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was
ordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their
boxes, work-bags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty's and
Lydia's purchases, were seated in it.

"How nicely we are all crammed in," cried Lydia. "I am glad I bought my
bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another bandbox! Well, now
let us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way
home. And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all
since you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any
flirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband
before you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare.
She is almost three-and-twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not
being married before three-and-twenty! My aunt Phillips wants you so to
get husbands, you can't think. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr.
Collins; but _I_ do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord!
how I should like to be married before any of you; and then I would
chaperon you about to all the balls. Dear me! we had such a good piece
of fun the other day at Colonel Forster's. Kitty and me were to spend
the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the
evening; (by the bye, Mrs. Forster and me are _such_ friends!) and so
she asked the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen
was forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We
dressed up Chamberlayne in woman's clothes on purpose to pass for a
lady, only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Colonel and Mrs.
Forster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were forced to borrow
one of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny,
and Wickham, and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in, they
did not know him in the least. Lord! how I laughed! and so did Mrs.
Forster. I thought I should have died. And _that_ made the men suspect
something, and then they soon found out what was the matter."

With such kinds of histories of their parties and good jokes, did
Lydia, assisted by Kitty's hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her
companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she
could, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham's name.

Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane
in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet
say voluntarily to Elizabeth:

"I am glad you are come back, Lizzy."

Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases
came to meet Maria and hear the news; and various were the subjects that
occupied them: Lady Lucas was inquiring of Maria, after the welfare and
poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet was doubly engaged, on one
hand collecting an account of the present fashions from Jane, who sat
some way below her, and, on the other, retailing them all to the younger
Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other person's,
was enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who
would hear her.

"Oh! Mary," said she, "I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun!
As we went along, Kitty and I drew up the blinds, and pretended there
was nobody in the coach; and I should have gone so all the way, if Kitty
had not been sick; and when we got to the George, I do think we behaved
very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest cold
luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have treated
you too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought we never
should have got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then
we were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so loud, that
anybody might have heard us ten miles off!"

To this Mary very gravely replied, "Far be it from me, my dear sister,
to depreciate such pleasures! They would doubtless be congenial with the
generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms for
_me_--I should infinitely prefer a book."

But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to
anybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all.

In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk
to Meryton, and to see how everybody went on; but Elizabeth steadily
opposed the scheme. It should not be said that the Miss Bennets could
not be at home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers.
There was another reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Mr.
Wickham again, and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The
comfort to _her_ of the regiment's approaching removal was indeed beyond
expression. In a fortnight they were to go--and once gone, she hoped
there could be nothing more to plague her on his account.

She had not been many hours at home before she found that the Brighton
scheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under
frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her
father had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were
at the same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though often
disheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at last.


Chapter 40


Elizabeth's impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could
no longer be overcome; and at length, resolving to suppress every
particular in which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be
surprised, she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene
between Mr. Darcy and herself.

Miss Bennet's astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly
partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly
natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was
sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so
little suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved for the
unhappiness which her sister's refusal must have given him.

"His being so sure of succeeding was wrong," said she, "and certainly
ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his
disappointment!"

"Indeed," replied Elizabeth, "I am heartily sorry for him; but he has
other feelings, which will probably soon drive away his regard for me.
You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?"

"Blame you! Oh, no."

"But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?"

"No--I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did."

"But you _will_ know it, when I tell you what happened the very next
day."

She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far
as they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this for poor Jane!
who would willingly have gone through the world without believing that
so much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind, as was here
collected in one individual. Nor was Darcy's vindication, though
grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery.
Most earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and
seek to clear the one without involving the other.

"This will not do," said Elizabeth; "you never will be able to make both
of them good for anything. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied
with only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just
enough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting
about pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Darcy's;
but you shall do as you choose."

It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane.

"I do not know when I have been more shocked," said she. "Wickham so
very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! Dear Lizzy, only
consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and with the
knowledge of your ill opinion, too! and having to relate such a thing
of his sister! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it
so."

"Oh! no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so
full of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am
growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion
makes me saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will
be as light as a feather."

"Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness in his
countenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner!"

"There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those
two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the
appearance of it."

"I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it as you
used to do."

"And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike
to him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one's genius, such an
opening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually
abusive without saying anything just; but one cannot always be laughing
at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty."

"Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat
the matter as you do now."

"Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I may say unhappy. And
with no one to speak to about what I felt, no Jane to comfort me and say
that I had not been so very weak and vain and nonsensical as I knew I
had! Oh! how I wanted you!"

"How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions
in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they _do_ appear wholly
undeserved."

"Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most
natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There
is one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I
ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintances in general understand
Wickham's character."

Miss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, "Surely there can be no
occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your opinion?"

"That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised me
to make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular
relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to
myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his
conduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy
is so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in
Meryton to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal
to it. Wickham will soon be gone; and therefore it will not signify to
anyone here what he really is. Some time hence it will be all found out,
and then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At
present I will say nothing about it."

"You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for
ever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and anxious to
re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate."

The tumult of Elizabeth's mind was allayed by this conversation. She had
got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight,
and was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she might wish
to talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind,
of which prudence forbade the disclosure. She dared not relate the other
half of Mr. Darcy's letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she
had been valued by her friend. Here was knowledge in which no one
could partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect
understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off
this last encumbrance of mystery. "And then," said she, "if that very
improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to
tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The
liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!"

She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real
state of her sister's spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a
very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself
in love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment,
and, from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than most first
attachments often boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance,
and prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense, and all her
attention to the feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the
indulgence of those regrets which must have been injurious to her own
health and their tranquillity.

"Well, Lizzy," said Mrs. Bennet one day, "what is your opinion _now_ of
this sad business of Jane's? For my part, I am determined never to speak
of it again to anybody. I told my sister Phillips so the other day. But
I cannot find out that Jane saw anything of him in London. Well, he is
a very undeserving young man--and I do not suppose there's the least
chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of
his coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have inquired of
everybody, too, who is likely to know."

"I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any more."

"Oh well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. Though I
shall always say he used my daughter extremely ill; and if I was her, I
would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure Jane will
die of a broken heart; and then he will be sorry for what he has done."

But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation,
she made no answer.

"Well, Lizzy," continued her mother, soon afterwards, "and so the
Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope
it will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an
excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her
mother, she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in _their_
housekeeping, I dare say."

"No, nothing at all."

"A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes. _they_ will
take care not to outrun their income. _They_ will never be distressed
for money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often
talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it as
quite their own, I dare say, whenever that happens."

"It was a subject which they could not mention before me."

"No; it would have been strange if they had; but I make no doubt they
often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an
estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. I should be
ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me."


Chapter 41


The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was
the last of the regiment's stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies
in the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost
universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink,
and sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very
frequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and
Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such
hard-heartedness in any of the family.

"Good Heaven! what is to become of us? What are we to do?" would they
often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. "How can you be smiling so,
Lizzy?"

Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what
she had herself endured on a similar occasion, five-and-twenty years
ago.

"I am sure," said she, "I cried for two days together when Colonel
Miller's regiment went away. I thought I should have broken my heart."

"I am sure I shall break _mine_," said Lydia.

"If one could but go to Brighton!" observed Mrs. Bennet.

"Oh, yes!--if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so
disagreeable."

"A little sea-bathing would set me up forever."

"And my aunt Phillips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of good,"
added Kitty.

Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through
Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense
of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy's
objections; and never had she been so much disposed to pardon his
interference in the views of his friend.

But the gloom of Lydia's prospect was shortly cleared away; for she
received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the colonel of
the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a
very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour
and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of
their _three_ months' acquaintance they had been intimate _two_.

The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster,
the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely
to be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister's feelings, Lydia
flew about the house in restless ecstasy, calling for everyone's
congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever;
whilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repined at her fate
in terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish.

"I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as Lydia,"
said she, "Though I am _not_ her particular friend. I have just as much
right to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am two years older."

In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make
her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from
exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she
considered it as the death warrant of all possibility of common sense
for the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her were it
known, she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her
go. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia's general
behaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of
such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more
imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must
be greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said:

"Lydia will never be easy until she has exposed herself in some public
place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so
little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present
circumstances."

"If you were aware," said Elizabeth, "of the very great disadvantage to
us all which must arise from the public notice of Lydia's unguarded and
imprudent manner--nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you
would judge differently in the affair."

"Already arisen?" repeated Mr. Bennet. "What, has she frightened away
some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such
squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity
are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of pitiful fellows who
have been kept aloof by Lydia's folly."

"Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not
of particular, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our
importance, our respectability in the world must be affected by the
wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark
Lydia's character. Excuse me, for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear
father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and
of teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of
her life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character
will be fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt
that ever made herself or her family ridiculous; a flirt, too, in the
worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond
youth and a tolerable person; and, from the ignorance and emptiness
of her mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion of that universal
contempt which her rage for admiration will excite. In this danger
Kitty also is comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain,
ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh! my dear father, can you
suppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever
they are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the
disgrace?"

Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject, and
affectionately taking her hand said in reply:

"Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known
you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less
advantage for having a couple of--or I may say, three--very silly
sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to
Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will
keep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an
object of prey to anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance
even as a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find
women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being
there may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow
many degrees worse, without authorising us to lock her up for the rest
of her life."

With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion
continued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not
in her nature, however, to increase her vexations by dwelling on
them. She was confident of having performed her duty, and to fret
over unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her
disposition.

Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her
father, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their
united volubility. In Lydia's imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised
every possibility of earthly happiness. She saw, with the creative eye
of fancy, the streets of that gay bathing-place covered with officers.
She saw herself the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them
at present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp--its tents
stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young
and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the view, she
saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six
officers at once.

Had she known her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and such
realities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could have
been understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly the same.
Lydia's going to Brighton was all that consoled her for her melancholy
conviction of her husband's never intending to go there himself.

But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures
continued, with little intermission, to the very day of Lydia's leaving
home.

Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been
frequently in company with him since her return, agitation was pretty
well over; the agitations of formal partiality entirely so. She had even
learnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted
her, an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present
behaviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure,
for the inclination he soon testified of renewing those intentions which
had marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve, after
what had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern for him in
finding herself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous
gallantry; and while she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the
reproof contained in his believing, that however long, and for whatever
cause, his attentions had been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified,
and her preference secured at any time by their renewal.

On the very last day of the regiment's remaining at Meryton, he dined,
with other of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth
disposed to part from him in good humour, that on his making some
inquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she
mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam's and Mr. Darcy's having both spent three
weeks at Rosings, and asked him, if he was acquainted with the former.

He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment's
recollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen
him often; and, after observing that he was a very gentlemanlike man,
asked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour.
With an air of indifference he soon afterwards added:

"How long did you say he was at Rosings?"

"Nearly three weeks."

"And you saw him frequently?"

"Yes, almost every day."

"His manners are very different from his cousin's."

"Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves upon acquaintance."

"Indeed!" cried Mr. Wickham with a look which did not escape her. "And
pray, may I ask?--" But checking himself, he added, in a gayer tone, "Is
it in address that he improves? Has he deigned to add aught of civility
to his ordinary style?--for I dare not hope," he continued in a lower
and more serious tone, "that he is improved in essentials."

"Oh, no!" said Elizabeth. "In essentials, I believe, he is very much
what he ever was."

While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to
rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a
something in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive
and anxious attention, while she added:

"When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that
his mind or his manners were in a state of improvement, but that, from
knowing him better, his disposition was better understood."

Wickham's alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated
look; for a few minutes he was silent, till, shaking off his
embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of
accents:

"You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Darcy, will readily
comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume
even the _appearance_ of what is right. His pride, in that direction,
may be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must only
deter him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only
fear that the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been
alluding, is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good
opinion and judgement he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always
operated, I know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be
imputed to his wish of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I
am certain he has very much at heart."

Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a
slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on
the old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge
him. The rest of the evening passed with the _appearance_, on his
side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to distinguish
Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a
mutual desire of never meeting again.

When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton,
from whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation
between her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the
only one who shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs.
Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter,
and impressive in her injunctions that she should not miss the
opportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible--advice which
there was every reason to believe would be well attended to; and in
the clamorous happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more
gentle adieus of her sisters were uttered without being heard.


Chapter 42


Had Elizabeth's opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could
not have formed a very pleasing opinion of conjugal felicity or domestic
comfort. Her father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance
of good humour which youth and beauty generally give, had married a
woman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind had very early in
their marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect,
esteem, and confidence had vanished for ever; and all his views
of domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of
a disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own
imprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often
console the unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of
the country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his principal
enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted, than as
her ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not
the sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his
wife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true
philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given.

Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her
father's behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but
respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of
herself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to
banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation
and decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own
children, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so
strongly as now the disadvantages which must attend the children of so
unsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising
from so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents, which, rightly used,
might at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters, even
if incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife.

When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham's departure she found little
other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties
abroad were less varied than before, and at home she had a mother and
sister whose constant repinings at the dullness of everything around
them threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty
might in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbers
of her brain were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition
greater evil might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all
her folly and assurance by a situation of such double danger as a
watering-place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what
has been sometimes found before, that an event to which she had been
looking with impatient desire did not, in taking place, bring all the
satisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to
name some other period for the commencement of actual felicity--to have
some other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by
again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the
present, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes
was now the object of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation
for all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness of her mother
and Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included Jane in the
scheme, every part of it would have been perfect.

"But it is fortunate," thought she, "that I have something to wish for.
Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain.
But here, by carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret in my
sister's absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of
pleasure realised. A scheme of which every part promises delight can
never be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by
the defence of some little peculiar vexation."

When Lydia went away she promised to write very often and very minutely
to her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and
always very short. Those to her mother contained little else than that
they were just returned from the library, where such and such officers
had attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as
made her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which
she would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a
violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going off to
the camp; and from her correspondence with her sister, there was still
less to be learnt--for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were
much too full of lines under the words to be made public.

After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, good
humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn. Everything wore
a happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter came
back again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet
was restored to her usual querulous serenity; and, by the middle of
June, Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without
tears; an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope that by
the following Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable as not to
mention an officer above once a day, unless, by some cruel and malicious
arrangement at the War Office, another regiment should be quartered in
Meryton.

The time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now fast
approaching, and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter
arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and
curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from
setting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again
within a month, and as that left too short a period for them to go so
far, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with
the leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up
the Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour, and, according to the
present plan, were to go no farther northwards than Derbyshire. In that
county there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three
weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The
town where she had formerly passed some years of her life, and where
they were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of
her curiosity as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth,
Dovedale, or the Peak.

Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on seeing
the Lakes, and still thought there might have been time enough. But it
was her business to be satisfied--and certainly her temper to be happy;
and all was soon right again.

With the mention of Derbyshire there were many ideas connected. It was
impossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its
owner. "But surely," said she, "I may enter his county with impunity,
and rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me."

The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away
before her uncle and aunt's arrival. But they did pass away, and Mr.
and Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at
Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two
younger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their
cousin Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and
sweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every
way--teaching them, playing with them, and loving them.

The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the
next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement.
One enjoyment was certain--that of suitableness of companions;
a suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear
inconveniences--cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure--and affection
and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were
disappointments abroad.

It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire,
nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither
lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, Birmingham, etc. are
sufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present
concern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner's
former residence, and where she had lately learned some acquaintance
still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen all the
principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of Lambton,
Elizabeth found from her aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not
in their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In
talking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed
an inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his
willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.

"My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard
so much?" said her aunt; "a place, too, with which so many of your
acquaintances are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you
know."

Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at
Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She
must own that she was tired of seeing great houses; after going over so
many, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.

Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. "If it were merely a fine house
richly furnished," said she, "I should not care about it myself; but
the grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the
country."

Elizabeth said no more--but her mind could not acquiesce. The
possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly
occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea, and
thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt than to run such
a risk. But against this there were objections; and she finally resolved
that it could be the last resource, if her private inquiries to the
absence of the family were unfavourably answered.

Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid
whether Pemberley were not a very fine place? what was the name of its
proprietor? and, with no little alarm, whether the family were down for
the summer? A most welcome negative followed the last question--and her
alarms now being removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of
curiosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the
next morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and
with a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike
to the scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.


Chapter 43


Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of
Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned
in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.

The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They
entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through
a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.

Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired
every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for
half-a-mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable
eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by
Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which
the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone
building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of
high woody hills; and in front, a stream of some natural importance was
swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks
were neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She
had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural
beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were
all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt that
to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!

They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and,
while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehension of
meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been
mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the
hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to
wonder at her being where she was.

The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking elderly woman, much less
fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They
followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well proportioned
room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went
to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, which
they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance,
was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and
she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its
banks and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it,
with delight. As they passed into other rooms these objects were taking
different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be
seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to
the fortune of its proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of
his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of
splendour, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.

"And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress! With
these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of
viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and
welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt. But no,"--recollecting
herself--"that could never be; my uncle and aunt would have been lost to
me; I should not have been allowed to invite them."

This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something very like
regret.

She longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master was really
absent, but had not the courage for it. At length however, the question
was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs.
Reynolds replied that he was, adding, "But we expect him to-morrow, with
a large party of friends." How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own
journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day!

Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached and saw the
likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other miniatures,
over the mantelpiece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it.
The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was a picture of a young
gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought
up by him at his own expense. "He is now gone into the army," she added;
"but I am afraid he has turned out very wild."

Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not
return it.

"And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures,
"is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the
other--about eight years ago."

"I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner,
looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell
us whether it is like or not."

Mrs. Reynolds respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this
intimation of her knowing her master.

"Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?"

Elizabeth coloured, and said: "A little."

"And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma'am?"

"Yes, very handsome."

"I am sure I know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you
will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late
master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to
be then. He was very fond of them."

This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them.

Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn
when she was only eight years old.

"And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?" said Mrs. Gardiner.

"Oh! yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so
accomplished!--She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is
a new instrument just come down for her--a present from my master; she
comes here to-morrow with him."

Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant, encouraged her
communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either
by pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her
master and his sister.

"Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?"

"Not so much as I could wish, sir; but I dare say he may spend half his
time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months."

"Except," thought Elizabeth, "when she goes to Ramsgate."

"If your master would marry, you might see more of him."

"Yes, sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is
good enough for him."

Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, "It is
very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so."

"I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that knows him,"
replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; and she
listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, "I have
never known a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever
since he was four years old."

This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her
ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been her firmest opinion.
Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more, and was
grateful to her uncle for saying:

"There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in
having such a master."

"Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I could
not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are
good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and
he was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the
world."

Elizabeth almost stared at her. "Can this be Mr. Darcy?" thought she.

"His father was an excellent man," said Mrs. Gardiner.

"Yes, ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him--just
as affable to the poor."

Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs.
Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subjects
of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the
furniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family
prejudice to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her
master, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his
many merits as they proceeded together up the great staircase.

"He is the best landlord, and the best master," said she, "that ever
lived; not like the wild young men nowadays, who think of nothing but
themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but will give
him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never saw
anything of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away
like other young men."

"In what an amiable light does this place him!" thought Elizabeth.

"This fine account of him," whispered her aunt as they walked, "is not
quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend."

"Perhaps we might be deceived."

"That is not very likely; our authority was too good."

On reaching the spacious lobby above they were shown into a very pretty
sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than
the apartments below; and were informed that it was but just done to
give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room when
last at Pemberley.

"He is certainly a good brother," said Elizabeth, as she walked towards
one of the windows.

Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy's delight, when she should enter
the room. "And this is always the way with him," she added. "Whatever
can give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in a moment. There
is nothing he would not do for her."

The picture-gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms, were
all that remained to be shown. In the former were many good paintings;
but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such as had been already
visible below, she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss
Darcy's, in crayons, whose subjects were usually more interesting, and
also more intelligible.

In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have
little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked in quest of
the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it arrested
her--and she beheld a striking resemblance to Mr. Darcy, with such a
smile over the face as she remembered to have sometimes seen when he
looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture, in earnest
contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery.
Mrs. Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father's
lifetime.

There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth's mind, a more gentle
sensation towards the original than she had ever felt at the height of
their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds
was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise
of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she
considered how many people's happiness were in his guardianship!--how
much of pleasure or pain was it in his power to bestow!--how much of
good or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought
forward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she
stood before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his
eyes upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of
gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its warmth, and
softened its impropriety of expression.

When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen,
they returned downstairs, and, taking leave of the housekeeper, were
consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall-door.

As they walked across the hall towards the river, Elizabeth turned back
to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while the former
was conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself
suddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.

They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his
appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes
instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with the deepest
blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from
surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party,
and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least
of perfect civility.

She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach,
received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be
overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture
they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two
that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener's expression of surprise, on
beholding his master, must immediately have told it. They stood a little
aloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused,
scarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer
she returned to his civil inquiries after her family. Amazed at the
alteration of his manner since they last parted, every sentence that
he uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the
impropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the few
minutes in which they continued were some of the most uncomfortable in
her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he spoke, his accent
had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his inquiries as
to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her having stayed in
Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the
distraction of his thoughts.

At length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few
moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took
leave.

The others then joined her, and expressed admiration of his figure; but
Elizabeth heard not a word, and wholly engrossed by her own feelings,
followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and vexation. Her
coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged thing in the
world! How strange it must appear to him! In what a disgraceful light
might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if she had purposely
thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she come? Or, why did he
thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes
sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his discrimination;
for it was plain that he was that moment arrived--that moment alighted
from his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and again over
the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so strikingly
altered--what could it mean? That he should even speak to her was
amazing!--but to speak with such civility, to inquire after her family!
Never in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified, never
had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What
a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put
his letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, or how to account
for it.

They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and
every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer
reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it was some time
before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered
mechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and
seemed to direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she
distinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that
one spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then
was. She longed to know what at the moment was passing in his mind--in
what manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything,
she was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he
felt himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice which was
not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in
seeing her she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with
composure.

At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind
aroused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself.

They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a while,
ascended some of the higher grounds; when, in spots where the opening of
the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of the
valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods overspreading
many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish
of going round the whole park, but feared it might be beyond a walk.
With a triumphant smile they were told that it was ten miles round.
It settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which
brought them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods,
to the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They crossed
it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene;
it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the
valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the stream,
and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered it.
Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed the
bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner,
who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only
of returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was,
therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house
on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their
progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the
taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the
occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the
man about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this
slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment
was quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy
approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here
less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before
they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared
for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with
calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed,
she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. The idea
lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the
turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance, she saw
that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his
politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place;
but she had not got beyond the words "delightful," and "charming," when
some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of
Pemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed,
and she said no more.

Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked
her if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends.
This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared;
and she could hardly suppress a smile at his being now seeking the
acquaintance of some of those very people against whom his pride had
revolted in his offer to herself. "What will be his surprise," thought
she, "when he knows who they are? He takes them now for people of
fashion."

The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their
relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore
it, and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he
could from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the
connection was evident; he sustained it, however, with fortitude, and
so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into
conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased,
could not but triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had
some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most
attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every
expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence,
his taste, or his good manners.

The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr. Darcy
invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he
chose while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time
to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of
the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was
walking arm-in-arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of wonder.
Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment
must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and
continually was she repeating, "Why is he so altered? From what can
it proceed? It cannot be for _me_--it cannot be for _my_ sake that his
manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a
change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me."

After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two
gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to
the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious
water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated
in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found
Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred
her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on
together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him
to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the
place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been
very unexpected--"for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that
you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we
left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected
in the country." He acknowledged the truth of it all, and said that
business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours
before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. "They
will join me early to-morrow," he continued, "and among them are some
who will claim an acquaintance with you--Mr. Bingley and his sisters."

Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly
driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been the last
mentioned between them; and, if she might judge by his complexion, _his_
mind was not very differently engaged.

"There is also one other person in the party," he continued after a
pause, "who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow
me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance
during your stay at Lambton?"

The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great
for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt
that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her
must be the work of her brother, and, without looking farther, it was
satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made
him think really ill of her.

They now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth
was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and
pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her was a compliment of
the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had
reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a
mile behind.

He then asked her to walk into the house--but she declared herself not
tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time much might
have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but
there seemed to be an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected
that she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale
with great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly--and her
patience and her ideas were nearly worn out before the tete-a-tete was
over. On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's coming up they were all pressed to go
into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and
they parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the
ladies into the carriage; and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him
walking slowly towards the house.

The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them
pronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they had expected.
"He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming," said her uncle.

"There _is_ something a little stately in him, to be sure," replied her
aunt, "but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now
say with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud, I
have seen nothing of it."

"I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more
than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such
attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling."

"To be sure, Lizzy," said her aunt, "he is not so handsome as Wickham;
or, rather, he has not Wickham's countenance, for his features
are perfectly good. But how came you to tell me that he was so
disagreeable?"

Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had liked
him better when they had met in Kent than before, and that she had never
seen him so pleasant as this morning.

"But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities," replied
her uncle. "Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him
at his word, as he might change his mind another day, and warn me off
his grounds."

Elizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his character, but
said nothing.

"From what we have seen of him," continued Mrs. Gardiner, "I really
should not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by
anybody as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look.
On the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when he
speaks. And there is something of dignity in his countenance that would
not give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But, to be sure, the
good lady who showed us his house did give him a most flaming character!
I could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal
master, I suppose, and _that_ in the eye of a servant comprehends every
virtue."

Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of
his behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them to understand, in
as guarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from
his relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different
construction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor
Wickham's so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In
confirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary
transactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming
her authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on.

Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now
approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to
the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out
to her husband all the interesting spots in its environs to think of
anything else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning's walk they
had no sooner dined than she set off again in quest of her former
acquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of a
intercourse renewed after many years' discontinuance.

The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth
much attention for any of these new friends; and she could do nothing
but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy's civility, and, above
all, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister.


Chapter 44


Elizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit
her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was consequently
resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning.
But her conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their
arrival at Lambton, these visitors came. They had been walking about the
place with some of their new friends, and were just returning to the inn
to dress themselves for dining with the same family, when the sound of a
carriage drew them to a window, and they saw a gentleman and a lady in
a curricle driving up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognizing
the livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of her
surprise to her relations by acquainting them with the honour which she
expected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and the embarrassment
of her manner as she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many
of the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a new idea on
the business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they felt that
there was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such a
quarter than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these
newly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of
Elizabeth's feelings was at every moment increasing. She was quite
amazed at her own discomposure; but amongst other causes of disquiet,
she dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much
in her favour; and, more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally
suspected that every power of pleasing would fail her.

She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she walked
up and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw such looks of
inquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made everything worse.

Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction
took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see that her new
acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself. Since her
being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud;
but the observation of a very few minutes convinced her that she was
only exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain even a word from
her beyond a monosyllable.

Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and, though
little more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance
womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother; but there
was sense and good humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly
unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her as
acute and unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much
relieved by discerning such different feelings.

They had not long been together before Mr. Darcy told her that Bingley
was also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time to express her
satisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when Bingley's quick
step was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the room. All
Elizabeth's anger against him had been long done away; but had she still
felt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected
cordiality with which he expressed himself on seeing her again. He
inquired in a friendly, though general way, after her family, and looked
and spoke with the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done.

To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting personage
than to herself. They had long wished to see him. The whole party before
them, indeed, excited a lively attention. The suspicions which had just
arisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece directed their observation towards
each with an earnest though guarded inquiry; and they soon drew from
those inquiries the full conviction that one of them at least knew
what it was to love. Of the lady's sensations they remained a little
in doubt; but that the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was
evident enough.

Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain the
feelings of each of her visitors; she wanted to compose her own, and
to make herself agreeable to all; and in the latter object, where she
feared most to fail, she was most sure of success, for those to whom she
endeavoured to give pleasure were prepossessed in her favour. Bingley
was ready, Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined, to be pleased.

In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister; and, oh!
how ardently did she long to know whether any of his were directed in
a like manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he talked less than on
former occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with the notion
that, as he looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But,
though this might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his
behaviour to Miss Darcy, who had been set up as a rival to Jane. No look
appeared on either side that spoke particular regard. Nothing occurred
between them that could justify the hopes of his sister. On this point
she was soon satisfied; and two or three little circumstances occurred
ere they parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted a
recollection of Jane not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of saying
more that might lead to the mention of her, had he dared. He observed
to her, at a moment when the others were talking together, and in a tone
which had something of real regret, that it "was a very long time since
he had had the pleasure of seeing her;" and, before she could reply,
he added, "It is above eight months. We have not met since the 26th of
November, when we were all dancing together at Netherfield."

Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he afterwards
took occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of the rest, whether
_all_ her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the question,
nor in the preceding remark; but there was a look and a manner which
gave them meaning.

It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself;
but, whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an expression of general
complaisance, and in all that he said she heard an accent so removed
from _hauteur_ or disdain of his companions, as convinced her that
the improvement of manners which she had yesterday witnessed however
temporary its existence might prove, had at least outlived one day. When
she saw him thus seeking the acquaintance and courting the good opinion
of people with whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a
disgrace--when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to the
very relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected their last
lively scene in Hunsford Parsonage--the difference, the change was
so great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she could hardly
restrain her astonishment from being visible. Never, even in the company
of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations
at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please, so free from
self-consequence or unbending reserve, as now, when no importance
could result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the
acquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed would draw
down the ridicule and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and
Rosings.

Their visitors stayed with them above half-an-hour; and when they arose
to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing
their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner
at Pemberley, before they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a
diffidence which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations,
readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing
how _she_, whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its
acceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming however,
that this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment than
any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of
society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for
her attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on.

Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Elizabeth
again, having still a great deal to say to her, and many inquiries to
make after all their Hertfordshire friends. Elizabeth, construing all
this into a wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was pleased, and on
this account, as well as some others, found herself, when their
visitors left them, capable of considering the last half-hour with some
satisfaction, though while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been
little. Eager to be alone, and fearful of inquiries or hints from her
uncle and aunt, she stayed with them only long enough to hear their
favourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress.

But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's curiosity; it was
not their wish to force her communication. It was evident that she was
much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had before any idea of;
it was evident that he was very much in love with her. They saw much to
interest, but nothing to justify inquiry.

Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far
as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They could
not be untouched by his politeness; and had they drawn his character
from their own feelings and his servant's report, without any reference
to any other account, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known
would not have recognized it for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest,
however, in believing the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible
that the authority of a servant who had known him since he was four
years old, and whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be
hastily rejected. Neither had anything occurred in the intelligence of
their Lambton friends that could materially lessen its weight. They had
nothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably had, and if not,
it would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants of a small market-town
where the family did not visit. It was acknowledged, however, that he
was a liberal man, and did much good among the poor.

With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was not held
there in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns with the
son of his patron were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well-known
fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind
him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged.

As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening more than
the last; and the evening, though as it passed it seemed long, was not
long enough to determine her feelings towards _one_ in that mansion;
and she lay awake two whole hours endeavouring to make them out. She
certainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she
had almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him,
that could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his
valuable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some
time ceased to be repugnant to her feeling; and it was now heightened
into somewhat of a friendlier nature, by the testimony so highly in
his favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light,
which yesterday had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem,
there was a motive within her of goodwill which could not be overlooked.
It was gratitude; gratitude, not merely for having once loved her,
but for loving her still well enough to forgive all the petulance and
acrimony of her manner in rejecting him, and all the unjust accusations
accompanying her rejection. He who, she had been persuaded, would avoid
her as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this accidental meeting, most
eager to preserve the acquaintance, and without any indelicate display
of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where their two selves only
were concerned, was soliciting the good opinion of her friends, and bent
on making her known to his sister. Such a change in a man of so much
pride exciting not only astonishment but gratitude--for to love, ardent
love, it must be attributed; and as such its impression on her was of a
sort to be encouraged, as by no means unpleasing, though it could not be
exactly defined. She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to him,
she felt a real interest in his welfare; and she only wanted to know how
far she wished that welfare to depend upon herself, and how far it would
be for the happiness of both that she should employ the power, which her
fancy told her she still possessed, of bringing on her the renewal of
his addresses.

It had been settled in the evening between the aunt and the niece, that
such a striking civility as Miss Darcy's in coming to see them on the
very day of her arrival at Pemberley, for she had reached it only to a
late breakfast, ought to be imitated, though it could not be equalled,
by some exertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that
it would be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following
morning. They were, therefore, to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though when
she asked herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply.

Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme had been
renewed the day before, and a positive engagement made of his meeting
some of the gentlemen at Pemberley before noon.


Chapter 45


Convinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley's dislike of her had
originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how unwelcome her
appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know with how
much civility on that lady's side the acquaintance would now be renewed.

On reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the saloon,
whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows
opening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody
hills behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts
which were scattered over the intermediate lawn.

In this house they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting there
with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived in
London. Georgiana's reception of them was very civil, but attended with
all the embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the fear
of doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves inferior
the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and her niece,
however, did her justice, and pitied her.

By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only by a curtsey; and,
on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be,
succeeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a
genteel, agreeable-looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind
of discourse proved her to be more truly well-bred than either of the
others; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from
Elizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she
wished for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a
short sentence when there was least danger of its being heard.

Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss Bingley,
and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without
calling her attention. This observation would not have prevented her
from trying to talk to the latter, had they not been seated at an
inconvenient distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity
of saying much. Her own thoughts were employing her. She expected every
moment that some of the gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she
feared that the master of the house might be amongst them; and whether
she wished or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After
sitting in this manner a quarter of an hour without hearing Miss
Bingley's voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold
inquiry after the health of her family. She answered with equal
indifference and brevity, and the other said no more.

The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the
entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the
finest fruits in season; but this did not take place till after many
a significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been
given, to remind her of her post. There was now employment for the whole
party--for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the
beautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches soon collected
them round the table.

While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding whether
she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by the
feelings which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but
a moment before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to
regret that he came.

He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three other
gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had left him
only on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to
Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear than Elizabeth wisely
resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed; a resolution the more
necessary to be made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she
saw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them,
and that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour
when he first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive
curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley's, in spite of the
smiles which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its
objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attentions
to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother's
entrance, exerted herself much more to talk, and Elizabeth saw that he
was anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded
as much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss
Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the
first opportunity of saying, with sneering civility:

"Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ----shire Militia removed from Meryton?
They must be a great loss to _your_ family."

In Darcy's presence she dared not mention Wickham's name; but Elizabeth
instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and the
various recollections connected with him gave her a moment's distress;
but exerting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she
presently answered the question in a tolerably detached tone. While
she spoke, an involuntary glance showed her Darcy, with a heightened
complexion, earnestly looking at her, and his sister overcome with
confusion, and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what
pain she was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would
have refrained from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose
Elizabeth by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she believed
her partial, to make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in
Darcy's opinion, and, perhaps, to remind the latter of all the follies
and absurdities by which some part of her family were connected
with that corps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss Darcy's
meditated elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where secrecy
was possible, except to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley's connections
her brother was particularly anxious to conceal it, from the very
wish which Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming
hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and without
meaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate him from Miss
Bennet, it is probable that it might add something to his lively concern
for the welfare of his friend.

Elizabeth's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion; and
as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to
Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able
to speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely
recollected her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which
had been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth seemed to have
fixed them on her more and more cheerfully.

Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer above
mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their carriage Miss
Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth's person,
behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join her. Her brother's
recommendation was enough to ensure her favour; his judgement could not
err. And he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana
without the power of finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When
Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to
him some part of what she had been saying to his sister.

"How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy," she
cried; "I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she is since
the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing
that we should not have known her again."

However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented
himself with coolly replying that he perceived no other alteration than
her being rather tanned, no miraculous consequence of travelling in the
summer.

"For my own part," she rejoined, "I must confess that I never could
see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no
brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose
wants character--there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are
tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes,
which have sometimes been called so fine, I could never see anything
extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do
not like at all; and in her air altogether there is a self-sufficiency
without fashion, which is intolerable."

Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not
the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always
wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the
success she expected. He was resolutely silent, however, and, from a
determination of making him speak, she continued:

"I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all
were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect
your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, '_She_
a beauty!--I should as soon call her mother a wit.' But afterwards she
seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at
one time."

"Yes," replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, "but _that_
was only when I first saw her, for it is many months since I have
considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance."

He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of
having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself.

Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred during their
visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested them
both. The look and behaviour of everybody they had seen were discussed,
except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked
of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit--of everything but
himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of
him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece's
beginning the subject.


Chapter 46


Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from
Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been
renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but
on the third her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the
receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that
it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as
Jane had written the direction remarkably ill.

They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and
her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by
themselves. The one missent must first be attended to; it had been
written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their
little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded;
but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident
agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect:

"Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a
most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you--be
assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia.
An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed,
from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland
with one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our
surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am
very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing
to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood.
Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step
(and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is
disinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing.
Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How
thankful am I that we never let them know what has been said against
him; we must forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about
twelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at
eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have
passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect
him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of
their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor
mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly
know what I have written."

Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing
what she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter instantly seized the
other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it
had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first.

"By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter; I
wish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my
head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest
Lizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you,
and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as the marriage between Mr. Wickham
and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has
taken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone
to Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the
day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia's short
letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna
Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that W.
never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was
repeated to Colonel F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B.
intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham,
but no further; for on entering that place, they removed into a hackney
coach, and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that
is known after this is, that they were seen to continue the London road.
I know not what to think. After making every possible inquiry on that
side London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing
them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but
without any success--no such people had been seen to pass through. With
the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions
to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved
for him and Mrs. F., but no one can throw any blame on them. Our
distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the
worst, but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make
it more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to pursue
their first plan; and even if _he_ could form such a design against a
young woman of Lydia's connections, which is not likely, can I suppose
her so lost to everything? Impossible! I grieve to find, however, that
Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage; he shook his
head when I expressed my hopes, and said he feared W. was not a man to
be trusted. My poor mother is really ill, and keeps her room. Could she
exert herself, it would be better; but this is not to be expected. And
as to my father, I never in my life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has
anger for having concealed their attachment; but as it was a matter of
confidence, one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you
have been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as the
first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not
so selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu! I
take up my pen again to do what I have just told you I would not; but
circumstances are such that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to
come here as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well,
that I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have still something
more to ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel
Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do I am sure
I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any
measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to
be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such an exigence, my
uncle's advice and assistance would be everything in the world; he will
immediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness."

"Oh! where, where is my uncle?" cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat
as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing
a moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door it was
opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous
manner made him start, and before he could recover himself to speak,
she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia's situation,
hastily exclaimed, "I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find
Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not
an instant to lose."

"Good God! what is the matter?" cried he, with more feeling than
politeness; then recollecting himself, "I will not detain you a minute;
but let me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are
not well enough; you cannot go yourself."

Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she felt how
little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back
the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless
an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and
mistress home instantly.

On his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support herself, and
looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her,
or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration,
"Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you
present relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill."

"No, I thank you," she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. "There
is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well; I am only distressed by
some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn."

She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could
not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say
something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate
silence. At length she spoke again. "I have just had a letter from Jane,
with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My younger
sister has left all her friends--has eloped; has thrown herself into
the power of--of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton.
_You_ know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no
connections, nothing that can tempt him to--she is lost for ever."

Darcy was fixed in astonishment. "When I consider," she added in a yet
more agitated voice, "that I might have prevented it! I, who knew what
he was. Had I but explained some part of it only--some part of what I
learnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not
have happened. But it is all--all too late now."

"I am grieved indeed," cried Darcy; "grieved--shocked. But is it
certain--absolutely certain?"

"Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced
almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to
Scotland."

"And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?"

"My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle's
immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in half-an-hour. But
nothing can be done--I know very well that nothing can be done. How is
such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have
not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!"

Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.

"When _my_ eyes were opened to his real character--Oh! had I known what
I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not--I was afraid of doing too
much. Wretched, wretched mistake!"

Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking
up and down the room in earnest meditation, his brow contracted, his air
gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. Her
power was sinking; everything _must_ sink under such a proof of family
weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither
wonder nor condemn, but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing
consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It
was, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own
wishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved
him, as now, when all love must be vain.

But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia--the
humiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all, soon swallowed
up every private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief,
Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else; and, after a pause of
several minutes, was only recalled to a sense of her situation by
the voice of her companion, who, in a manner which, though it spoke
compassion, spoke likewise restraint, said, "I am afraid you have been
long desiring my absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my
stay, but real, though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything
could be either said or done on my part that might offer consolation to
such distress! But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may
seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I
fear, prevent my sister's having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley
to-day."

"Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us to Miss Darcy. Say that
urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as
long as it is possible, I know it cannot be long."

He readily assured her of his secrecy; again expressed his sorrow for
her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present
reason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her relations, with only
one serious, parting look, went away.

As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they
should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as
had marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a
retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full
of contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those
feelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would
formerly have rejoiced in its termination.

If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth's
change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if
otherwise--if regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or
unnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on
a first interview with its object, and even before two words have been
exchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she had given
somewhat of a trial to the latter method in her partiality for Wickham,
and that its ill success might, perhaps, authorise her to seek the other
less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him
go with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia's infamy must
produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched
business. Never, since reading Jane's second letter, had she entertained
a hope of Wickham's meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought,
could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least
of her feelings on this development. While the contents of the first
letter remained in her mind, she was all surprise--all astonishment that
Wickham should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry
for money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared
incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment
as this she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not suppose
Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement without the intention
of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither her virtue
nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy prey.

She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that
Lydia had any partiality for him; but she was convinced that Lydia
wanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one
officer, sometimes another, had been her favourite, as their attentions
raised them in her opinion. Her affections had continually been
fluctuating but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and
mistaken indulgence towards such a girl--oh! how acutely did she now
feel it!

She was wild to be at home--to hear, to see, to be upon the spot to
share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a
family so deranged, a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and
requiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing
could be done for Lydia, her uncle's interference seemed of the utmost
importance, and till he entered the room her impatience was severe. Mr.
and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing by the servant's
account that their niece was taken suddenly ill; but satisfying them
instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their
summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on the postscript
of the last with trembling energy, though Lydia had never been a
favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be deeply
afflicted. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after the
first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner promised every
assistance in his power. Elizabeth, though expecting no less, thanked
him with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated by one spirit,
everything relating to their journey was speedily settled. They were to
be off as soon as possible. "But what is to be done about Pemberley?"
cried Mrs. Gardiner. "John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for
us; was it so?"

"Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement.
_That_ is all settled."

"What is all settled?" repeated the other, as she ran into her room to
prepare. "And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real
truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!"

But wishes were vain, or at least could only serve to amuse her in the
hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure
to be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was
impossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of
business as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to
be written to all their friends at Lambton, with false excuses for their
sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr.
Gardiner meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing
remained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of
the morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could
have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.


Chapter 47


"I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth," said her uncle, as they
drove from the town; "and really, upon serious consideration, I am much
more inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does on the
matter. It appears to me so very unlikely that any young man should
form such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or
friendless, and who was actually staying in his colonel's family, that I
am strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends
would not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the
regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is
not adequate to the risk!"

"Do you really think so?" cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment.

"Upon my word," said Mrs. Gardiner, "I begin to be of your uncle's
opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and
interest, for him to be guilty of. I cannot think so very ill of
Wickham. Can you yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him up, as to believe
him capable of it?"

"Not, perhaps, of neglecting his own interest; but of every other
neglect I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I
dare not hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland if that had been
the case?"

"In the first place," replied Mr. Gardiner, "there is no absolute proof
that they are not gone to Scotland."

"Oh! but their removing from the chaise into a hackney coach is such
a presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be found on the
Barnet road."

"Well, then--supposing them to be in London. They may be there, though
for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptional purpose. It is
not likely that money should be very abundant on either side; and it
might strike them that they could be more economically, though less
expeditiously, married in London than in Scotland."

"But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their
marriage be private? Oh, no, no--this is not likely. His most particular
friend, you see by Jane's account, was persuaded of his never intending
to marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some money. He
cannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia--what attraction has she
beyond youth, health, and good humour that could make him, for her sake,
forego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what
restraint the apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on a
dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I know
nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But as to your
other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Lydia has
no brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from my father's
behaviour, from his indolence and the little attention he has ever
seemed to give to what was going forward in his family, that _he_ would
do as little, and think as little about it, as any father could do, in
such a matter."

"But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love of him
as to consent to live with him on any terms other than marriage?"

"It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed," replied Elizabeth, with
tears in her eyes, "that a sister's sense of decency and virtue in such
a point should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say.
Perhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young; she has never
been taught to think on serious subjects; and for the last half-year,
nay, for a twelvemonth--she has been given up to nothing but amusement
and vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle
and frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in her way.
Since the ----shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love,
flirtation, and officers have been in her head. She has been doing
everything in her power by thinking and talking on the subject, to give
greater--what shall I call it? susceptibility to her feelings; which are
naturally lively enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of
person and address that can captivate a woman."

"But you see that Jane," said her aunt, "does not think so very ill of
Wickham as to believe him capable of the attempt."

"Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be
their former conduct, that she would think capable of such an attempt,
till it were proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what
Wickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every
sense of the word; that he has neither integrity nor honour; that he is
as false and deceitful as he is insinuating."

"And do you really know all this?" cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity
as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.

"I do indeed," replied Elizabeth, colouring. "I told you, the other day,
of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you yourself, when last at
Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man who had behaved
with such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other
circumstances which I am not at liberty--which it is not worth while to
relate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From
what he said of Miss Darcy I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud,
reserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He
must know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found
her."

"But does Lydia know nothing of this? can she be ignorant of what you
and Jane seem so well to understand?"

"Oh, yes!--that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw
so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was
ignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home, the ----shire
was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight's time. As that was the
case, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it
necessary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could
it apparently be to any one, that the good opinion which all the
neighbourhood had of him should then be overthrown? And even when it was
settled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening
her eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could be
in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such a
consequence as _this_ could ensue, you may easily believe, was far
enough from my thoughts."

"When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I
suppose, to believe them fond of each other?"

"Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either
side; and had anything of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware
that ours is not a family on which it could be thrown away. When first
he entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all
were. Every girl in or near Meryton was out of her senses about him for
the first two months; but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular
attention; and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and
wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment,
who treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites."

                          * * * * *

It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added
to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by
its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during
the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent.
Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could find
no interval of ease or forgetfulness.

They travelled as expeditiously as possible, and, sleeping one night
on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner time the next day. It was a
comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied
by long expectations.

The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing
on the steps of the house as they entered the paddock; and, when the
carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their
faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of
capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome.

Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them a hasty kiss,
hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down from her
mother's apartment, immediately met her.

Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the
eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether anything had been
heard of the fugitives.

"Not yet," replied Jane. "But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope
everything will be well."

"Is my father in town?"

"Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word."

"And have you heard from him often?"

"We have heard only twice. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday to say
that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I
particularly begged him to do. He merely added that he should not write
again till he had something of importance to mention."

"And my mother--how is she? How are you all?"

"My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly
shaken. She is up stairs and will have great satisfaction in seeing you
all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank
Heaven, are quite well."

"But you--how are you?" cried Elizabeth. "You look pale. How much you
must have gone through!"

Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well; and their
conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were
engaged with their children, was now put an end to by the approach
of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and
thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears.

When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth
had already asked were of course repeated by the others, and they soon
found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of
good, however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested had not yet
deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that
every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father,
to explain their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce their marriage.

Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes'
conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with
tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous
conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill-usage;
blaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the
errors of her daughter must principally be owing.

"If I had been able," said she, "to carry my point in going to Brighton,
with all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but poor dear Lydia
had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out
of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their
side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing if she had been
well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the
charge of her; but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor dear child!
And now here's Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight Wickham,
wherever he meets him and then he will be killed, and what is to become
of us all? The Collinses will turn us out before he is cold in his
grave, and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what we
shall do."

They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after
general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her
that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr.
Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia.

"Do not give way to useless alarm," added he; "though it is right to be
prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain.
It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more we
may gain some news of them; and till we know that they are not married,
and have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as
lost. As soon as I get to town I shall go to my brother, and make
him come home with me to Gracechurch Street; and then we may consult
together as to what is to be done."

"Oh! my dear brother," replied Mrs. Bennet, "that is exactly what I
could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out,
wherever they may be; and if they are not married already, _make_ them
marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but
tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them,
after they are married. And, above all, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting.
Tell him what a dreadful state I am in, that I am frighted out of my
wits--and have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me--such
spasms in my side and pains in my head, and such beatings at heart, that
I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear Lydia not to
give any directions about her clothes till she has seen me, for she does
not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother, how kind you are! I
know you will contrive it all."

But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavours
in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well
in her hopes as her fear; and after talking with her in this manner till
dinner was on the table, they all left her to vent all her feelings on
the housekeeper, who attended in the absence of her daughters.

Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real
occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to
oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her
tongue before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged it
better that _one_ only of the household, and the one whom they could
most trust should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the
subject.

In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been
too busily engaged in their separate apartments to make their appearance
before. One came from her books, and the other from her toilette. The
faces of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change was visible
in either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or the anger
which she had herself incurred in this business, had given more of
fretfulness than usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was
mistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance
of grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table:

"This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much talked of.
But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of
each other the balm of sisterly consolation."

Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added,
"Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful
lesson: that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable; that one
false step involves her in endless ruin; that her reputation is no less
brittle than it is beautiful; and that she cannot be too much guarded in
her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex."

Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed
to make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such
kind of moral extractions from the evil before them.

In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for
half-an-hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of
the opportunity of making any inquiries, which Jane was equally eager to
satisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel
of this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss
Bennet could not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued
the subject, by saying, "But tell me all and everything about it which
I have not already heard. Give me further particulars. What did Colonel
Forster say? Had they no apprehension of anything before the elopement
took place? They must have seen them together for ever."

"Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality,
especially on Lydia's side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so
grieved for him! His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He
_was_ coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had
any idea of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension
first got abroad, it hastened his journey."

"And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of
their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?"

"Yes; but, when questioned by _him_, Denny denied knowing anything of
their plans, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not
repeat his persuasion of their not marrying--and from _that_, I am
inclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before."

"And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a
doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?"

"How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I felt
a little uneasy--a little fearful of my sister's happiness with him
in marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite
right. My father and mother knew nothing of that; they only felt how
imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural
triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia's last letter
she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their
being in love with each other, many weeks."

"But not before they went to Brighton?"

"No, I believe not."

"And did Colonel Forster appear to think well of Wickham himself? Does
he know his real character?"

"I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly
did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad
affair has taken place, it is said that he left Meryton greatly in debt;
but I hope this may be false."

"Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him,
this could not have happened!"

"Perhaps it would have been better," replied her sister. "But to expose
the former faults of any person without knowing what their present
feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions."

"Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to his
wife?"

"He brought it with him for us to see."

Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These
were the contents:

"MY DEAR HARRIET,

"You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help
laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am
missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who,
I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the world I
love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without him, so think
it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at Longbourn of my
going, if you do not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater,
when I write to them and sign my name 'Lydia Wickham.' What a good joke
it will be! I can hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to
Pratt for not keeping my engagement, and dancing with him to-night.
Tell him I hope he will excuse me when he knows all; and tell him I will
dance with him at the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I shall
send for my clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell
Sally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown before they are
packed up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster. I hope you will
drink to our good journey.

"Your affectionate friend,

"LYDIA BENNET."

"Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!" cried Elizabeth when she had
finished it. "What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment!
But at least it shows that _she_ was serious on the subject of their
journey. Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her
side a _scheme_ of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it!"

"I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten
minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in
such confusion!"

"Oh! Jane," cried Elizabeth, "was there a servant belonging to it who
did not know the whole story before the end of the day?"

"I do not know. I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a time is
very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I endeavoured to
give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so
much as I might have done! But the horror of what might possibly happen
almost took from me my faculties."

"Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not look
well. Oh that I had been with you! you have had every care and anxiety
upon yourself alone."

"Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every
fatigue, I am sure; but I did not think it right for either of them.
Kitty is slight and delicate; and Mary studies so much, that her hours
of repose should not be broken in on. My aunt Phillips came to Longbourn
on Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till
Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all. And
Lady Lucas has been very kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to
condole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters', if
they should be of use to us."

"She had better have stayed at home," cried Elizabeth; "perhaps she
_meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see
too little of one's neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence
insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied."

She then proceeded to inquire into the measures which her father had
intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter.

"He meant I believe," replied Jane, "to go to Epsom, the place where
they last changed horses, see the postilions and try if anything could
be made out from them. His principal object must be to discover the
number of the hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come
with a fare from London; and as he thought that the circumstance of a
gentleman and lady's removing from one carriage into another might
be remarked he meant to make inquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow
discover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he
determined to make inquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible
to find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any
other designs that he had formed; but he was in such a hurry to be gone,
and his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had difficulty in finding
out even so much as this."


Chapter 48


The whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next
morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him.
His family knew him to be, on all common occasions, a most negligent and
dilatory correspondent; but at such a time they had hoped for exertion.
They were forced to conclude that he had no pleasing intelligence to
send; but even of _that_ they would have been glad to be certain. Mr.
Gardiner had waited only for the letters before he set off.

When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving constant
information of what was going on, and their uncle promised, at parting,
to prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to Longbourn, as soon as he could,
to the great consolation of his sister, who considered it as the only
security for her husband's not being killed in a duel.

Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few
days longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable
to her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a
great comfort to them in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also
visited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of
cheering and heartening them up--though, as she never came without
reporting some fresh instance of Wickham's extravagance or irregularity,
she seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found
them.

All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three months
before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be in debt
to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with
the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family.
Everybody declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world;
and everybody began to find out that they had always distrusted the
appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above
half of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of
her sister's ruin more certain; and even Jane, who believed still less
of it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now come
when, if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before entirely
despaired of, they must in all probability have gained some news of
them.

Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday his wife received a
letter from him; it told them that, on his arrival, he had immediately
found out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch Street;
that Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival,
but without gaining any satisfactory information; and that he was now
determined to inquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet
thought it possible they might have gone to one of them, on their first
coming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself
did not expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was
eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added that Mr.
Bennet seemed wholly disinclined at present to leave London and promised
to write again very soon. There was also a postscript to this effect:

"I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if
possible, from some of the young man's intimates in the regiment,
whether Wickham has any relations or connections who would be likely to
know in what part of town he has now concealed himself. If there were
anyone that one could apply to with a probability of gaining such a
clue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we have
nothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do everything in
his power to satisfy us on this head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps,
Lizzy could tell us what relations he has now living, better than any
other person."

Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference to her
authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give any information
of so satisfactory a nature as the compliment deserved. She had never
heard of his having had any relations, except a father and mother, both
of whom had been dead many years. It was possible, however, that some of
his companions in the ----shire might be able to give more information;
and though she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the application
was a something to look forward to.

Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious
part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters
was the grand object of every morning's impatience. Through letters,
whatever of good or bad was to be told would be communicated, and every
succeeding day was expected to bring some news of importance.

But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived for
their father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins; which, as Jane
had received directions to open all that came for him in his absence,
she accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his
letters always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as
follows:

"MY DEAR SIR,

"I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation
in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now
suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter from
Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs. Collins and myself
sincerely sympathise with you and all your respectable family, in
your present distress, which must be of the bitterest kind, because
proceeding from a cause which no time can remove. No arguments shall be
wanting on my part that can alleviate so severe a misfortune--or that
may comfort you, under a circumstance that must be of all others the
most afflicting to a parent's mind. The death of your daughter would
have been a blessing in comparison of this. And it is the more to
be lamented, because there is reason to suppose as my dear Charlotte
informs me, that this licentiousness of behaviour in your daughter has
proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence; though, at the same time,
for the consolation of yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think
that her own disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be
guilty of such an enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever that may be,
you are grievously to be pitied; in which opinion I am not only joined
by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by Lady Catherine and her daughter, to
whom I have related the affair. They agree with me in apprehending that
this false step in one daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of
all the others; for who, as Lady Catherine herself condescendingly says,
will connect themselves with such a family? And this consideration leads
me moreover to reflect, with augmented satisfaction, on a certain event
of last November; for had it been otherwise, I must have been involved
in all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me then advise you, dear sir, to
console yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy child
from your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of her
own heinous offense.

"I am, dear sir, etc., etc."

Mr. Gardiner did not write again till he had received an answer from
Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send.
It was not known that Wickham had a single relationship with whom he
kept up any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one
living. His former acquaintances had been numerous; but since he
had been in the militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of
particular friendship with any of them. There was no one, therefore,
who could be pointed out as likely to give any news of him. And in the
wretched state of his own finances, there was a very powerful motive for
secrecy, in addition to his fear of discovery by Lydia's relations, for
it had just transpired that he had left gaming debts behind him to a
very considerable amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than a
thousand pounds would be necessary to clear his expenses at Brighton.
He owed a good deal in town, but his debts of honour were still more
formidable. Mr. Gardiner did not attempt to conceal these particulars
from the Longbourn family. Jane heard them with horror. "A gamester!"
she cried. "This is wholly unexpected. I had not an idea of it."

Mr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see their
father at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered
spiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours, he had yielded
to his brother-in-law's entreaty that he would return to his family, and
leave it to him to do whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable
for continuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did
not express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering
what her anxiety for his life had been before.

"What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia?" she cried. "Sure he
will not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Wickham,
and make him marry her, if he comes away?"

As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that she
and the children should go to London, at the same time that Mr. Bennet
came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their
journey, and brought its master back to Longbourn.

Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and her
Derbyshire friend that had attended her from that part of the world. His
name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece; and
the kind of half-expectation which Mrs. Gardiner had formed, of their
being followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing. Elizabeth had
received none since her return that could come from Pemberley.

The present unhappy state of the family rendered any other excuse for
the lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore, could be
fairly conjectured from _that_, though Elizabeth, who was by this time
tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware
that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of
Lydia's infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought,
one sleepless night out of two.

When 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 had joined them at tea, that
Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly
expressing her sorrow for 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 drily; "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, shows 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, in my nightcap 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 fretfully. "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 at last learnt to be cautious, and
you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter into
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."


Chapter 49


Two days after Mr. Bennet'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 Bennet, "I beg your pardon,
madam, for interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some
good news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask."

"What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town."

"Dear madam," cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, "don't you know
there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He has 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 up stairs 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 copse."

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 have 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 you 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 2.

"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 there
was 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 engagement 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
Haggerston for preparing a proper settlement. There 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 it
best that my niece should be married from this house, of which I hope
you will approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as
anything more is determined on. Yours, etc.,

"EDW. GARDINER."

"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 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 entreaty 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--" said 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; "Wickham's 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 write, 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 certainly 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 is settled on his side on our sister, we shall
exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has
not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never
be requited. Their 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 has passed 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 is come to a right way of
thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself
they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a 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."

It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood
perfectly ignorant of what had happened. 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 up stairs
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. Gardiner'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! But the
clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardiner about
them directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him
how much he will give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring 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 endeavoured to give some relief to the violence of
these transports, by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr.
Gardiner'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? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my children
must have had all his money, you know; and it is the first time we have
ever had anything from him, except a few presents. 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 write for me. We will settle with your father about the money
afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately."

She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, 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 Meryton," said she, "as soon as I am dressed, and tell the
good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come back, I can call
on Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and order the carriage.
An airing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do
anything for you in Meryton? Oh! Here comes Hill! My dear Hill, have you
heard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be married; and you shall
all have a bowl of punch to make merry at her wedding."

Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received her
congratulations amongst 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.


Chapter 50


Mr. Bennet 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 anyone
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. Bennet 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.
Bennet, 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. Bennet 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. Bennet 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. Bennet
could have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him. In
terms of grateful acknowledgment 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 fulfil 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 in 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 borne in the latter 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
farmhouse. But there was much to be talked of in marrying her; and the
good-natured wishes for her well-doing which had proceeded before from
all the spiteful old ladies in Meryton lost but a little of their spirit
in this change of circumstances, because with such an 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 her 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.

"Haye Park might do," said she, "if the Gouldings 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 these 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 acquainted 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
unfavourable 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 from it 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 Derbyshire, 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 judgement, 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
connubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and
precluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their
family.

How Wickham and 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. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet's
acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurance of his eagerness to
promote the welfare of any of his family; and concluded with entreaties
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 corps as highly advisable, both on
his account and my niece's. 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
ensigncy in General ----'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 Meryton, 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. Haggerston 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 daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham's removal
from the ----shire 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
Hertfordshire, 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 will 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 ----'s
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 ----, and they were to return in it by dinner-time. Their
arrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets, 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 shewed 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 Lydia led
voluntarily 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! though 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 nor saw anything of
which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, "Oh! mamma, do the
people hereabouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might not;
and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, 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 parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with
anxious parade, walk up to her mother's right hand, and hear her say
to her eldest sister, "Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go
lower, because I am a married woman."

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 mean time, she went after dinner to show her
ring, and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.

"Well, mamma," said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast
room, "and what do you think of my husband? Is not he 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, mamma, we did not all go."

"Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don't
at all like your going such a way off. 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 care to get good 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 favour," 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 every
thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds on
the first of September, than any body else in the country.

One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two
elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth:

"Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe. You
were not by, when I told mamma and the others all about it. Are not you
curious to hear how it was managed?"

"No really," replied Elizabeth; "I think there cannot be too little said
on the subject."

"La! You are 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! I was so afraid, you know, that something would happen to
put it off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. 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 bye, you are 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 get together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I
did not know what to do, for 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. 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? It was to be such a secret!"

"If it was to be 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 certainly tell you
all, and then Wickham would 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 as to 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 dropt, 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 write 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 certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems 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 confidante.


Chapter 52


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, hurrying into the little copse, 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.

"Gracechurch street, Sept. 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 had not imagined 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 has 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. Darcy called, and was shut up with him several
hours. It was all over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so
dreadfully racked as _yours_ seems to have been. He came to tell Mr.
Gardiner 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 love or confide
in him. He generously imputed the whole 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. Younge, 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. Younge 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
wished-for direction. They were in ---- 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 friends 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 and expedite a marriage, which,
in his very first conversation with Wickham, he easily learnt 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 all 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 married your 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.

"Every thing being settled between _them_, Mr. Darcy's next step was to
make your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in Gracechurch
street the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardiner 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 till 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, Lizzy, that
obstinacy is the real defect of his character, after all. He has been
accused of many faults 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 of use 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, Lizzy, 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
had been received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was 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 Lizzy, 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 every thing. 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 staid with us, if I had not
perceived, by Jane's letter last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming
home was exactly of a piece with it, and therefore what I now tell
you can give you no fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most
serious manner, representing to her all the wickedness of what she had
done, and all the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If she
heard me, it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not listen. I was
sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my dear Elizabeth and
Jane, and for their sakes had patience with her.

"Mr. Darcy was punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you,
attended the wedding. 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; he wants nothing but a little
more liveliness, and _that_, if he marry _prudently_, his wife may teach
him. I thought him very sly;--he hardly ever mentioned your name. But
slyness 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 phaeton, 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. GARDINER."

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 attendant 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 meet, frequently meet, 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 abhorrence 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, every thing, 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. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to
Meryton. 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 were gone into the army, and she was afraid had--not turned
out well. At such a distance as _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 can be doing there."

"Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh," 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 Gardiners 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 dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age."

"Did you go by the village of Kympton?"

"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 soon 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 your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business
had been compromised accordingly."

"You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember
what I told you on that point, when first we talked of it."

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 be always of one
mind."

She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry, though
he hardly knew how 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 twelvemonth.

"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 adieus 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. Lydia does not leave me because she is married,
but only because her husband's regiment happens to be so far off. 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. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?"

"You may depend on it," replied the other, "for Mrs. Nicholls was in
Meryton 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's, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat on
Wednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks just fit to be killed."

Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without changing
colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to
Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said:

"I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the present
report; and I know I appeared distressed. But don't imagine it was from
any silly cause. 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 has 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 twelvemonth 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. I will not spend my hours
in running after my neighbours every time they go away and come back
again."

"Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably 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 Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon. That will
make thirteen with ourselves, so there will be just room at 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 Hertfordshire, 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, mamma," said Kitty; "who can it be?"

"Some acquaintance or other, 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 else 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 shew Mrs.
Gardiner's letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him.
To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals 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 lustre 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, and 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 complaisance.

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 Hertfordshire, than as
she had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother's
presence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. 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 curtsey and address 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. Gardiner 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 Derbyshire. 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
the ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please, than when
they 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 Michaelmas; 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, Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,' without there being a
syllable said of her father, or the place where she lived, or anything.
It was my brother Gardiner'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 a way 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 ----shire, 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 levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such
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 manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you, and
will save all the best of the covies for you."

Elizabeth's misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious
attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present as had
flattered them a year ago, every thing, 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 re-kindled 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 gentlemen 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.

"You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley," she added, "for when
you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with
us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you 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. They then 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.


Chapter 54


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 a 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 as 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 gentlemen 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, forbore
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 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 humour. 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
gentlemen came, was wearisome and dull to a degree that almost made her
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_," said she, "I shall give him up for
ever."

The gentlemen 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 gentlemen'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 everyone 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 would 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 a little revived, 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. Annesley is with her. The others have been 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, the ladies
all rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon 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. Bennet 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 every thing has passed off uncommonly well,
I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The
venison was roasted to a turn--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. Bennet, 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. Bennet, 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 Bennet to Elizabeth. "The
party seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we
may often meet again."

Elizabeth smiled.

"Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me.
I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his 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 never had
any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed
with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally
pleasing, than any other man."

"You are very cruel," said her sister, "you will not let me smile, and
are provoking me to it 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 confidante."


Chapter 55


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. Here, Sarah, come to Miss
Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss
Lizzy's hair."

"We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is
forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago."

"Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick!
Where 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 up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of
the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking 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 mamma? 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 in to it. In a few minutes, Mrs.
Bennet half-opened the door and called out:

"Lizzy, 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 up stairs to sit in
my dressing-room."

Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained
quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned
into the drawing-room.

Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every
thing 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. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably
persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's
concurrence.

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
every body 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 not everybody 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 anyone but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, 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 up stairs with Kitty.

Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease
with which 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 friend's anxious
circumspection! of all his sister's 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 up stairs. She will be down in a moment, I dare say."

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.

It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of
Miss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as
made her look handsomer than ever. 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 them at supper, his voice and manner plainly showed
how really happy he was.

Not a word, however, passed his lips in 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 to 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. You are
each of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so
easy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will
always exceed your income."

"I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money 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 Hertfordshire 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 Longbourn;
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 of
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," replied Elizabeth. "But how did he account for
it?"

"It must have been his sister's 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 their brother is happy with me, they will
learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though we
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 panegyric 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 prejudice 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 never could be so happy as
you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can 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 Longbourn 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 Meryton.

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.


Chapter 56


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 chaise and four driving up
the lawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors, and besides, the
equipage 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 Bourgh.

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. That lady, I suppose, is your
mother."

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 Rosings, 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, in
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 favour me with your company."

"Go, my dear," cried her mother, "and show her ladyship about the
different 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-parlour 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 copse; 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 her nephew?" said she, as she looked in
her face.

As soon as they entered the copse, 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 honour 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 your
sister was 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 suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved
on setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to
you."

"If you believed it impossible to be true," said Elizabeth, colouring
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."

"Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family," said Elizabeth
coolly, "will be rather a confirmation of it; if, indeed, such a report
is in existence."

"If! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been
industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a
report is spread abroad?"

"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 such
language 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 will
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 unallied to
the family! Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends? To his
tacit engagement with Miss de Bourgh? 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 Miss de Bourgh. 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 not he to make
another choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I 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 wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will
be censured, slighted, and despised, by everyone connected with him.
Your alliance will be a disgrace; 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 this your gratitude
for my attentions to you last spring? 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 father's, 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."

"True. You _are_ a gentleman's daughter. But who was your mother?
Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their
condition."

"Whatever my connections may be," said Elizabeth, "if your nephew does
not object to them, they can be nothing to _you_."

"Tell me once 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. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry
your daughter; 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 importuned 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 expence 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. I send no compliments to your mother. 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 up stairs. 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 prodigiously
civil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the Collinses were
well. She is on her road somewhere, I dare say, and so, passing through
Meryton, thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had
nothing particular to say to you, Lizzy?"

Elizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for to
acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible.


Chapter 57


The discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary visit threw
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 neighbours
at Lucas Lodge, therefore (for through their communication with the
Collinses, 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.

"Lizzy," 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 fire place, 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."

"From 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 Bennet, 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, Lizzy, who is meant by this?" 'This young
gentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with every thing 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 precipitate
closure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be
inclined to take immediate advantage of.'

"Have you any idea, Lizzy, 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 Bourgh, does not look on the match with
a friendly eye.'

"_Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, 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 who 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 her
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 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; and 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 _missish_,
I hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For 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's 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 refuse 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 58


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
Maria; 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, care 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. Gardiner
was so little to be trusted."

"You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed 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
his 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, in proving of what importance 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,
peculiarly 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 contrariwise.

"It taught me to hope," said he, "as I had scarcely ever allowed myself
to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain that,
had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have
acknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly."

Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, "Yes, you know enough
of my frankness to believe me capable of _that_. After abusing you so
abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all
your relations."

"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 share of blame annexed 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. Your
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 confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice."

"I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an
impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever 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 dread your 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
opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily
changed as that implies."

"When I wrote that letter," replied Darcy, "I believed 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 were then, 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 of 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. I have been a selfish
being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I
was taught what was 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 an only son (for many years an only child), I was spoilt
by my parents, who, though good themselves (my father, particularly, all
that was benevolent and amiable), allowed, encouraged, 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 lead 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 am 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
confess 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 in 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 farther.

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
prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but
his reliance on mine made every thing 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.


Chapter 59


"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 in 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 be impossible."

"This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on you; and
I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I am
in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we are
engaged."

Jane looked at her doubtingly. "Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much
you dislike him."

"You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot. Perhaps I
did not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases as
these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever
remember it myself."

Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more
seriously assured her of its truth.

"Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you," cried
Jane. "My dear, dear Lizzy, I would--I do congratulate you--but are you
certain? forgive the question--are you quite certain that you can be
happy with him?"

"There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already, that
we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased,
Jane? Shall you like to have such a brother?"

"Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more
delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you
really love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do anything rather than
marry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought
to do?"

"Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do, when I
tell you all."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am
afraid you will be angry."

"My dearest sister, now _be_ serious. I want to talk very seriously. Let
me know every thing that I am to know, without delay. Will you tell me
how long you have loved him?"

"It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began.
But I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds
at Pemberley."

Another entreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the
desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances
of attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Bennet had nothing
further to wish.

"Now I am quite happy," said she, "for you will be as happy as myself.
I always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you,
I must always have esteemed him; but now, as Bingley's friend and your
husband, there can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But
Lizzy, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you
tell me of what passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know
of it to another, not to you."

Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling
to mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made
her equally avoid the name of his friend. But now she would no longer
conceal from her his share in Lydia's marriage. All was acknowledged,
and half the night spent in conversation.

                          * * * * *

"Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the next
morning, "if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here again with
our dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always
coming here? I had no notion but he would go a-shooting, or something or
other, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him?
Lizzy, you must walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley's
way."

Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal; yet
was really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an
epithet.

As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively, and
shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information;
and he soon afterwards said aloud, "Mrs. Bennet, have you no more lanes
hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?"

"I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty," said Mrs. Bennet, "to walk
to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has
never seen the view."

"It may do very well for the others," replied Mr. Bingley; "but I am
sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won't it, Kitty?" Kitty owned that
she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great curiosity to see
the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently consented. As she went
up stairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her, saying:

"I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that
disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind it: it is
all for Jane's sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking
to him, except just now and then. So, do not put yourself to
inconvenience."

During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet's consent should be
asked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved to herself the
application for her mother's. She could not determine how her mother
would take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur
would be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man. But whether she
were violently set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it
was certain that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit
to her sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear
the first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her
disapprobation.

                          * * * * *

In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library, she saw
Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on seeing it was
extreme. She did not fear her father's opposition, but he was going to
be made unhappy; and that it should be through her means--that _she_,
his favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be
filling him with fears and regrets in disposing of her--was a wretched
reflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when,
looking at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes
he approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while
pretending to admire her work said in a whisper, "Go to your father, he
wants you in the library." She was gone directly.

Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious.
"Lizzy," said he, "what are you doing? Are you out of your senses, to be
accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?"

How earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been more
reasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have spared her from
explanations and professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give;
but they were now necessary, and she assured him, with some confusion,
of her attachment to Mr. Darcy.

"Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich, to be
sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than Jane.
But will they make you happy?"

"Have you any other objection," said Elizabeth, "than your belief of my
indifference?"

"None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but
this would be nothing if you really liked him."

"I do, I do like him," she replied, with tears in her eyes, "I love him.
Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not
know what he really is; then pray do not pain me by speaking of him in
such terms."

"Lizzy," said her father, "I have given him my consent. He is the kind
of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse anything, which he
condescended to ask. I now give it to _you_, if you are resolved on
having him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know
your disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor
respectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband; unless you looked
up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the
greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape
discredit and misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing
_you_ unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are
about."

Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply; and
at length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was really the object
of her choice, by explaining the gradual change which her estimation of
him had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that his affection
was not the work of a day, but had stood the test of many months'
suspense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities, she did
conquer her father's incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.

"Well, my dear," said he, when she ceased speaking, "I have no more to
say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have parted with
you, my Lizzy, to anyone less worthy."

To complete the favourable impression, she then told him what Mr. Darcy
had voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with astonishment.

"This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did every thing;
made up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow's debts, and got him
his commission! So much the better. It will save me a world of trouble
and economy. Had it been your uncle's doing, I must and _would_ have
paid him; but these violent young lovers carry every thing their own
way. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow; he will rant and storm about
his love for you, and there will be an end of the matter."

He then recollected her embarrassment a few days before, on his reading
Mr. Collins's letter; and after laughing at her some time, allowed her
at last to go--saying, as she quitted the room, "If any young men come
for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am quite at leisure."

Elizabeth's mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and, after
half an hour's quiet reflection in her own room, she was able to join
the others with tolerable composure. Every thing was too recent for
gaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away; there was no longer
anything material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity
would come in time.

When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she followed her,
and made the important communication. Its effect was most extraordinary;
for on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and unable to
utter a syllable. Nor was it under many, many minutes that she could
comprehend what she heard; though not in general backward to credit
what was for the advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a
lover to any of them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in
her chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless herself.

"Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy! Who would
have thought it! And is it really true? Oh! my sweetest Lizzy! how rich
and how great you will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages
you will have! Jane's is nothing to it--nothing at all. I am so
pleased--so happy. Such a charming man!--so handsome! so tall!--Oh, my
dear Lizzy! pray apologise for my having disliked him so much before. I
hope he will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Every thing
that is charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh,
Lord! What will become of me. I shall go distracted."

This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be doubted: and
Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard only by herself,
soon went away. But before she had been three minutes in her own room,
her mother followed her.

"My dearest child," she cried, "I can think of nothing else! Ten
thousand a year, and very likely more! 'Tis as good as a Lord! And a
special licence. You must and shall be married by a special licence. But
my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond of,
that I may have it to-morrow."

This was a sad omen of what her mother's behaviour to the gentleman
himself might be; and Elizabeth found that, though in the certain
possession of his warmest affection, and secure of her relations'
consent, there was still something to be wished for. But the morrow
passed off much better than she expected; for Mrs. Bennet luckily stood
in such awe of her intended son-in-law that she ventured not to speak to
him, unless it was in her power to offer him any attention, or mark her
deference for his opinion.

Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains to get
acquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that he was rising
every hour in his esteem.

"I admire all my three sons-in-law highly," said he. "Wickham, perhaps,
is my favourite; but I think I shall like _your_ husband quite as well
as Jane's."


Chapter 60


Elizabeth's spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr.
Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. "How could
you begin?" said she. "I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when
you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first
place?"

"I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which
laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I
knew that I _had_ begun."

"My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners--my behaviour
to _you_ was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke
to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now be sincere;
did you admire me for my impertinence?"

"For the liveliness of your mind, I did."

"You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little less.
The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious
attention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking,
and looking, and thinking for _your_ approbation alone. I roused, and
interested you, because I was so unlike _them_. Had you not been really
amiable, you would have hated me for it; but in spite of the pains you
took to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and
in your heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously
courted you. There--I have saved you the trouble of accounting for
it; and really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly
reasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of me--but nobody thinks
of _that_ when they fall in love."

"Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane while she was
ill at Netherfield?"

"Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it
by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are
to exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me
to find occasions for teasing and quarrelling with you as often as may
be; and I shall begin directly by asking you what made you so unwilling
to come to the point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first
called, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you called, did
you look as if you did not care about me?"

"Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement."

"But I was embarrassed."

"And so was I."

"You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner."

"A man who had felt less, might."

"How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that
I should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how long you
_would_ have gone on, if you had been left to yourself. I wonder when
you _would_ have spoken, if I had not asked you! My resolution of
thanking you for your kindness to Lydia had certainly great effect.
_Too much_, I am afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if our comfort
springs from a breach of promise? for I ought not to have mentioned the
subject. This will never do."

"You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly fair. Lady
Catherine's unjustifiable endeavours to separate us were the means of
removing all my doubts. I am not indebted for my present happiness to
your eager desire of expressing your gratitude. I was not in a humour
to wait for any opening of yours. My aunt's intelligence had given me
hope, and I was determined at once to know every thing."

"Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy,
for she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down to
Netherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed?
or had you intended any more serious consequence?"

"My real purpose was to see _you_, and to judge, if I could, whether I
might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or what I avowed to
myself, was to see whether your sister were still partial to Bingley,
and if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since made."

"Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine what is to
befall her?"

"I am more likely to want more time than courage, Elizabeth. But it
ought to be done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it shall be
done directly."

"And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you and
admire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady once did. But
I have an aunt, too, who must not be longer neglected."

From an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr. Darcy
had been over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs. Gardiner's
long letter; but now, having _that_ to communicate which she knew would
be most welcome, she was almost ashamed to find that her uncle and
aunt had already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as
follows:

"I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have done,
for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of particulars; but to say the
truth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than really existed.
But _now_ suppose as much as you choose; give a loose rein to your
fancy, indulge your imagination in every possible flight which the
subject will afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you
cannot greatly err. You must write again very soon, and praise him a
great deal more than you did in your last. I thank you, again and again,
for not going to the Lakes. How could I be so silly as to wish it! Your
idea of the ponies is delightful. We will go round the Park every day. I
am the happiest creature in the world. Perhaps other people have said so
before, but not one with such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she
only smiles, I laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world that
he can spare from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas.
Yours, etc."

Mr. Darcy's letter to Lady Catherine was in a different style; and still
different from either was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr. Collins, in reply
to his last.

"DEAR SIR,

"I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will soon
be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as you can.
But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has more to give.

"Yours sincerely, etc."

Miss Bingley's congratulations to her brother, on his approaching
marriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote even
to Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and repeat all her
former professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but she was
affected; and though feeling no reliance on her, could not help writing
her a much kinder answer than she knew was deserved.

The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar information,
was as sincere as her brother's in sending it. Four sides of paper were
insufficient to contain all her delight, and all her earnest desire of
being loved by her sister.

Before any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any congratulations
to Elizabeth from his wife, the Longbourn family heard that the
Collinses were come themselves to Lucas Lodge. The reason of this
sudden removal was soon evident. Lady Catherine had been rendered
so exceedingly angry by the contents of her nephew's letter, that
Charlotte, really rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get away till
the storm was blown over. At such a moment, the arrival of her friend
was a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth, though in the course of their
meetings she must sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when she
saw Mr. Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of
her husband. He bore it, however, with admirable calmness. He could even
listen to Sir William Lucas, when he complimented him on carrying away
the brightest jewel of the country, and expressed his hopes of their all
meeting frequently at St. James's, with very decent composure. If he did
shrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir William was out of sight.

Mrs. Phillips's vulgarity was another, and perhaps a greater, tax on his
forbearance; and though Mrs. Phillips, as well as her sister, stood in
too much awe of him to speak with the familiarity which Bingley's good
humour encouraged, yet, whenever she _did_ speak, she must be vulgar.
Nor was her respect for him, though it made her more quiet, at all
likely to make her more elegant. Elizabeth did all she could to shield
him from the frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep
him to herself, and to those of her family with whom he might converse
without mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings arising
from all this took from the season of courtship much of its pleasure, it
added to the hope of the future; and she looked forward with delight to
the time when they should be removed from society so little pleasing
to either, to all the comfort and elegance of their family party at
Pemberley.


Chapter 61


Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got
rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride
she afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley, and talked of Mrs. Darcy, may
be guessed. I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the
accomplishment of her earnest desire in the establishment of so many
of her children produced so happy an effect as to make her a sensible,
amiable, well-informed woman for the rest of her life; though perhaps it
was lucky for her husband, who might not have relished domestic felicity
in so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous and
invariably silly.

Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection for her
drew him oftener from home than anything else could do. He delighted in
going to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected.

Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. So near
a vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not desirable even to
_his_ easy temper, or _her_ affectionate heart. The darling wish of his
sisters was then gratified; he bought an estate in a neighbouring county
to Derbyshire, and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source
of happiness, were within thirty miles of each other.

Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with
her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had generally
known, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable a
temper as Lydia; and, removed from the influence of Lydia's example,
she became, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less
ignorant, and less insipid. From the further disadvantage of Lydia's
society she was of course carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham
frequently invited her to come and stay with her, with the promise of
balls and young men, her father would never consent to her going.

Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was necessarily
drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Bennet's being quite
unable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix more with the world, but
she could still moralize over every morning visit; and as she was no
longer mortified by comparisons between her sisters' beauty and her own,
it was suspected by her father that she submitted to the change without
much reluctance.

As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution from
the marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the conviction that
Elizabeth must now become acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude
and falsehood had before been unknown to her; and in spite of every
thing, was not wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be prevailed on
to make his fortune. The congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received
from Lydia on her marriage, explained to her that, by his wife at least,
if not by himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this
effect:

"MY DEAR LIZZY,

"I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my dear
Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you so
rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will think of us.
I am sure Wickham would like a place at court very much, and I do not
think we shall have quite money enough to live upon without some help.
Any place would do, of about three or four hundred a year; but however,
do not speak to Mr. Darcy about it, if you had rather not.

"Yours, etc."

As it happened that Elizabeth had _much_ rather not, she endeavoured in
her answer to put an end to every entreaty and expectation of the kind.
Such relief, however, as it was in her power to afford, by the practice
of what might be called economy in her own private expences, she
frequently sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an
income as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in
their wants, and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to
their support; and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or
herself were sure of being applied to for some little assistance
towards discharging their bills. Their manner of living, even when the
restoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the
extreme. They were always moving from place to place in quest of a cheap
situation, and always spending more than they ought. His affection for
her soon sunk into indifference; hers lasted a little longer; and
in spite of her youth and her manners, she retained all the claims to
reputation which her marriage had given her.

Though Darcy could never receive _him_ at Pemberley, yet, for
Elizabeth's sake, he assisted him further in his profession. Lydia was
occasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone to enjoy himself
in London or Bath; and with the Bingleys they both of them frequently
staid so long, that even Bingley's good humour was overcome, and he
proceeded so far as to talk of giving them a hint to be gone.

Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy's marriage; but as she
thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she
dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as
attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility
to Elizabeth.

Pemberley was now Georgiana's home; and the attachment of the sisters
was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each
other even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion
in the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with
an astonishment bordering on alarm at her lively, sportive, manner of
talking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect
which almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open
pleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen
in her way. By Elizabeth's instructions, she began to comprehend that
a woman may take liberties with her husband which a brother will not
always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself.

Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew;
and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character in
her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him
language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time
all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion,
he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation;
and, after a little further resistance on the part of his aunt, her
resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity
to see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait
on them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had
received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the
visits of her uncle and aunt from the city.

With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms.
Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever
sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing
her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.


The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex.  Their estate
was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of
their property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so
respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their
surrounding acquaintance.  The late owner of this estate was a single
man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his
life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister.  But her
death, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great
alteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and received
into his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal
inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to
bequeath it.  In the society of his nephew and niece, and their
children, the old Gentleman's days were comfortably spent.  His
attachment to them all increased.  The constant attention of Mr. and
Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from
interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid
comfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the
children added a relish to his existence.

By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son: by his present
lady, three daughters.  The son, a steady respectable young man, was
amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large,
and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age.  By his own
marriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his
wealth.  To him therefore the succession to the Norland estate was not
so really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent
of what might arise to them from their father's inheriting that
property, could be but small.  Their mother had nothing, and their
father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the
remaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her
child, and he had only a life-interest in it.

The old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every other
will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure.  He was neither so
unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew;--but
he left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the
bequest.  Mr. Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife
and daughters than for himself or his son;--but to his son, and his
son's son, a child of four years old, it was secured, in such a way, as
to leave to himself no power of providing for those who were most dear
to him, and who most needed a provision by any charge on the estate, or
by any sale of its valuable woods.  The whole was tied up for the
benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his father and
mother at Norland, had so far gained on the affections of his uncle, by
such attractions as are by no means unusual in children of two or three
years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his
own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, as to outweigh
all the value of all the attention which, for years, he had received
from his niece and her daughters.  He meant not to be unkind, however,
and, as a mark of his affection for the three girls, he left them a
thousand pounds a-piece.

Mr. Dashwood's disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper was
cheerful and sanguine; and he might reasonably hope to live many years,
and by living economically, lay by a considerable sum from the produce
of an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate
improvement.  But the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was
his only one twelvemonth.  He survived his uncle no longer; and ten
thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained for
his widow and daughters.

His son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him Mr.
Dashwood recommended, with all the strength and urgency which illness
could command, the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters.

Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the
family; but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at
such a time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to make
them comfortable.  His father was rendered easy by such an assurance,
and Mr. John Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there might
prudently be in his power to do for them.

He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted
and rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well
respected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of
his ordinary duties.  Had he married a more amiable woman, he might
have been made still more respectable than he was:--he might even have
been made amiable himself; for he was very young when he married, and
very fond of his wife.  But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature
of himself;--more narrow-minded and selfish.

When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to
increase the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand
pounds a-piece.  He then really thought himself equal to it.  The
prospect of four thousand a-year, in addition to his present income,
besides the remaining half of his own mother's fortune, warmed his
heart, and made him feel capable of generosity.-- "Yes, he would give
them three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome! It would
be enough to make them completely easy.  Three thousand pounds! he
could spare so considerable a sum with little inconvenience."-- He
thought of it all day long, and for many days successively, and he did
not repent.

No sooner was his father's funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood,
without sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law,
arrived with her child and their attendants.  No one could dispute her
right to come; the house was her husband's from the moment of his
father's decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the
greater, and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's situation, with only common
feelings, must have been highly unpleasing;--but in HER mind there was
a sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any offence of
the kind, by whomsoever given or received, was to her a source of
immovable disgust.  Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a favourite with
any of her husband's family; but she had had no opportunity, till the
present, of shewing them with how little attention to the comfort of
other people she could act when occasion required it.

So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so
earnestly did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the
arrival of the latter, she would have quitted the house for ever, had
not the entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on the
propriety of going, and her own tender love for all her three children
determined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid a breach
with their brother.

Elinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed
a strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified
her, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother, and
enabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all,
that eagerness of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led
to imprudence.  She had an excellent heart;--her disposition was
affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern
them: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn; and which
one of her sisters had resolved never to be taught.

Marianne's abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to Elinor's.
She was sensible and clever; but eager in everything: her sorrows, her
joys, could have no moderation.  She was generous, amiable,
interesting: she was everything but prudent.  The resemblance between
her and her mother was strikingly great.

Elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister's sensibility; but
by Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cherished.  They encouraged each
other now in the violence of their affliction.  The agony of grief
which overpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought
for, was created again and again.  They gave themselves up wholly to
their sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection that
could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation in
future.  Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could
struggle, she could exert herself.  She could consult with her brother,
could receive her sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with
proper attention; and could strive to rouse her mother to similar
exertion, and encourage her to similar forbearance.

Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl; but
as she had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne's romance, without
having much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal
her sisters at a more advanced period of life.



CHAPTER 2


Mrs. John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of Norland; and her
mother and sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors.
As such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; and by
her husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody
beyond himself, his wife, and their child.  He really pressed them,
with some earnestness, to consider Norland as their home; and, as no
plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as remaining there till she
could accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his
invitation was accepted.

A continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former
delight, was exactly what suited her mind.  In seasons of cheerfulness,
no temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater
degree, that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness
itself.  But in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy,
and as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy.

Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband intended
to do for his sisters.  To take three thousand pounds from the fortune
of their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most
dreadful degree.  She begged him to think again on the subject.  How
could he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too,
of so large a sum?  And what possible claim could the Miss Dashwoods,
who were related to him only by half blood, which she considered as no
relationship at all, have on his generosity to so large an amount.  It
was very well known that no affection was ever supposed to exist
between the children of any man by different marriages; and why was he
to ruin himself, and their poor little Harry, by giving away all his
money to his half sisters?

"It was my father's last request to me," replied her husband, "that I
should assist his widow and daughters."

"He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say; ten to one but he
was light-headed at the time.  Had he been in his right senses, he
could not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half
your fortune from your own child."

"He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he only
requested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their
situation more comfortable than it was in his power to do.  Perhaps it
would have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself.  He could
hardly suppose I should neglect them.  But as he required the promise,
I could not do less than give it; at least I thought so at the time.
The promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed.  Something
must be done for them whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new
home."

"Well, then, LET something be done for them; but THAT something need
not be three thousand pounds.  Consider," she added, "that when the
money is once parted with, it never can return.  Your sisters will
marry, and it will be gone for ever.  If, indeed, it could be restored
to our poor little boy--"

"Why, to be sure," said her husband, very gravely, "that would make
great difference.  The time may come when Harry will regret that so
large a sum was parted with.  If he should have a numerous family, for
instance, it would be a very convenient addition."

"To be sure it would."

"Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were
diminished one half.--Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious
increase to their fortunes!"

"Oh! beyond anything great!  What brother on earth would do half so
much for his sisters, even if REALLY his sisters!  And as it is--only
half blood!--But you have such a generous spirit!"

"I would not wish to do any thing mean," he replied.  "One had rather,
on such occasions, do too much than too little.  No one, at least, can
think I have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can hardly
expect more."

"There is no knowing what THEY may expect," said the lady, "but we are
not to think of their expectations: the question is, what you can
afford to do."

"Certainly--and I think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds
a-piece.  As it is, without any addition of mine, they will each have
about three thousand pounds on their mother's death--a very comfortable
fortune for any young woman."

"To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no
addition at all.  They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst
them.  If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do
not, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of ten
thousand pounds."

"That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the
whole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother
while she lives, rather than for them--something of the annuity kind I
mean.--My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself.
A hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable."

His wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this
plan.

"To be sure," said she, "it is better than parting with fifteen hundred
pounds at once.  But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live fifteen years
we shall be completely taken in."

"Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that
purchase."

"Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when
there is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and healthy,
and hardly forty.  An annuity is a very serious business; it comes over
and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it.  You are not
aware of what you are doing.  I have known a great deal of the trouble
of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment of three to
old superannuated servants by my father's will, and it is amazing how
disagreeable she found it.  Twice every year these annuities were to be
paid; and then there was the trouble of getting it to them; and then
one of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be
no such thing.  My mother was quite sick of it.  Her income was not her
own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it was the more
unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money would have been
entirely at my mother's disposal, without any restriction whatever.  It
has given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would
not pin myself down to the payment of one for all the world."

"It is certainly an unpleasant thing," replied Mr. Dashwood, "to have
those kind of yearly drains on one's income.  One's fortune, as your
mother justly says, is NOT one's own.  To be tied down to the regular
payment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it
takes away one's independence."

"Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it.  They think
themselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises
no gratitude at all.  If I were you, whatever I did should be done at
my own discretion entirely.  I would not bind myself to allow them any
thing yearly.  It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a
hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses."

"I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should
be no annuity in the case; whatever I may give them occasionally will
be of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they
would only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger
income, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the
year.  It will certainly be much the best way.  A present of fifty
pounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for
money, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my father."

"To be sure it will.  Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within
myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at
all.  The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might
be reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a
comfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things,
and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever they
are in season.  I'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed,
it would be very strange and unreasonable if he did.  Do but consider,
my dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law
and her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand pounds,
besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which
brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of course, they will
pay their mother for their board out of it.  Altogether, they will have
five hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want
for more than that?--They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will
be nothing at all.  They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly
any servants; they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of
any kind!  Only conceive how comfortable they will be!  Five hundred a
year! I am sure I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as
to your giving them more, it is quite absurd to think of it.  They will
be much more able to give YOU something."

"Upon my word," said Mr. Dashwood, "I believe you are perfectly right.
My father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than
what you say.  I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil
my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you
have described.  When my mother removes into another house my services
shall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can.  Some little
present of furniture too may be acceptable then."

"Certainly," returned Mrs. John Dashwood.  "But, however, ONE thing
must be considered.  When your father and mother moved to Norland,
though the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and
linen was saved, and is now left to your mother.  Her house will
therefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it."

"That is a material consideration undoubtedly.  A valuable legacy
indeed! And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant
addition to our own stock here."

"Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what
belongs to this house.  A great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for
any place THEY can ever afford to live in.  But, however, so it is.
Your father thought only of THEM.  And I must say this: that you owe no
particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we very
well know that if he could, he would have left almost everything in the
world to THEM."

This argument was irresistible.  It gave to his intentions whatever of
decision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be
absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the
widow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as
his own wife pointed out.



CHAPTER 3


Mrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months; not from any
disinclination to move when the sight of every well known spot ceased
to raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while; for when
her spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other
exertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy
remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her
inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for
to remove far from that beloved spot was impossible.  But she could
hear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and
ease, and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier
judgment rejected several houses as too large for their income, which
her mother would have approved.

Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on
the part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last
earthly reflections.  She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no
more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her
daughters' sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was
persuaded that a much smaller provision than 7000L would support her in
affluence.  For their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his own
heart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to his
merit before, in believing him incapable of generosity.  His attentive
behaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that their welfare
was dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the
liberality of his intentions.

The contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for
her daughter-in-law, was very much increased by the farther knowledge
of her character, which half a year's residence in her family afforded;
and perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or maternal
affection on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it
impossible to have lived together so long, had not a particular
circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to
the opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters' continuance at Norland.

This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and
the brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentleman-like and pleasing young
man, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister's
establishment at Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of
his time there.

Some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of
interest, for Edward Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died
very rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence,
for, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the
will of his mother.  But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either
consideration.  It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable,
that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the partiality.
It was contrary to every doctrine of hers that difference of fortune
should keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of
disposition; and that Elinor's merit should not be acknowledged by
every one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.

Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any
peculiar graces of person or address.  He was not handsome, and his
manners required intimacy to make them pleasing.  He was too diffident
to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome,
his behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart.
His understanding was good, and his education had given it solid
improvement.  But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to
answer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him
distinguished--as--they hardly knew what.  They wanted him to make a
fine figure in the world in some manner or other.  His mother wished to
interest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to
see him connected with some of the great men of the day.  Mrs. John
Dashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these
superior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her
ambition to see him driving a barouche.  But Edward had no turn for
great men or barouches.  All his wishes centered in domestic comfort
and the quiet of private life.  Fortunately he had a younger brother
who was more promising.

Edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged
much of Mrs. Dashwood's attention; for she was, at that time, in such
affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects.  She saw
only that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it.  He
did not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation.
She was first called to observe and approve him farther, by a
reflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on the difference
between him and his sister.  It was a contrast which recommended him
most forcibly to her mother.

"It is enough," said she; "to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough.
It implies everything amiable.  I love him already."

"I think you will like him," said Elinor, "when you know more of him."

"Like him!" replied her mother with a smile.  "I feel no sentiment of
approbation inferior to love."

"You may esteem him."

"I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love."

Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him.  Her manners
were attaching, and soon banished his reserve.  She speedily
comprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for Elinor
perhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his
worth: and even that quietness of manner, which militated against all
her established ideas of what a young man's address ought to be, was no
longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper
affectionate.

No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to
Elinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and
looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching.

"In a few months, my dear Marianne." said she, "Elinor will, in all
probability be settled for life.  We shall miss her; but SHE will be
happy."

"Oh! Mama, how shall we do without her?"

"My love, it will be scarcely a separation.  We shall live within a few
miles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives.  You will
gain a brother, a real, affectionate brother.  I have the highest
opinion in the world of Edward's heart.  But you look grave, Marianne;
do you disapprove your sister's choice?"

"Perhaps," said Marianne, "I may consider it with some surprise.
Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly.  But yet--he is not
the kind of young man--there is something wanting--his figure is not
striking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man
who could seriously attach my sister.  His eyes want all that spirit,
that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence.  And besides
all this, I am afraid, Mama, he has no real taste.  Music seems
scarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor's drawings very
much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their
worth.  It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while
she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter.  He admires as
a lover, not as a connoisseur.  To satisfy me, those characters must be
united.  I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every
point coincide with my own.  He must enter into all my feelings; the
same books, the same music must charm us both.  Oh! mama, how
spiritless, how tame was Edward's manner in reading to us last night!
I felt for my sister most severely.  Yet she bore it with so much
composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it.  I could hardly keep my
seat.  To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost
driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such
dreadful indifference!"

"He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose.
I thought so at the time; but you WOULD give him Cowper."

"Nay, Mama, if he is not to be animated by Cowper!--but we must allow
for difference of taste.  Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she
may overlook it, and be happy with him.  But it would have broke MY
heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility.
Mama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I
shall never see a man whom I can really love.  I require so much!  He
must have all Edward's virtues, and his person and manners must
ornament his goodness with every possible charm."

"Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen.  It is yet too early in
life to despair of such a happiness.  Why should you be less fortunate
than your mother?  In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your
destiny be different from hers!"



CHAPTER 4


"What a pity it is, Elinor," said Marianne, "that Edward should have no
taste for drawing."

"No taste for drawing!" replied Elinor, "why should you think so? He
does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the
performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means
deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of
improving it.  Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he
would have drawn very well.  He distrusts his own judgment in such
matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any
picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which
in general direct him perfectly right."

Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but
the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the
drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight,
which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste.  Yet, though
smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that
blind partiality to Edward which produced it.

"I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, "you do not consider him as
deficient in general taste.  Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot,
for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if THAT were your
opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him."

Marianne hardly knew what to say.  She would not wound the feelings of
her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was
impossible.  At length she replied:

"Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing
equal to your sense of his merits.  I have not had so many
opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his
inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in
the world of his goodness and sense.  I think him every thing that is
worthy and amiable."

"I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends
could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that.  I do not
perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."

Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.

"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I
think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in
unreserved conversation.  The excellence of his understanding and his
principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps
him silent.  You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth.
But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from
peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself.  He and I
have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been
wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother.  I
have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard
his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I
venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books
exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and
correct, and his taste delicate and pure.  His abilities in every
respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person.
At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person
can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which
are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is
perceived.  At present, I know him so well, that I think him really
handsome; or at least, almost so.  What say you, Marianne?"

"I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now.  When
you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection
in his face, than I now do in his heart."

Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she
had been betrayed into, in speaking of him.  She felt that Edward stood
very high in her opinion.  She believed the regard to be mutual; but
she required greater certainty of it to make Marianne's conviction of
their attachment agreeable to her.  She knew that what Marianne and her
mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next--that with them,
to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect.  She tried to explain
the real state of the case to her sister.

"I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of
him--that I greatly esteem, that I like him."

Marianne here burst forth with indignation--

"Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh!  worse than
cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise.  Use those words again, and I
will leave the room this moment."

Elinor could not help laughing.  "Excuse me," said she; "and be assured
that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my
own feelings.  Believe them to be stronger than I have declared;
believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion--the
hope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly.
But farther than this you must not believe.  I am by no means assured
of his regard for me.  There are moments when the extent of it seems
doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at
my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by
believing or calling it more than it is.  In my heart I feel
little--scarcely any doubt of his preference.  But there are other
points to be considered besides his inclination.  He is very far from
being independent.  What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from
Fanny's occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never
been disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if
Edward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in
his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great
fortune or high rank."

Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother
and herself had outstripped the truth.

"And you really are not engaged to him!" said she.  "Yet it certainly
soon will happen.  But two advantages will proceed from this delay.  I
shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity of
improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be
so indispensably necessary to your future felicity.  Oh! if he should
be so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how
delightful it would be!"

Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister.  She could not
consider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne
had believed it.  There was, at times, a want of spirits about him
which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as
unpromising.  A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not
give him more than inquietude.  It would not be likely to produce that
dejection of mind which frequently attended him.  A more reasonable
cause might be found in the dependent situation which forbade the
indulgence of his affection.  She knew that his mother neither behaved
to him so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him
any assurance that he might form a home for himself, without strictly
attending to her views for his aggrandizement.  With such a knowledge
as this, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on the subject.  She
was far from depending on that result of his preference of her, which
her mother and sister still considered as certain.  Nay, the longer
they were together the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard;
and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no more
than friendship.

But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived
by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time, (which was
still more common,) to make her uncivil.  She took the first
opportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to
her so expressively of her brother's great expectations, of Mrs.
Ferrars's resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the
danger attending any young woman who attempted to DRAW HIM IN; that
Mrs. Dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to
be calm.  She gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and
instantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the
inconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor
should not be exposed another week to such insinuations.

In this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the
post, which contained a proposal particularly well timed.  It was the
offer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of
her own, a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire.  The
letter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit
of friendly accommodation.  He understood that she was in need of a
dwelling; and though the house he now offered her was merely a cottage,
he assured her that everything should be done to it which she might
think necessary, if the situation pleased her.  He earnestly pressed
her, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to come with
her daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own residence, from
whence she might judge, herself, whether Barton Cottage, for the houses
were in the same parish, could, by any alteration, be made comfortable
to her.  He seemed really anxious to accommodate them and the whole of
his letter was written in so friendly a style as could not fail of
giving pleasure to his cousin; more especially at a moment when she was
suffering under the cold and unfeeling behaviour of her nearer
connections.  She needed no time for deliberation or inquiry.  Her
resolution was formed as she read.  The situation of Barton, in a
county so far distant from Sussex as Devonshire, which, but a few hours
before, would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every
possible advantage belonging to the place, was now its first
recommendation.  To quit the neighbourhood of Norland was no longer an
evil; it was an object of desire; it was a blessing, in comparison of
the misery of continuing her daughter-in-law's guest; and to remove for
ever from that beloved place would be less painful than to inhabit or
visit it while such a woman was its mistress.  She instantly wrote Sir
John Middleton her acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance
of his proposal; and then hastened to shew both letters to her
daughters, that she might be secure of their approbation before her
answer were sent.

Elinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle
at some distance from Norland, than immediately amongst their present
acquaintance.  On THAT head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose
her mother's intention of removing into Devonshire.  The house, too, as
described by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so
uncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on either
point; and, therefore, though it was not a plan which brought any charm
to her fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of Norland
beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother from
sending a letter of acquiescence.



CHAPTER 5


No sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged herself
in the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife that she
was provided with a house, and should incommode them no longer than till
every thing were ready for her inhabiting it. They heard her with
surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her husband civilly hoped
that she would not be settled far from Norland. She had great
satisfaction in replying that she was going into Devonshire.--Edward
turned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and, in a voice of surprise
and concern, which required no explanation to her, repeated,
"Devonshire! Are you, indeed, going there? So far from hence! And to
what part of it?" She explained the situation. It was within four miles
northward of Exeter.

"It is but a cottage," she continued, "but I hope to see many of my
friends in it.  A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends
find no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will
find none in accommodating them."

She concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood
to visit her at Barton; and to Edward she gave one with still greater
affection.  Though her late conversation with her daughter-in-law had
made her resolve on remaining at Norland no longer than was
unavoidable, it had not produced the smallest effect on her in that
point to which it principally tended.  To separate Edward and Elinor
was as far from being her object as ever; and she wished to show Mrs.
John Dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her brother, how totally
she disregarded her disapprobation of the match.

Mr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly sorry
he was that she had taken a house at such a distance from Norland as to
prevent his being of any service to her in removing her furniture.  He
really felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for the very
exertion to which he had limited the performance of his promise to his
father was by this arrangement rendered impracticable.-- The furniture
was all sent around by water.  It chiefly consisted of household linen,
plate, china, and books, with a handsome pianoforte of Marianne's.
Mrs. John Dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh: she could not
help feeling it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood's income would be so
trifling in comparison with their own, she should have any handsome
article of furniture.

Mrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready furnished,
and she might have immediate possession.  No difficulty arose on either
side in the agreement; and she waited only for the disposal of her
effects at Norland, and to determine her future household, before she
set off for the west; and this, as she was exceedingly rapid in the
performance of everything that interested her, was soon done.--The
horses which were left her by her husband had been sold soon after his
death, and an opportunity now offering of disposing of her carriage,
she agreed to sell that likewise at the earnest advice of her eldest
daughter.  For the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her
own wishes, she would have kept it; but the discretion of Elinor
prevailed.  HER wisdom too limited the number of their servants to
three; two maids and a man, with whom they were speedily provided from
amongst those who had formed their establishment at Norland.

The man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into Devonshire,
to prepare the house for their mistress's arrival; for as Lady
Middleton was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred going
directly to the cottage to being a visitor at Barton Park; and she
relied so undoubtingly on Sir John's description of the house, as to
feel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her own.
Her eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from diminution by
the evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the prospect of her
removal; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted to be concealed
under a cold invitation to her to defer her departure.  Now was the
time when her son-in-law's promise to his father might with particular
propriety be fulfilled.  Since he had neglected to do it on first
coming to the estate, their quitting his house might be looked on as
the most suitable period for its accomplishment.  But Mrs. Dashwood
began shortly to give over every hope of the kind, and to be convinced,
from the general drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended
no farther than their maintenance for six months at Norland.  He so
frequently talked of the increasing expenses of housekeeping, and of
the perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man of any consequence in
the world was beyond calculation exposed to, that he seemed rather to
stand in need of more money himself than to have any design of giving
money away.

In a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir John Middleton's
first letter to Norland, every thing was so far settled in their future
abode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters to begin their
journey.

Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so
much beloved.  "Dear, dear Norland!" said Marianne, as she wandered
alone before the house, on the last evening of their being there; "when
shall I cease to regret you!--when learn to feel a home elsewhere!--Oh!
happy house, could you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this
spot, from whence perhaps I may view you no more!--And you, ye
well-known trees!--but you will continue the same.--No leaf will decay
because we are removed, nor any branch become motionless although we
can observe you no longer!--No; you will continue the same; unconscious
of the pleasure or the regret you occasion, and insensible of any
change in those who walk under your shade!--But who will remain to
enjoy you?"



CHAPTER 6


The first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a
disposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant.  But as they
drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a
country which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view
of Barton Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness.  It was a
pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture.  After winding
along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house.  A small
green court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat wicket
gate admitted them into it.

As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact;
but as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the
roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were
the walls covered with honeysuckles.  A narrow passage led directly
through the house into the garden behind.  On each side of the entrance
was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the
offices and the stairs.  Four bed-rooms and two garrets formed the rest
of the house.  It had not been built many years and was in good repair.
In comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed!--but the tears
which recollection called forth as they entered the house were soon
dried away.  They were cheered by the joy of the servants on their
arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy.
It was very early in September; the season was fine, and from first
seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they received an
impression in its favour which was of material service in recommending
it to their lasting approbation.

The situation of the house was good.  High hills rose immediately
behind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open
downs, the others cultivated and woody.  The village of Barton was
chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the
cottage windows.  The prospect in front was more extensive; it
commanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond.
The hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley in that
direction; under another name, and in another course, it branched out
again between two of the steepest of them.

With the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the
whole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered many
additions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was a
delight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to supply
all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments.  "As for the
house itself, to be sure," said she, "it is too small for our family,
but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the present, as it
is too late in the year for improvements.  Perhaps in the spring, if I
have plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we may think about
building.  These parlors are both too small for such parties of our
friends as I hope to see often collected here; and I have some thoughts
of throwing the passage into one of them with perhaps a part of the
other, and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance; this,
with a new drawing room which may be easily added, and a bed-chamber
and garret above, will make it a very snug little cottage.  I could
wish the stairs were handsome.  But one must not expect every thing;
though I suppose it would be no difficult matter to widen them.  I
shall see how much I am before-hand with the world in the spring, and
we will plan our improvements accordingly."

In the mean time, till all these alterations could be made from the
savings of an income of five hundred a-year by a woman who never saved
in her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the house as it
was; and each of them was busy in arranging their particular concerns,
and endeavoring, by placing around them books and other possessions, to
form themselves a home.  Marianne's pianoforte was unpacked and
properly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were affixed to the walls
of their sitting room.

In such employments as these they were interrupted soon after breakfast
the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome
them to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation from his own
house and garden in which theirs might at present be deficient.  Sir
John Middleton was a good looking man about forty.  He had formerly
visited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins to
remember him.  His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his
manners were as friendly as the style of his letter.  Their arrival
seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an
object of real solicitude to him.  He said much of his earnest desire
of their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed
them so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they were
better settled at home, that, though his entreaties were carried to a
point of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give offence.
His kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour after he
left them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit arrived from
the park, which was followed before the end of the day by a present of
game.  He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their letters to and
from the post for them, and would not be denied the satisfaction of
sending them his newspaper every day.

Lady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her
intention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon as she could be assured
that her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was
answered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced
to them the next day.

They were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of
their comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance
was favourable to their wishes.  Lady Middleton was not more than six
or seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and
striking, and her address graceful.  Her manners had all the elegance
which her husband's wanted.  But they would have been improved by some
share of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to
detract something from their first admiration, by shewing that, though
perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for
herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark.

Conversation however was not wanted, for Sir John was very chatty, and
Lady Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her their
eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which means
there was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of
extremity, for they had to enquire his name and age, admire his beauty,
and ask him questions which his mother answered for him, while he hung
about her and held down his head, to the great surprise of her
ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as he could
make noise enough at home.  On every formal visit a child ought to be
of the party, by way of provision for discourse.  In the present case
it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like his
father or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of
course every body differed, and every body was astonished at the
opinion of the others.

An opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods of debating on the
rest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house without
securing their promise of dining at the park the next day.



CHAPTER 7


Barton Park was about half a mile from the cottage.  The ladies had
passed near it in their way along the valley, but it was screened from
their view at home by the projection of a hill.  The house was large
and handsome; and the Middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality
and elegance.  The former was for Sir John's gratification, the latter
for that of his lady.  They were scarcely ever without some friends
staying with them in the house, and they kept more company of every
kind than any other family in the neighbourhood.  It was necessary to
the happiness of both; for however dissimilar in temper and outward
behaviour, they strongly resembled each other in that total want of
talent and taste which confined their employments, unconnected with
such as society produced, within a very narrow compass.  Sir John was a
sportsman, Lady Middleton a mother.  He hunted and shot, and she
humoured her children; and these were their only resources.  Lady
Middleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all the
year round, while Sir John's independent employments were in existence
only half the time.  Continual engagements at home and abroad, however,
supplied all the deficiencies of nature and education; supported the
good spirits of Sir John, and gave exercise to the good breeding of his
wife.

Lady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and of
all her domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her
greatest enjoyment in any of their parties.  But Sir John's
satisfaction in society was much more real; he delighted in collecting
about him more young people than his house would hold, and the noisier
they were the better was he pleased.  He was a blessing to all the
juvenile part of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever
forming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in winter
his private balls were numerous enough for any young lady who was not
suffering under the unsatiable appetite of fifteen.

The arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy
to him, and in every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants
he had now procured for his cottage at Barton.  The Miss Dashwoods were
young, pretty, and unaffected.  It was enough to secure his good
opinion; for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to
make her mind as captivating as her person.  The friendliness of his
disposition made him happy in accommodating those, whose situation
might be considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate.  In
showing kindness to his cousins therefore he had the real satisfaction
of a good heart; and in settling a family of females only in his
cottage, he had all the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a sportsman,
though he esteems only those of his sex who are sportsmen likewise, is
not often desirous of encouraging their taste by admitting them to a
residence within his own manor.

Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters were met at the door of the house by
Sir John, who welcomed them to Barton Park with unaffected sincerity;
and as he attended them to the drawing room repeated to the young
ladies the concern which the same subject had drawn from him the day
before, at being unable to get any smart young men to meet them.  They
would see, he said, only one gentleman there besides himself; a
particular friend who was staying at the park, but who was neither very
young nor very gay.  He hoped they would all excuse the smallness of
the party, and could assure them it should never happen so again.  He
had been to several families that morning in hopes of procuring some
addition to their number, but it was moonlight and every body was full
of engagements.  Luckily Lady Middleton's mother had arrived at Barton
within the last hour, and as she was a very cheerful agreeable woman,
he hoped the young ladies would not find it so very dull as they might
imagine.  The young ladies, as well as their mother, were perfectly
satisfied with having two entire strangers of the party, and wished for
no more.

Mrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton's mother, was a good-humoured, merry,
fat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and
rather vulgar.  She was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner
was over had said many witty things on the subject of lovers and
husbands; hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex,
and pretended to see them blush whether they did or not.  Marianne was
vexed at it for her sister's sake, and turned her eyes towards Elinor
to see how she bore these attacks, with an earnestness which gave
Elinor far more pain than could arise from such common-place raillery
as Mrs. Jennings's.

Colonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed no more adapted by
resemblance of manner to be his friend, than Lady Middleton was to be
his wife, or Mrs. Jennings to be Lady Middleton's mother.  He was
silent and grave.  His appearance however was not unpleasing, in spite
of his being in the opinion of Marianne and Margaret an absolute old
bachelor, for he was on the wrong side of five and thirty; but though
his face was not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his
address was particularly gentlemanlike.

There was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them as
companions to the Dashwoods; but the cold insipidity of Lady Middleton
was so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity of
Colonel Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir John and his
mother-in-law was interesting.  Lady Middleton seemed to be roused to
enjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children after dinner,
who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to every kind of
discourse except what related to themselves.

In the evening, as Marianne was discovered to be musical, she was
invited to play.  The instrument was unlocked, every body prepared to
be charmed, and Marianne, who sang very well, at their request went
through the chief of the songs which Lady Middleton had brought into
the family on her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since in
the same position on the pianoforte, for her ladyship had celebrated
that event by giving up music, although by her mother's account, she
had played extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it.

Marianne's performance was highly applauded.  Sir John was loud in his
admiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation
with the others while every song lasted.  Lady Middleton frequently
called him to order, wondered how any one's attention could be diverted
from music for a moment, and asked Marianne to sing a particular song
which Marianne had just finished.  Colonel Brandon alone, of all the
party, heard her without being in raptures.  He paid her only the
compliment of attention; and she felt a respect for him on the
occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by their shameless
want of taste.  His pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that
ecstatic delight which alone could sympathize with her own, was
estimable when contrasted against the horrible insensibility of the
others; and she was reasonable enough to allow that a man of five and
thirty might well have outlived all acuteness of feeling and every
exquisite power of enjoyment.  She was perfectly disposed to make every
allowance for the colonel's advanced state of life which humanity
required.



CHAPTER 8


Mrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure.  She had only two
daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and
she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the
world.  In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as
far as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting
weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance.  She was
remarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the
advantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by
insinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind of
discernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton decisively to
pronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne
Dashwood.  She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening
of their being together, from his listening so attentively while she
sang to them; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons' dining
at the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again.
It must be so.  She was perfectly convinced of it.  It would be an
excellent match, for HE was rich, and SHE was handsome.  Mrs. Jennings
had been anxious to see Colonel Brandon well married, ever since her
connection with Sir John first brought him to her knowledge; and she
was always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl.

The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for
it supplied her with endless jokes against them both.  At the park she
laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne.  To the former
her raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself,
perfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first
incomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew
whether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence,
for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel's
advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor.

Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than
herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of
her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of
wishing to throw ridicule on his age.

"But at least, Mama, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation,
though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured.  Colonel Brandon
is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be MY
father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have
long outlived every sensation of the kind.  It is too ridiculous!  When
is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not
protect him?"

"Infirmity!" said Elinor, "do you call Colonel Brandon infirm?  I can
easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my
mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of
his limbs!"

"Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism?  and is not that the
commonest infirmity of declining life?"

"My dearest child," said her mother, laughing, "at this rate you must
be in continual terror of MY decay; and it must seem to you a miracle
that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty."

"Mama, you are not doing me justice.  I know very well that Colonel
Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of
losing him in the course of nature.  He may live twenty years longer.
But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony."

"Perhaps," said Elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have
any thing to do with matrimony together.  But if there should by any
chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should
not think Colonel Brandon's being thirty-five any objection to his
marrying HER."

"A woman of seven and twenty," said Marianne, after pausing a moment,
"can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be
uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring
herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the
provision and security of a wife.  In his marrying such a woman
therefore there would be nothing unsuitable.  It would be a compact of
convenience, and the world would be satisfied.  In my eyes it would be
no marriage at all, but that would be nothing.  To me it would seem
only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the
expense of the other."

"It would be impossible, I know," replied Elinor, "to convince you that
a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five
anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her.
But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the
constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to
complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in
one of his shoulders."

"But he talked of flannel waistcoats," said Marianne; "and with me a
flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps,
rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and
the feeble."

"Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him
half so much.  Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to
you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?"

Soon after this, upon Elinor's leaving the room, "Mama," said
Marianne, "I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot
conceal from you.  I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well.  We have now
been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come.  Nothing but
real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay.  What else
can detain him at Norland?"

"Had you any idea of his coming so soon?" said Mrs. Dashwood.  "I had
none.  On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the
subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of
pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his
coming to Barton.  Does Elinor expect him already?"

"I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must."

"I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her
yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed
that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the
room would be wanted for some time."

"How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it!  But the whole of
their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how
composed were their last adieus! How languid their conversation the
last evening of their being together! In Edward's farewell there was no
distinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an
affectionate brother to both.  Twice did I leave them purposely
together in the course of the last morning, and each time did he most
unaccountably follow me out of the room.  And Elinor, in quitting
Norland and Edward, cried not as I did.  Even now her self-command is
invariable.  When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try to
avoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?"



CHAPTER 9


The Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to
themselves.  The house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding
them, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had
given to Norland half its charms were engaged in again with far greater
enjoyment than Norland had been able to afford, since the loss of their
father.  Sir John Middleton, who called on them every day for the first
fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much occupation at
home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them always employed.

Their visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for, in
spite of Sir John's urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the
neighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at
their service, the independence of Mrs. Dashwood's spirit overcame the
wish of society for her children; and she was resolute in declining to
visit any family beyond the distance of a walk.  There were but few who
could be so classed; and it was not all of them that were attainable.
About a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding
valley of Allenham, which issued from that of Barton, as formerly
described, the girls had, in one of their earliest walks, discovered an
ancient respectable looking mansion which, by reminding them a little
of Norland, interested their imagination and made them wish to be
better acquainted with it.  But they learnt, on enquiry, that its
possessor, an elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately
too infirm to mix with the world, and never stirred from home.

The whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks.  The high
downs which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to
seek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy
alternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their superior
beauties; and towards one of these hills did Marianne and Margaret one
memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the partial sunshine
of a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the confinement which the
settled rain of the two preceding days had occasioned.  The weather was
not tempting enough to draw the two others from their pencil and their
book, in spite of Marianne's declaration that the day would be
lastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud would be drawn off
from their hills; and the two girls set off together.

They gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at
every glimpse of blue sky; and when they caught in their faces the
animating gales of a high south-westerly wind, they pitied the fears
which had prevented their mother and Elinor from sharing such
delightful sensations.

"Is there a felicity in the world," said Marianne, "superior to
this?--Margaret, we will walk here at least two hours."

Margaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind, resisting
it with laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer, when suddenly
the clouds united over their heads, and a driving rain set full in
their face.-- Chagrined and surprised, they were obliged, though
unwillingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their own
house.  One consolation however remained for them, to which the
exigence of the moment gave more than usual propriety; it was that of
running with all possible speed down the steep side of the hill which
led immediately to their garden gate.

They set off.  Marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step
brought her suddenly to the ground; and Margaret, unable to stop
herself to assist her, was involuntarily hurried along, and reached the
bottom in safety.

A gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was
passing up the hill and within a few yards of Marianne, when her
accident happened.  He put down his gun and ran to her assistance.  She
had raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in
her fall, and she was scarcely able to stand.  The gentleman offered
his services; and perceiving that her modesty declined what her
situation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without farther
delay, and carried her down the hill.  Then passing through the garden,
the gate of which had been left open by Margaret, he bore her directly
into the house, whither Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his
hold till he had seated her in a chair in the parlour.

Elinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and while
the eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a secret
admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he apologized for
his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so frank and so
graceful that his person, which was uncommonly handsome, received
additional charms from his voice and expression.  Had he been even old,
ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs. Dashwood would
have been secured by any act of attention to her child; but the
influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the
action which came home to her feelings.

She thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address which
always attended her, invited him to be seated.  But this he declined,
as he was dirty and wet.  Mrs. Dashwood then begged to know to whom she
was obliged.  His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his present
home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him the
honour of calling tomorrow to enquire after Miss Dashwood.  The honour
was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself still more
interesting, in the midst of a heavy rain.

His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the
theme of general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised
against Marianne received particular spirit from his exterior
attractions.-- Marianne herself had seen less of his Mama the
rest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting
her up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their
entering the house.  But she had seen enough of him to join in all the
admiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her
praise.  His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn
for the hero of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the
house with so little previous formality, there was a rapidity of
thought which particularly recommended the action to her.  Every
circumstance belonging to him was interesting.  His name was good, his
residence was in their favourite village, and she soon found out that
of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming.  Her
imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a
sprained ankle was disregarded.

Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather
that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne's accident
being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any
gentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allenham.

"Willoughby!" cried Sir John; "what, is HE in the country? That is good
news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on
Thursday."

"You know him then," said Mrs. Dashwood.

"Know him! to be sure I do.  Why, he is down here every year."

"And what sort of a young man is he?"

"As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you.  A very decent
shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England."

"And is that all you can say for him?" cried Marianne, indignantly.
"But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his
pursuits, his talents, and genius?"

Sir John was rather puzzled.

"Upon my soul," said he, "I do not know much about him as to all THAT.
But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the nicest
little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw.  Was she out with him
today?"

But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr.
Willoughby's pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his
mind.

"But who is he?" said Elinor.  "Where does he come from?  Has he a
house at Allenham?"

On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he
told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the
country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady
at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was
to inherit; adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can
tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in
Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my
younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills.  Miss
Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself.  Brandon will
be jealous, if she does not take care."

"I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile,
"that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of MY
daughters towards what you call CATCHING him.  It is not an employment
to which they have been brought up.  Men are very safe with us, let
them be ever so rich.  I am glad to find, however, from what you say,
that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not
be ineligible."

"He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived," repeated
Sir John.  "I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he
danced from eight o'clock till four, without once sitting down."

"Did he indeed?" cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, "and with
elegance, with spirit?"

"Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert."

"That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be.  Whatever
be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and
leave him no sense of fatigue."

"Aye, aye, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how it will be.
You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor
Brandon."

"That is an expression, Sir John," said Marianne, warmly, "which I
particularly dislike.  I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit
is intended; and 'setting one's cap at a man,' or 'making a conquest,'
are the most odious of all.  Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and
if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago
destroyed all its ingenuity."

Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as
heartily as if he did, and then replied,

"Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other.
Poor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth
setting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling
about and spraining of ankles."



CHAPTER 10


Marianne's preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision,
styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make
his personal enquiries.  He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with more
than politeness; with a kindness which Sir John's account of him and
her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the
visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection,
and domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced
him.  Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview
to be convinced.

Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a
remarkably pretty figure.  Marianne was still handsomer.  Her form,
though not so correct as her sister's, in having the advantage of
height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the
common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less
violently outraged than usually happens.  Her skin was very brown, but,
from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her
features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her
eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness,
which could hardily be seen without delight.  From Willoughby their
expression was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the
remembrance of his assistance created.  But when this passed away, when
her spirits became collected, when she saw that to the perfect
good-breeding of the gentleman, he united frankness and vivacity, and
above all, when she heard him declare, that of music and dancing he was
passionately fond, she gave him such a look of approbation as secured
the largest share of his discourse to herself for the rest of his stay.

It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her
to talk.  She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and
she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion.  They speedily
discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and
that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related
to either.  Encouraged by this to a further examination of his
opinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her
favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous
a delight, that any young man of five and twenty must have been
insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence
of such works, however disregarded before.  Their taste was strikingly
alike.  The same books, the same passages were idolized by each--or if
any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than
till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be
displayed.  He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her
enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they conversed with
the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance.

"Well, Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for ONE
morning I think you have done pretty well.  You have already
ascertained Mr. Willoughby's opinion in almost every matter of
importance.  You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are
certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have
received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper.
But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such
extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse?  You will soon
have exhausted each favourite topic.  Another meeting will suffice to
explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and
then you can have nothing farther to ask."--

"Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so
scanty?  But I see what you mean.  I have been too much at my ease, too
happy, too frank.  I have erred against every common-place notion of
decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been
reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful--had I talked only of the
weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this
reproach would have been spared."

"My love," said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor--she
was only in jest.  I should scold her myself, if she were capable of
wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new
friend."-- Marianne was softened in a moment.

Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their
acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer.  He
came to them every day.  To enquire after Marianne was at first his
excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave
greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased
to be possible, by Marianne's perfect recovery.  She was confined for
some days to the house; but never had any confinement been less
irksome.  Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick
imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners.  He was
exactly formed to engage Marianne's heart, for with all this, he joined
not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was
now roused and increased by the example of her own, and which
recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else.

His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment.  They read,
they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable;
and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which Edward had
unfortunately wanted.

In Mrs. Dashwood's estimation he was as faultless as in Marianne's; and
Elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he
strongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too
much what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons or
circumstances.  In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other
people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided
attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too easily the
forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which Elinor
could not approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne could say in
its support.

Marianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized
her at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her
ideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable.  Willoughby was
all that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour and in every
brighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour
declared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his abilities
were strong.

Her mother too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their
marriage had been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led before the
end of a week to hope and expect it; and secretly to congratulate
herself on having gained two such sons-in-law as Edward and Willoughby.

Colonel Brandon's partiality for Marianne, which had so early been
discovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to Elinor, when
it ceased to be noticed by them.  Their attention and wit were drawn
off to his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which the other had
incurred before any partiality arose, was removed when his feelings
began really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to sensibility.
Elinor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that the sentiments
which Mrs. Jennings had assigned him for her own satisfaction, were now
actually excited by her sister; and that however a general resemblance
of disposition between the parties might forward the affection of Mr.
Willoughby, an equally striking opposition of character was no
hindrance to the regard of Colonel Brandon.  She saw it with concern;
for what could a silent man of five and thirty hope, when opposed to a
very lively one of five and twenty? and as she could not even wish him
successful, she heartily wished him indifferent.  She liked him--in
spite of his gravity and reserve, she beheld in him an object of
interest.  His manners, though serious, were mild; and his reserve
appeared rather the result of some oppression of spirits than of any
natural gloominess of temper.  Sir John had dropped hints of past
injuries and disappointments, which justified her belief of his being
an unfortunate man, and she regarded him with respect and compassion.

Perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted by
Willoughby and Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for being neither
lively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits.

"Brandon is just the kind of man," said Willoughby one day, when they
were talking of him together, "whom every body speaks well of, and
nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers
to talk to."

"That is exactly what I think of him," cried Marianne.

"Do not boast of it, however," said Elinor, "for it is injustice in
both of you.  He is highly esteemed by all the family at the park, and
I never see him myself without taking pains to converse with him."

"That he is patronised by YOU," replied Willoughby, "is certainly in
his favour; but as for the esteem of the others, it is a reproach in
itself.  Who would submit to the indignity of being approved by such a
woman as Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, that could command the
indifference of any body else?"

"But perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and Marianne will
make amends for the regard of Lady Middleton and her mother.  If their
praise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are not more
undiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust."

"In defence of your protege you can even be saucy."

"My protege, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense will always
have attractions for me.  Yes, Marianne, even in a man between thirty
and forty.  He has seen a great deal of the world; has been abroad, has
read, and has a thinking mind.  I have found him capable of giving me
much information on various subjects; and he has always answered my
inquiries with readiness of good-breeding and good nature."

"That is to say," cried Marianne contemptuously, "he has told you, that
in the East Indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are
troublesome."

"He WOULD have told me so, I doubt not, had I made any such inquiries,
but they happened to be points on which I had been previously informed."

"Perhaps," said Willoughby, "his observations may have extended to the
existence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins."

"I may venture to say that HIS observations have stretched much further
than your candour.  But why should you dislike him?"

"I do not dislike him.  I consider him, on the contrary, as a very
respectable man, who has every body's good word, and nobody's notice;
who, has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to
employ, and two new coats every year."

"Add to which," cried Marianne, "that he has neither genius, taste, nor
spirit.  That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no
ardour, and his voice no expression."

"You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass," replied Elinor,
"and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the
commendation I am able to give of him is comparatively cold and
insipid.  I can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred,
well-informed, of gentle address, and, I believe, possessing an amiable
heart."

"Miss Dashwood," cried Willoughby, "you are now using me unkindly.  You
are endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me against my
will.  But it will not do.  You shall find me as stubborn as you can be
artful.  I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel
Brandon; he threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine; he has
found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I cannot persuade him
to buy my brown mare.  If it will be any satisfaction to you, however,
to be told, that I believe his character to be in other respects
irreproachable, I am ready to confess it.  And in return for an
acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me the
privilege of disliking him as much as ever."



CHAPTER 11


Little had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined when they first came
into Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy their
time as shortly presented themselves, or that they should have such
frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them little
leisure for serious employment.  Yet such was the case.  When Marianne
was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad, which Sir
John had been previously forming, were put into execution.  The private
balls at the park then began; and parties on the water were made and
accomplished as often as a showery October would allow.  In every
meeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and
familiarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly
calculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the
Dashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of
Marianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving,
in her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her
affection.

Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment.  She only wished
that it were less openly shewn; and once or twice did venture to
suggest the propriety of some self-command to Marianne.  But Marianne
abhorred all concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve;
and to aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves
illaudable, appeared to her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a
disgraceful subjection of reason to common-place and mistaken notions.
Willoughby thought the same; and their behaviour at all times, was an
illustration of their opinions.

When he was present she had no eyes for any one else.  Every thing he
did, was right.  Every thing he said, was clever.  If their evenings at
the park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest
of the party to get her a good hand.  If dancing formed the amusement
of the night, they were partners for half the time; and when obliged to
separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together and
scarcely spoke a word to any body else.  Such conduct made them of
course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and
seemed hardly to provoke them.

Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left
her no inclination for checking this excessive display of them.  To her
it was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and
ardent mind.

This was the season of happiness to Marianne.  Her heart was devoted to
Willoughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she brought with
her from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought it
possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her
present home.

Elinor's happiness was not so great.  Her heart was not so much at
ease, nor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure.  They afforded
her no companion that could make amends for what she had left behind,
nor that could teach her to think of Norland with less regret than
ever.  Neither Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the
conversation she missed; although the latter was an everlasting talker,
and from the first had regarded her with a kindness which ensured her a
large share of her discourse.  She had already repeated her own history
to Elinor three or four times; and had Elinor's memory been equal to
her means of improvement, she might have known very early in their
acquaintance all the particulars of Mr. Jennings's last illness, and
what he said to his wife a few minutes before he died.  Lady Middleton
was more agreeable than her mother only in being more silent.  Elinor
needed little observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere
calmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do.  Towards her
husband and mother she was the same as to them; and intimacy was
therefore neither to be looked for nor desired.  She had nothing to say
one day that she had not said the day before.  Her insipidity was
invariable, for even her spirits were always the same; and though she
did not oppose the parties arranged by her husband, provided every
thing were conducted in style and her two eldest children attended her,
she never appeared to receive more enjoyment from them than she might
have experienced in sitting at home;--and so little did her presence
add to the pleasure of the others, by any share in their conversation,
that they were sometimes only reminded of her being amongst them by her
solicitude about her troublesome boys.

In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find
a person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite
the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion.
Willoughby was out of the question.  Her admiration and regard, even
her sisterly regard, was all his own; but he was a lover; his
attentions were wholly Marianne's, and a far less agreeable man might
have been more generally pleasing.  Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for
himself, had no such encouragement to think only of Marianne, and in
conversing with Elinor he found the greatest consolation for the
indifference of her sister.

Elinor's compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect
that the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him.
This suspicion was given by some words which accidentally dropped from
him one evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by
mutual consent, while the others were dancing.  His eyes were fixed on
Marianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint
smile, "Your sister, I understand, does not approve of second
attachments."

"No," replied Elinor, "her opinions are all romantic."

"Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist."

"I believe she does.  But how she contrives it without reflecting on
the character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know not.
A few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of
common sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to define
and to justify than they now are, by any body but herself."

"This will probably be the case," he replied; "and yet there is
something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is
sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions."

"I cannot agree with you there," said Elinor.  "There are
inconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne's, which all the
charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for.  Her
systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at
nought; and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward
to as her greatest possible advantage."

After a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying,--

"Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a
second attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body?  Are those
who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the
inconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be
equally indifferent during the rest of their lives?"

"Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiae of her principles.
I only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a second
attachment's being pardonable."

"This," said he, "cannot hold; but a change, a total change of
sentiments--No, no, do not desire it; for when the romantic refinements
of a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they
succeeded by such opinions as are but too common, and too dangerous!  I
speak from experience.  I once knew a lady who in temper and mind
greatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like her, but who
from an inforced change--from a series of unfortunate circumstances"--
Here he stopt suddenly; appeared to think that he had said too much,
and by his countenance gave rise to conjectures, which might not
otherwise have entered Elinor's head.  The lady would probably have
passed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what
concerned her ought not to escape his lips.  As it was, it required but
a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender
recollection of past regard.  Elinor attempted no more.  But Marianne,
in her place, would not have done so little.  The whole story would
have been speedily formed under her active imagination; and every thing
established in the most melancholy order of disastrous love.



CHAPTER 12


As Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning the
latter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of
all that she knew before of Marianne's imprudence and want of thought,
surprised her by its extravagant testimony of both.  Marianne told her,
with the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a horse, one
that he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was
exactly calculated to carry a woman.  Without considering that it was
not in her mother's plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter
her resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the
servant, and keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable
to receive them, she had accepted the present without hesitation, and
told her sister of it in raptures.

"He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it,"
she added, "and when it arrives we will ride every day.  You shall
share its use with me.  Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the
delight of a gallop on some of these downs."

Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to
comprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for
some time she refused to submit to them.  As to an additional servant,
the expense would be a trifle; Mama she was sure would never object to
it; and any horse would do for HIM; he might always get one at the
park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient.  Elinor then
ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present from a
man so little, or at least so lately known to her.  This was too much.

"You are mistaken, Elinor," said she warmly, "in supposing I know very
little of Willoughby.  I have not known him long indeed, but I am much
better acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the
world, except yourself and mama.  It is not time or opportunity that is
to determine intimacy;--it is disposition alone.  Seven years would be
insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven
days are more than enough for others.  I should hold myself guilty of
greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from
Willoughby.  Of John I know very little, though we have lived together
for years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed."

Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more.  She knew her
sister's temper.  Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach
her the more to her own opinion.  But by an appeal to her affection for
her mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent
mother must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she
consented to this increase of establishment, Marianne was shortly
subdued; and she promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent
kindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby when she saw
him next, that it must be declined.

She was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the
cottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to
him in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his
present.  The reasons for this alteration were at the same time
related, and they were such as to make further entreaty on his side
impossible.  His concern however was very apparent; and after
expressing it with earnestness, he added, in the same low voice,--"But,
Marianne, the horse is still yours, though you cannot use it now.  I
shall keep it only till you can claim it.  When you leave Barton to
form your own establishment in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall
receive you."

This was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the
sentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her
sister by her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so
decided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between
them.  From that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each
other; and the belief of it created no other surprise than that she, or
any of their friends, should be left by tempers so frank, to discover
it by accident.

Margaret related something to her the next day, which placed this
matter in a still clearer light.  Willoughby had spent the preceding
evening with them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the parlour
with only him and Marianne, had had opportunity for observations,
which, with a most important face, she communicated to her eldest
sister, when they were next by themselves.

"Oh, Elinor!" she cried, "I have such a secret to tell you about
Marianne.  I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon."

"You have said so," replied Elinor, "almost every day since they first
met on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I
believe, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round
her neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great
uncle."

"But indeed this is quite another thing.  I am sure they will be
married very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair."

"Take care, Margaret.  It may be only the hair of some great uncle of
HIS."

"But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne's. I am almost sure it is, for I
saw him cut it off.  Last night after tea, when you and mama went out
of the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could
be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took
up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all
tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of
white paper; and put it into his pocket-book."

For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not
withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance
was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself.

Margaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory
to her sister.  When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the
park, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor's particular
favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her,
Margaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, "I must not
tell, may I, Elinor?"

This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too.
But the effort was painful.  She was convinced that Margaret had fixed
on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a
standing joke with Mrs. Jennings.

Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good
to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to
Margaret,

"Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to
repeat them."

"I never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; "it was you
who told me of it yourself."

This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly
pressed to say something more.

"Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs.
Jennings.  "What is the gentleman's name?"

"I must not tell, ma'am. But I know very well what it is; and I know
where he is too."

"Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be
sure.  He is the curate of the parish I dare say."

"No, THAT he is not.  He is of no profession at all."

"Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this is
an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in
existence."

"Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such
a man once, and his name begins with an F."

Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this
moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the
interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her
ladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as
delighted her husband and mother.  The idea however started by her, was
immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion
mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of
rain by both of them.  Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked
Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of
different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground.  But not so
easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her.

A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a
very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a
brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not
be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders
on that head.  The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and
Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed
to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at
least, twice every summer for the last ten years.  They contained a
noble piece of water; a sail on which was to a form a great part of the
morning's amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages
only to be employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a
complete party of pleasure.

To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking,
considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the
last fortnight;--and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was
persuaded by Elinor to stay at home.



CHAPTER 13


Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from
what Elinor had expected.  She was prepared to be wet through,
fatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for
they did not go at all.

By ten o'clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they
were to breakfast.  The morning was rather favourable, though it had
rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky,
and the sun frequently appeared.  They were all in high spirits and
good humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the
greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise.

While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in.  Among the
rest there was one for Colonel Brandon;--he took it, looked at the
direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room.

"What is the matter with Brandon?" said Sir John.

Nobody could tell.

"I hope he has had no bad news," said Lady Middleton.  "It must be
something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my
breakfast table so suddenly."

In about five minutes he returned.

"No bad news, Colonel, I hope;" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he
entered the room.

"None at all, ma'am, I thank you."

"Was it from Avignon?  I hope it is not to say that your sister is
worse."

"No, ma'am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business."

"But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a
letter of business?  Come, come, this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear
the truth of it."

"My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying."

"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?" said
Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter's reproof.

"No, indeed, it is not."

"Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel.  And I hope she is well."

"Whom do you mean, ma'am?" said he, colouring a little.

"Oh! you know who I mean."

"I am particularly sorry, ma'am," said he, addressing Lady Middleton,
"that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which
requires my immediate attendance in town."

"In town!" cried Mrs. Jennings.  "What can you have to do in town at
this time of year?"

"My own loss is great," he continued, "in being obliged to leave so
agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence
is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell."

What a blow upon them all was this!

"But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon," said
Marianne, eagerly, "will it not be sufficient?"

He shook his head.

"We must go," said Sir John.--"It shall not be put off when we are so
near it.  You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all."

"I wish it could be so easily settled.  But it is not in my power to
delay my journey for one day!"

"If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs.
Jennings, "we might see whether it could be put off or not."

"You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, "if you were to
defer your journey till our return."

"I cannot afford to lose ONE hour."--

Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, "There
are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure.  Brandon is one of
them.  He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this
trick for getting out of it.  I would lay fifty guineas the letter was
of his own writing."

"I have no doubt of it," replied Marianne.

"There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of
old," said Sir John, "when once you are determined on anything.  But,
however, I hope you will think better of it.  Consider, here are the
two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked
up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his
usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell."

Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of
disappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be
unavoidable.

"Well, then, when will you come back again?"

"I hope we shall see you at Barton," added her ladyship, "as soon as
you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to
Whitwell till you return."

"You are very obliging.  But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in
my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all."

"Oh! he must and shall come back," cried Sir John.  "If he is not here
by the end of the week, I shall go after him."

"Ay, so do, Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, "and then perhaps you may
find out what his business is."

"I do not want to pry into other men's concerns.  I suppose it is
something he is ashamed of."

Colonel Brandon's horses were announced.

"You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" added Sir John.

"No. Only to Honiton.  I shall then go post."

"Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey.  But you
had better change your mind."

"I assure you it is not in my power."

He then took leave of the whole party.

"Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this
winter, Miss Dashwood?"

"I am afraid, none at all."

"Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to
do."

To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.

"Come Colonel," said Mrs. Jennings, "before you go, do let us know what
you are going about."

He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room.

The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto
restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and
again how provoking it was to be so disappointed.

"I can guess what his business is, however," said Mrs. Jennings
exultingly.

"Can you, ma'am?" said almost every body.

"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure."

"And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne.

"What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have
heard of her before.  She is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear; a
very near relation.  We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the
young ladies." Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor,
"She is his natural daughter."

"Indeed!"

"Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare.  I dare say the Colonel
will leave her all his fortune."

When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret
on so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as
they were all got together, they must do something by way of being
happy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although
happiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a
tolerable composure of mind by driving about the country.  The
carriages were then ordered; Willoughby's was first, and Marianne never
looked happier than when she got into it.  He drove through the park
very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them
was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return
of all the rest.  They both seemed delighted with their drive; but said
only in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others
went on the downs.

It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that
every body should be extremely merry all day long.  Some more of the
Careys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly
twenty to table, which Sir John observed with great contentment.
Willoughby took his usual place between the two elder Miss Dashwoods.
Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor's right hand; and they had not been long
seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and said to
Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, "I have found you out in
spite of all your tricks.  I know where you spent the morning."

Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, "Where, pray?"--

"Did not you know," said Willoughby, "that we had been out in my
curricle?"

"Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined
to find out WHERE you had been to.-- I hope you like your house, Miss
Marianne.  It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you,
I hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when
I was there six years ago."

Marianne turned away in great confusion.  Mrs. Jennings laughed
heartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they
had been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr.
Willoughby's groom; and that she had by that method been informed that
they had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in
walking about the garden and going all over the house.

Elinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely
that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter the house
while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the smallest
acquaintance.

As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about it;
and great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance
related by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true.  Marianne was quite angry
with her for doubting it.

"Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that we
did not see the house?  Is not it what you have often wished to do
yourself?"

"Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and with
no other companion than Mr. Willoughby."

"Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to shew
that house; and as he went in an open carriage, it was impossible to
have any other companion.  I never spent a pleasanter morning in my
life."

"I am afraid," replied Elinor, "that the pleasantness of an employment
does not always evince its propriety."

"On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for if
there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been
sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting
wrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure."

"But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very
impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of
your own conduct?"

"If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of
impropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our lives.
I value not her censure any more than I should do her commendation.  I
am not sensible of having done anything wrong in walking over Mrs.
Smith's grounds, or in seeing her house.  They will one day be Mr.
Willoughby's, and--"

"If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be
justified in what you have done."

She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her;
and after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her
sister again, and said with great good humour, "Perhaps, Elinor, it WAS
rather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby wanted
particularly to shew me the place; and it is a charming house, I assure
you.--There is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs; of a nice
comfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture it would
be delightful.  It is a corner room, and has windows on two sides.  On
one side you look across the bowling-green, behind the house, to a
beautiful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view of the church
and village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we have so
often admired.  I did not see it to advantage, for nothing could be
more forlorn than the furniture,--but if it were newly fitted up--a
couple of hundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it one of the
pleasantest summer-rooms in England."

Could Elinor have listened to her without interruption from the others,
she would have described every room in the house with equal delight.



CHAPTER 14


The sudden termination of Colonel Brandon's visit at the park, with his
steadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind, and raised the
wonder of Mrs. Jennings for two or three days; she was a great
wonderer, as every one must be who takes a very lively interest in all
the comings and goings of all their acquaintance.  She wondered, with
little intermission what could be the reason of it; was sure there must
be some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that could
have befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not escape
them all.

"Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure," said she.
"I could see it in his face.  Poor man!  I am afraid his circumstances
may be bad.  The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two
thousand a year, and his brother left everything sadly involved.  I do
think he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else can
it be?  I wonder whether it is so.  I would give anything to know the
truth of it.  Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I dare
say it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her.  May be
she is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I have a
notion she is always rather sickly.  I would lay any wager it is about
Miss Williams.  It is not so very likely he should be distressed in his
circumstances NOW, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure must
have cleared the estate by this time.  I wonder what it can be!  May be
his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over.  His setting
off in such a hurry seems very like it.  Well, I wish him out of all
his trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain."

So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings.  Her opinion varying with every
fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose.
Elinor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel
Brandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away,
which Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides that the
circumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting amazement or
variety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise disposed of.  It was
engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby on
the subject, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them
all.  As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange
and more incompatible with the disposition of both.  Why they should
not openly acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant
behaviour to each other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not
imagine.

She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in
their power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason
to believe him rich.  His estate had been rated by Sir John at about
six or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that
income could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of
his poverty.  But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them
relative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all,
she could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to their
general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind
of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her
making any inquiry of Marianne.

Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than
Willoughby's behaviour.  To Marianne it had all the distinguishing
tenderness which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of the
family it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother.  The
cottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more
of his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general
engagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him
out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest
of the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his
favourite pointer at her feet.

One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the
country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of
attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood's happening
to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly
opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as
perfect with him.

"What!" he exclaimed--"Improve this dear cottage!  No. THAT I will
never consent to.  Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch
to its size, if my feelings are regarded."

"Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood, "nothing of the kind will be
done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it."

"I am heartily glad of it," he cried.  "May she always be poor, if she
can employ her riches no better."

"Thank you, Willoughby.  But you may be assured that I would not
sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one
whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world.  Depend upon it
that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in
the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it
in a manner so painful to you.  But are you really so attached to this
place as to see no defect in it?"

"I am," said he.  "To me it is faultless.  Nay, more, I consider it as
the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I
rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in
the exact plan of this cottage."

"With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said
Elinor.

"Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing
belonging to it;--in no one convenience or INconvenience about it,
should the least variation be perceptible.  Then, and then only, under
such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at
Barton."

"I flatter myself," replied Elinor, "that even under the disadvantage
of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your
own house as faultless as you now do this."

"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might
greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of
my affection, which no other can possibly share."

Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were
fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she
understood him.

"How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time
twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited!  I never passed within
view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one
should live in it.  How little did I then think that the very first
news I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country,
would be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate
satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of
prescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account
for.  Must it not have been so, Marianne?" speaking to her in a lowered
voice.  Then continuing his former tone, he said, "And yet this house
you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood?  You would rob it of its simplicity by
imaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance
first began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by
us together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance,
and every body would be eager to pass through the room which has
hitherto contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort
than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world
could possibly afford."

Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should
be attempted.

"You are a good woman," he warmly replied.  "Your promise makes me
easy.  Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy.  Tell me
that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever
find you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will
always consider me with the kindness which has made everything
belonging to you so dear to me."

The promise was readily given, and Willoughby's behaviour during the
whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness.

"Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?" said Mrs. Dashwood, when he was
leaving them.  "I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must
walk to the park, to call on Lady Middleton."

He engaged to be with them by four o'clock.



CHAPTER 15


Mrs. Dashwood's visit to Lady Middleton took place the next day, and
two of her daughters went with her; but Marianne excused herself from
being of the party, under some trifling pretext of employment; and her
mother, who concluded that a promise had been made by Willoughby the
night before of calling on her while they were absent, was perfectly
satisfied with her remaining at home.

On their return from the park they found Willoughby's curricle and
servant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that
her conjecture had been just.  So far it was all as she had foreseen;
but on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had taught her
to expect.  They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne came
hastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with her
handkerchief at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs.
Surprised and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had
just quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning against
the mantel-piece with his back towards them.  He turned round on their
coming in, and his countenance shewed that he strongly partook of the
emotion which over-powered Marianne.

"Is anything the matter with her?" cried Mrs. Dashwood as she
entered--"is she ill?"

"I hope not," he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a forced
smile presently added, "It is I who may rather expect to be ill--for I
am now suffering under a very heavy disappointment!"

"Disappointment?"

"Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with you.  Mrs. Smith has
this morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent
cousin, by sending me on business to London.  I have just received my
dispatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham; and by way of
exhilaration I am now come to take my farewell of you."

"To London!--and are you going this morning?"

"Almost this moment."

"This is very unfortunate.  But Mrs. Smith must be obliged;--and her
business will not detain you from us long I hope."

He coloured as he replied, "You are very kind, but I have no idea of
returning into Devonshire immediately.  My visits to Mrs. Smith are
never repeated within the twelvemonth."

"And is Mrs. Smith your only friend?  Is Allenham the only house in the
neighbourhood to which you will be welcome?  For shame, Willoughby, can
you wait for an invitation here?"

His colour increased; and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only
replied, "You are too good."

Mrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise.  Elinor felt equal
amazement.  For a few moments every one was silent.  Mrs. Dashwood
first spoke.

"I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton cottage you
will always be welcome; for I will not press you to return here
immediately, because you only can judge how far THAT might be pleasing
to Mrs. Smith; and on this head I shall be no more disposed to question
your judgment than to doubt your inclination."

"My engagements at present," replied Willoughby, confusedly, "are of
such a nature--that--I dare not flatter myself"--

He stopt.  Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and another
pause succeeded.  This was broken by Willoughby, who said with a faint
smile, "It is folly to linger in this manner.  I will not torment
myself any longer by remaining among friends whose society it is
impossible for me now to enjoy."

He then hastily took leave of them all and left the room.  They saw him
step into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight.

Mrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the
parlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this
sudden departure occasioned.

Elinor's uneasiness was at least equal to her mother's.  She thought of
what had just passed with anxiety and distrust.  Willoughby's behaviour
in taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of
cheerfulness, and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother's
invitation, a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike himself,
greatly disturbed her.  One moment she feared that no serious design
had ever been formed on his side; and the next that some unfortunate
quarrel had taken place between him and her sister;--the distress in
which Marianne had quitted the room was such as a serious quarrel could
most reasonably account for, though when she considered what Marianne's
love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible.

But whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her sister's
affliction was indubitable; and she thought with the tenderest
compassion of that violent sorrow which Marianne was in all probability
not merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and encouraging as a
duty.

In about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were
red, her countenance was not uncheerful.

"Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor," said she,
as she sat down to work, "and with how heavy a heart does he travel?"

"It is all very strange.  So suddenly to be gone! It seems but the work
of a moment.  And last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so
affectionate?  And now, after only ten minutes notice--Gone too without
intending to return!--Something more than what he owned to us must have
happened.  He did not speak, he did not behave like himself.  YOU must
have seen the difference as well as I.  What can it be?  Can they have
quarrelled?  Why else should he have shewn such unwillingness to accept
your invitation here?"--

"It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see
THAT.  He had not the power of accepting it.  I have thought it all
over I assure you, and I can perfectly account for every thing that at
first seemed strange to me as well as to you."

"Can you, indeed!"

"Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way;--but
you, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can--it will not satisfy YOU,
I know; but you shall not talk ME out of my trust in it.  I am
persuaded that Mrs. Smith suspects his regard for Marianne, disapproves
of it, (perhaps because she has other views for him,) and on that
account is eager to get him away;--and that the business which she
sends him off to transact is invented as an excuse to dismiss him.
This is what I believe to have happened.  He is, moreover, aware that
she DOES disapprove the connection, he dares not therefore at present
confess to her his engagement with Marianne, and he feels himself
obliged, from his dependent situation, to give into her schemes, and
absent himself from Devonshire for a while.  You will tell me, I know,
that this may or may NOT have happened; but I will listen to no cavil,
unless you can point out any other method of understanding the affair
as satisfactory at this.  And now, Elinor, what have you to say?"

"Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer."

"Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have happened.
Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings!  You had rather
take evil upon credit than good.  You had rather look out for misery
for Marianne, and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the
latter.  You are resolved to think him blameable, because he took leave
of us with less affection than his usual behaviour has shewn.  And is
no allowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits depressed by
recent disappointment?  Are no probabilities to be accepted, merely
because they are not certainties?  Is nothing due to the man whom we
have all such reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill
of?  To the possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though
unavoidably secret for a while?  And, after all, what is it you suspect
him of?"

"I can hardly tell myself.  But suspicion of something unpleasant is
the inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed
in him.  There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of
the allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be
candid in my judgment of every body.  Willoughby may undoubtedly have
very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that he has.
But it would have been more like Willoughby to acknowledge them at
once.  Secrecy may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at
its being practiced by him."

"Do not blame him, however, for departing from his character, where the
deviation is necessary.  But you really do admit the justice of what I
have said in his defence?--I am happy--and he is acquitted."

"Not entirely.  It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they
ARE engaged) from Mrs. Smith--and if that is the case, it must be
highly expedient for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at
present.  But this is no excuse for their concealing it from us."

"Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and
Marianne of concealment? This is strange indeed, when your eyes have
been reproaching them every day for incautiousness."

"I want no proof of their affection," said Elinor; "but of their
engagement I do."

"I am perfectly satisfied of both."

"Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of
them."

"I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly.  Has
not his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last
fortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future
wife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation?
Have we not perfectly understood each other?  Has not my consent been
daily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate
respect?  My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement?  How
could such a thought occur to you?  How is it to be supposed that
Willoughby, persuaded as he must be of your sister's love, should leave
her, and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of his
affection;--that they should part without a mutual exchange of
confidence?"

"I confess," replied Elinor, "that every circumstance except ONE is in
favour of their engagement; but that ONE is the total silence of both
on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other."

"How strange this is!  You must think wretchedly indeed of Willoughby,
if, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the
nature of the terms on which they are together.  Has he been acting a
part in his behaviour to your sister all this time?  Do you suppose him
really indifferent to her?"

"No, I cannot think that.  He must and does love her I am sure."

"But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such
indifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to him."

"You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this
matter as certain.  I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are
fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away.  If we
find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed."

"A mighty concession indeed!  If you were to see them at the altar, you
would suppose they were going to be married.  Ungracious girl!  But I
require no such proof.  Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to
justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly
open and unreserved.  You cannot doubt your sister's wishes.  It must
be Willoughby therefore whom you suspect.  But why?  Is he not a man of
honour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to
create alarm? can he be deceitful?"

"I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor.  "I love Willoughby,
sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more
painful to yourself than to me.  It has been involuntary, and I will
not encourage it.  I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his
manners this morning;--he did not speak like himself, and did not
return your kindness with any cordiality.  But all this may be
explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed.  He
had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest
affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs.
Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware
that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for
some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by
our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed.  In such a
case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more
to his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general
character;--but I will not raise objections against any one's conduct
on so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself,
or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent."

"You speak very properly.  Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be
suspected.  Though WE have not known him long, he is no stranger in
this part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage?
Had he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately,
it might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging
everything to me at once: but this is not the case.  It is an
engagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage
must be at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it
can be observed, may now be very advisable."

They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was then
at liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to
acknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all.

They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the
room and took her place at the table without saying a word.  Her eyes
were red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then
restrained with difficulty.  She avoided the looks of them all, could
neither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother's silently
pressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree of fortitude
was quite overcome, she burst into tears and left the room.

This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening.  She
was without any power, because she was without any desire of command
over herself.  The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby
overpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most
anxiously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if they
spoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings
connected with him.



CHAPTER 16


Marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able
to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby.  She
would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next
morning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than
when she lay down in it.  But the feelings which made such composure a
disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it.  She was awake the
whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it.  She got up with a
headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment;
giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all
attempt at consolation from either.  Her sensibility was potent enough!

When breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered about
the village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment
and crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.

The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling.  She played
over every favourite song that she had been used to play to Willoughby,
every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at
the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out
for her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be
gained; and this nourishment of grief was every day applied.  She spent
whole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing and crying; her voice
often totally suspended by her tears.  In books too, as well as in
music, she courted the misery which a contrast between the past and
present was certain of giving.  She read nothing but what they had been
used to read together.

Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it
sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these employments,
to which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and silent meditations,
still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever.

No letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by Marianne.
Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy.  But Mrs.
Dashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at
least satisfied herself.

"Remember, Elinor," said she, "how very often Sir John fetches our
letters himself from the post, and carries them to it.  We have already
agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it
could not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through
Sir John's hands."

Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a
motive sufficient for their silence.  But there was one method so
direct, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real
state of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she
could not help suggesting it to her mother.

"Why do you not ask Marianne at once," said she, "whether she is or she
is not engaged to Willoughby?  From you, her mother, and so kind, so
indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence.  It would be
the natural result of your affection for her.  She used to be all
unreserve, and to you more especially."

"I would not ask such a question for the world.  Supposing it possible
that they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry
inflict!  At any rate it would be most ungenerous.  I should never
deserve her confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of
what is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one.  I know
Marianne's heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall not
be the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances make
the revealment of it eligible.  I would not attempt to force the
confidence of any one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty
would prevent the denial which her wishes might direct."

Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister's
youth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common
care, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic
delicacy.

It was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned before
Marianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed, were
not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour;--but
one evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of
Shakespeare, exclaimed,

"We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went away
before we could get through it.  We will put it by, that when he comes
again...But it may be months, perhaps, before THAT happens."

"Months!" cried Marianne, with strong surprise.  "No--nor many weeks."

Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave Elinor
pleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of
confidence in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions.

One morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne was
prevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of
wandering away by herself.  Hitherto she had carefully avoided every
companion in her rambles.  If her sisters intended to walk on the
downs, she directly stole away towards the lanes; if they talked of the
valley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never be
found when the others set off.  But at length she was secured by the
exertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion.
They walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence,
for Marianne's MIND could not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied with
gaining one point, would not then attempt more.  Beyond the entrance of
the valley, where the country, though still rich, was less wild and
more open, a long stretch of the road which they had travelled on first
coming to Barton, lay before them; and on reaching that point, they
stopped to look around them, and examine a prospect which formed the
distance of their view from the cottage, from a spot which they had
never happened to reach in any of their walks before.

Amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated one;
it was a man on horseback riding towards them.  In a few minutes they
could distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment afterwards
Marianne rapturously exclaimed,

"It is he; it is indeed;--I know it is!"--and was hastening to meet
him, when Elinor cried out,

"Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken.  It is not Willoughby.
The person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air."

"He has, he has," cried Marianne, "I am sure he has.  His air, his
coat, his horse.  I knew how soon he would come."

She walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne from
particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being Willoughby,
quickened her pace and kept up with her.  They were soon within thirty
yards of the gentleman.  Marianne looked again; her heart sunk within
her; and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying back, when the voices
of both her sisters were raised to detain her; a third, almost as well
known as Willoughby's, joined them in begging her to stop, and she
turned round with surprise to see and welcome Edward Ferrars.

He was the only person in the world who could at that moment be
forgiven for not being Willoughby; the only one who could have gained a
smile from her; but she dispersed her tears to smile on HIM, and in her
sister's happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment.

He dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with
them to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them.

He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by
Marianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him than
even Elinor herself.  To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between Edward
and her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness
which she had often observed at Norland in their mutual behaviour.  On
Edward's side, more particularly, there was a deficiency of all that a
lover ought to look and say on such an occasion.  He was confused,
seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked neither
rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by
questions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection.  Marianne
saw and listened with increasing surprise.  She began almost to feel a
dislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by
carrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a
contrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother elect.

After a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and enquiries
of meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London.  No,
he had been in Devonshire a fortnight.

"A fortnight!" she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the same
county with Elinor without seeing her before.

He looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying with
some friends near Plymouth.

"Have you been lately in Sussex?" said Elinor.

"I was at Norland about a month ago."

"And how does dear, dear Norland look?" cried Marianne.

"Dear, dear Norland," said Elinor, "probably looks much as it always
does at this time of the year.  The woods and walks thickly covered
with dead leaves."

"Oh," cried Marianne, "with what transporting sensation have I formerly
seen them fall!  How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them driven
in showers about me by the wind!  What feelings have they, the season,
the air altogether inspired!  Now there is no one to regard them.  They
are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as
possible from the sight."

"It is not every one," said Elinor, "who has your passion for dead
leaves."

"No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood.  But
SOMETIMES they are."--As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a
few moments;--but rousing herself again, "Now, Edward," said she,
calling his attention to the prospect, "here is Barton valley.  Look up
to it, and be tranquil if you can.  Look at those hills!  Did you ever
see their equals?  To the left is Barton park, amongst those woods and
plantations.  You may see the end of the house.  And there, beneath
that farthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage."

"It is a beautiful country," he replied; "but these bottoms must be
dirty in winter."

"How can you think of dirt, with such objects before you?"

"Because," replied he, smiling, "among the rest of the objects before
me, I see a very dirty lane."

"How strange!" said Marianne to herself as she walked on.

"Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here?  Are the Middletons pleasant
people?"

"No, not all," answered Marianne; "we could not be more unfortunately
situated."

"Marianne," cried her sister, "how can you say so? How can you be so
unjust?  They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars; and towards
us have behaved in the friendliest manner.  Have you forgot, Marianne,
how many pleasant days we have owed to them?"

"No," said Marianne, in a low voice, "nor how many painful moments."

Elinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention to their
visitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by
talking of their present residence, its conveniences, &c. extorting
from him occasional questions and remarks.  His coldness and reserve
mortified her severely; she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to
regulate her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present, she
avoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated him
as she thought he ought to be treated from the family connection.



CHAPTER 17


Mrs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his
coming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural.
Her joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder.  He received
the kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not
stand against such a reception.  They had begun to fail him before he
entered the house, and they were quite overcome by the captivating
manners of Mrs. Dashwood.  Indeed a man could not very well be in love
with either of her daughters, without extending the passion to her; and
Elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like
himself.  His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his
interest in their welfare again became perceptible.  He was not in
spirits, however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was
attentive, and kind; but still he was not in spirits.  The whole family
perceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of
liberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all
selfish parents.

"What are Mrs. Ferrars's views for you at present, Edward?" said she,
when dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire; "are you still
to be a great orator in spite of yourself?"

"No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents than
inclination for a public life!"

"But how is your fame to be established? for famous you must be to
satisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no
affection for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may find
it a difficult matter."

"I shall not attempt it.  I have no wish to be distinguished; and have
every reason to hope I never shall.  Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced
into genius and eloquence."

"You have no ambition, I well know.  Your wishes are all moderate."

"As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe.  I wish as
well as every body else to be perfectly happy; but, like every body
else it must be in my own way.  Greatness will not make me so."

"Strange that it would!" cried Marianne.  "What have wealth or grandeur
to do with happiness?"

"Grandeur has but little," said Elinor, "but wealth has much to do with
it."

"Elinor, for shame!" said Marianne, "money can only give happiness
where there is nothing else to give it.  Beyond a competence, it can
afford no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned."

"Perhaps," said Elinor, smiling, "we may come to the same point.  YOUR
competence and MY wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and without
them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every kind of
external comfort must be wanting.  Your ideas are only more noble than
mine.  Come, what is your competence?"

"About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than THAT."

Elinor laughed.  "TWO thousand a year! ONE is my wealth! I guessed how
it would end."

"And yet two thousand a-year is a very moderate income," said Marianne.
"A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller.  I am sure I am not
extravagant in my demands.  A proper establishment of servants, a
carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less."

Elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their
future expenses at Combe Magna.

"Hunters!" repeated Edward--"but why must you have hunters?  Every body
does not hunt."

Marianne coloured as she replied, "But most people do."

"I wish," said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, "that somebody
would give us all a large fortune apiece!"

"Oh that they would!" cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with
animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary
happiness.

"We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose," said Elinor, "in spite
of the insufficiency of wealth."

"Oh dear!" cried Margaret, "how happy I should be!  I wonder what I
should do with it!"

Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.

"I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself," said Mrs.
Dashwood, "if my children were all to be rich without my help."

"You must begin your improvements on this house," observed Elinor, "and
your difficulties will soon vanish."

"What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London," said
Edward, "in such an event!  What a happy day for booksellers,
music-sellers, and print-shops!  You, Miss Dashwood, would give a
general commission for every new print of merit to be sent you--and as
for Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music
enough in London to content her.  And books!--Thomson, Cowper,
Scott--she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up
every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands;
and she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old
twisted tree.  Should not you, Marianne?  Forgive me, if I am very
saucy.  But I was willing to shew you that I had not forgot our old
disputes."

"I love to be reminded of the past, Edward--whether it be melancholy or
gay, I love to recall it--and you will never offend me by talking of
former times.  You are very right in supposing how my money would be
spent--some of it, at least--my loose cash would certainly be employed
in improving my collection of music and books."

"And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the
authors or their heirs."

"No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it."

"Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who
wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever
be in love more than once in their life--your opinion on that point is
unchanged, I presume?"

"Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed.  It is
not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them."

"Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see," said Elinor, "she is not
at all altered."

"She is only grown a little more grave than she was."

"Nay, Edward," said Marianne, "you need not reproach me.  You are not
very gay yourself."

"Why should you think so!" replied he, with a sigh.  "But gaiety never
was a part of MY character."

"Nor do I think it a part of Marianne's," said Elinor; "I should hardly
call her a lively girl--she is very earnest, very eager in all she
does--sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation--but she
is not often really merry."

"I believe you are right," he replied, "and yet I have always set her
down as a lively girl."

"I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said
Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some point or
other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or
stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the
deception originated.  Sometimes one is guided by what they say of
themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them,
without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge."

"But I thought it was right, Elinor," said Marianne, "to be guided
wholly by the opinion of other people.  I thought our judgments were
given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours.  This has
always been your doctrine, I am sure."

"No, Marianne, never.  My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of
the understanding.  All I have ever attempted to influence has been the
behaviour.  You must not confound my meaning.  I am guilty, I confess,
of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with
greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their
sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"

"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of
general civility," said Edward to Elinor.  "Do you gain no ground?"

"Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne.

"My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but I
am afraid my practice is much more on your sister's.  I never wish to
offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I
am only kept back by my natural awkwardness.  I have frequently thought
that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I
am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!"

"Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said
Elinor.

"She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward.
"Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or
other.  If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy
and graceful, I should not be shy."

"But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, "and that is worse."

Edward started--"Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?"

"Yes, very."

"I do not understand you," replied he, colouring.  "Reserved!--how, in
what manner?  What am I to tell you?  What can you suppose?"

Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the
subject, she said to him, "Do not you know my sister well enough to
understand what she means?  Do not you know she calls every one
reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as
rapturously as herself?"

Edward made no answer.  His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him
in their fullest extent--and he sat for some time silent and dull.



CHAPTER 18


Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend.  His
visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own
enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect.  It was evident that he was
unhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished
her by the same affection which once she had felt no doubt of
inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very
uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted
one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one.

He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning
before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to
promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to
themselves.  But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour
door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself
come out.

"I am going into the village to see my horses," said he, "as you are
not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently."

                    ***

Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding
country; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the
valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation
than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had
exceedingly pleased him.  This was a subject which ensured Marianne's
attention, and she was beginning to describe her own admiration of
these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had
particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her by saying, "You
must not enquire too far, Marianne--remember I have no knowledge in the
picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste
if we come to particulars.  I shall call hills steep, which ought to be
bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and
rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be
indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere.  You must be
satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give.  I call it a
very fine country--the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine
timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug--with rich meadows
and several neat farm houses scattered here and there.  It exactly
answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with
utility--and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you admire
it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey
moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me.  I know nothing of
the picturesque."

"I am afraid it is but too true," said Marianne; "but why should you
boast of it?"

"I suspect," said Elinor, "that to avoid one kind of affectation,
Edward here falls into another.  Because he believes many people
pretend to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really
feel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater
indifference and less discrimination in viewing them himself than he
possesses.  He is fastidious and will have an affectation of his own."

"It is very true," said Marianne, "that admiration of landscape scenery
is become a mere jargon.  Every body pretends to feel and tries to
describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what
picturesque beauty was.  I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I
have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to
describe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and
meaning."

"I am convinced," said Edward, "that you really feel all the delight in
a fine prospect which you profess to feel.  But, in return, your sister
must allow me to feel no more than I profess.  I like a fine prospect,
but not on picturesque principles.  I do not like crooked, twisted,
blasted trees.  I admire them much more if they are tall, straight, and
flourishing.  I do not like ruined, tattered cottages.  I am not fond
of nettles or thistles, or heath blossoms.  I have more pleasure in a
snug farm-house than a watch-tower--and a troop of tidy, happy villages
please me better than the finest banditti in the world."

Marianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her
sister.  Elinor only laughed.

The subject was continued no farther; and Marianne remained
thoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention.
She was sitting by Edward, and in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood,
his hand passed so directly before her, as to make a ring, with a plait
of hair in the centre, very conspicuous on one of his fingers.

"I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward," she cried.  "Is that
Fanny's hair? I remember her promising to give you some.  But I should
have thought her hair had been darker."

Marianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt--but when she saw
how much she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of thought
could not be surpassed by his.  He coloured very deeply, and giving a
momentary glance at Elinor, replied, "Yes; it is my sister's hair.  The
setting always casts a different shade on it, you know."

Elinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise.  That the hair
was her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne;
the only difference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne
considered as a free gift from her sister, Elinor was conscious must
have been procured by some theft or contrivance unknown to herself.
She was not in a humour, however, to regard it as an affront, and
affecting to take no notice of what passed, by instantly talking of
something else, she internally resolved henceforward to catch every
opportunity of eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyond all
doubt, that it was exactly the shade of her own.

Edward's embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an absence of
mind still more settled.  He was particularly grave the whole morning.
Marianne severely censured herself for what she had said; but her own
forgiveness might have been more speedy, had she known how little
offence it had given her sister.

Before the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir John and Mrs.
Jennings, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the
cottage, came to take a survey of the guest.  With the assistance of
his mother-in-law, Sir John was not long in discovering that the name
of Ferrars began with an F. and this prepared a future mine of raillery
against the devoted Elinor, which nothing but the newness of their
acquaintance with Edward could have prevented from being immediately
sprung.  But, as it was, she only learned, from some very significant
looks, how far their penetration, founded on Margaret's instructions,
extended.

Sir John never came to the Dashwoods without either inviting them to
dine at the park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening.
On the present occasion, for the better entertainment of their visitor,
towards whose amusement he felt himself bound to contribute, he wished
to engage them for both.

"You MUST drink tea with us to night," said he, "for we shall be quite
alone--and tomorrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we shall be a
large party."

Mrs. Jennings enforced the necessity.  "And who knows but you may raise
a dance," said she.  "And that will tempt YOU, Miss Marianne."

"A dance!" cried Marianne.  "Impossible! Who is to dance?"

"Who! why yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers to be sure.--What!
you thought nobody could dance because a certain person that shall be
nameless is gone!"

"I wish with all my soul," cried Sir John, "that Willoughby were among
us again."

This, and Marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward.  "And who
is Willoughby?" said he, in a low voice, to Miss Dashwood, by whom he
was sitting.

She gave him a brief reply.  Marianne's countenance was more
communicative.  Edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning
of others, but such of Marianne's expressions as had puzzled him
before; and when their visitors left them, he went immediately round
her, and said, in a whisper, "I have been guessing.  Shall I tell you
my guess?"

"What do you mean?"

"Shall I tell you."

"Certainly."

"Well then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts."

Marianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling at
the quiet archness of his manner, and after a moment's silence, said,

"Oh, Edward! How can you?--But the time will come I hope...I am sure
you will like him."

"I do not doubt it," replied he, rather astonished at her earnestness
and warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of her
acquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing
between Mr. Willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to
mention it.



CHAPTER 19


Edward remained a week at the cottage; he was earnestly pressed by Mrs.
Dashwood to stay longer; but, as if he were bent only on
self-mortification, he seemed resolved to be gone when his enjoyment
among his friends was at the height.  His spirits, during the last two
or three days, though still very unequal, were greatly improved--he
grew more and more partial to the house and environs--never spoke of
going away without a sigh--declared his time to be wholly
disengaged--even doubted to what place he should go when he left
them--but still, go he must.  Never had any week passed so quickly--he
could hardly believe it to be gone.  He said so repeatedly; other
things he said too, which marked the turn of his feelings and gave the
lie to his actions.  He had no pleasure at Norland; he detested being
in town; but either to Norland or London, he must go.  He valued their
kindness beyond any thing, and his greatest happiness was in being with
them.  Yet, he must leave them at the end of a week, in spite of their
wishes and his own, and without any restraint on his time.

Elinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to his
mother's account; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whose
character was so imperfectly known to her, as to be the general excuse
for every thing strange on the part of her son.  Disappointed, however,
and vexed as she was, and sometimes displeased with his uncertain
behaviour to herself, she was very well disposed on the whole to regard
his actions with all the candid allowances and generous qualifications,
which had been rather more painfully extorted from her, for
Willoughby's service, by her mother.  His want of spirits, of openness,
and of consistency, were most usually attributed to his want of
independence, and his better knowledge of Mrs. Ferrars's disposition
and designs.  The shortness of his visit, the steadiness of his purpose
in leaving them, originated in the same fettered inclination, the same
inevitable necessity of temporizing with his mother.  The old
well-established grievance of duty against will, parent against child,
was the cause of all.  She would have been glad to know when these
difficulties were to cease, this opposition was to yield,--when Mrs.
Ferrars would be reformed, and her son be at liberty to be happy.  But
from such vain wishes she was forced to turn for comfort to the renewal
of her confidence in Edward's affection, to the remembrance of every
mark of regard in look or word which fell from him while at Barton, and
above all to that flattering proof of it which he constantly wore round
his finger.

"I think, Edward," said Mrs. Dashwood, as they were at breakfast the
last morning, "you would be a happier man if you had any profession to
engage your time and give an interest to your plans and actions.  Some
inconvenience to your friends, indeed, might result from it--you would
not be able to give them so much of your time.  But (with a smile) you
would be materially benefited in one particular at least--you would
know where to go when you left them."

"I do assure you," he replied, "that I have long thought on this point,
as you think now.  It has been, and is, and probably will always be a
heavy misfortune to me, that I have had no necessary business to engage
me, no profession to give me employment, or afford me any thing like
independence.  But unfortunately my own nicety, and the nicety of my
friends, have made me what I am, an idle, helpless being.  We never
could agree in our choice of a profession.  I always preferred the
church, as I still do.  But that was not smart enough for my family.
They recommended the army.  That was a great deal too smart for me.
The law was allowed to be genteel enough; many young men, who had
chambers in the Temple, made a very good appearance in the first
circles, and drove about town in very knowing gigs.  But I had no
inclination for the law, even in this less abstruse study of it, which
my family approved.  As for the navy, it had fashion on its side, but I
was too old when the subject was first started to enter it--and, at
length, as there was no necessity for my having any profession at all,
as I might be as dashing and expensive without a red coat on my back as
with one, idleness was pronounced on the whole to be most advantageous
and honourable, and a young man of eighteen is not in general so
earnestly bent on being busy as to resist the solicitations of his
friends to do nothing.  I was therefore entered at Oxford and have been
properly idle ever since."

"The consequence of which, I suppose, will be," said Mrs. Dashwood,
"since leisure has not promoted your own happiness, that your sons will
be brought up to as many pursuits, employments, professions, and trades
as Columella's."

"They will be brought up," said he, in a serious accent, "to be as
unlike myself as is possible.  In feeling, in action, in condition, in
every thing."

"Come, come; this is all an effusion of immediate want of spirits,
Edward.  You are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that any one unlike
yourself must be happy.  But remember that the pain of parting from
friends will be felt by every body at times, whatever be their
education or state.  Know your own happiness.  You want nothing but
patience--or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope.  Your
mother will secure to you, in time, that independence you are so
anxious for; it is her duty, and it will, it must ere long become her
happiness to prevent your whole youth from being wasted in discontent.
How much may not a few months do?"

"I think," replied Edward, "that I may defy many months to produce any
good to me."

This desponding turn of mind, though it could not be communicated to
Mrs. Dashwood, gave additional pain to them all in the parting, which
shortly took place, and left an uncomfortable impression on Elinor's
feelings especially, which required some trouble and time to subdue.
But as it was her determination to subdue it, and to prevent herself
from appearing to suffer more than what all her family suffered on his
going away, she did not adopt the method so judiciously employed by
Marianne, on a similar occasion, to augment and fix her sorrow, by
seeking silence, solitude and idleness.  Their means were as different
as their objects, and equally suited to the advancement of each.

Elinor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as he was out of the
house, busily employed herself the whole day, neither sought nor
avoided the mention of his name, appeared to interest herself almost as
much as ever in the general concerns of the family, and if, by this
conduct, she did not lessen her own grief, it was at least prevented
from unnecessary increase, and her mother and sisters were spared much
solicitude on her account.

Such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared no
more meritorious to Marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her.
The business of self-command she settled very easily;--with strong
affections it was impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit.
That her sister's affections WERE calm, she dared not deny, though she
blushed to acknowledge it; and of the strength of her own, she gave a
very striking proof, by still loving and respecting that sister, in
spite of this mortifying conviction.

Without shutting herself up from her family, or leaving the house in
determined solitude to avoid them, or lying awake the whole night to
indulge meditation, Elinor found every day afforded her leisure enough
to think of Edward, and of Edward's behaviour, in every possible
variety which the different state of her spirits at different times
could produce,--with tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and doubt.
There were moments in abundance, when, if not by the absence of her
mother and sisters, at least by the nature of their employments,
conversation was forbidden among them, and every effect of solitude was
produced.  Her mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts could not
be chained elsewhere; and the past and the future, on a subject so
interesting, must be before her, must force her attention, and engross
her memory, her reflection, and her fancy.

From a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she was
roused one morning, soon after Edward's leaving them, by the arrival of
company.  She happened to be quite alone.  The closing of the little
gate, at the entrance of the green court in front of the house, drew
her eyes to the window, and she saw a large party walking up to the
door.  Amongst them were Sir John and Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings,
but there were two others, a gentleman and lady, who were quite unknown
to her.  She was sitting near the window, and as soon as Sir John
perceived her, he left the rest of the party to the ceremony of
knocking at the door, and stepping across the turf, obliged her to open
the casement to speak to him, though the space was so short between the
door and the window, as to make it hardly possible to speak at one
without being heard at the other.

"Well," said he, "we have brought you some strangers.  How do you like
them?"

"Hush! they will hear you."

"Never mind if they do.  It is only the Palmers.  Charlotte is very
pretty, I can tell you.  You may see her if you look this way."

As Elinor was certain of seeing her in a couple of minutes, without
taking that liberty, she begged to be excused.

"Where is Marianne? Has she run away because we are come? I see her
instrument is open."

"She is walking, I believe."

They were now joined by Mrs. Jennings, who had not patience enough to
wait till the door was opened before she told HER story.  She came
hallooing to the window, "How do you do, my dear?  How does Mrs.
Dashwood do?  And where are your sisters?  What! all alone! you will be
glad of a little company to sit with you.  I have brought my other son
and daughter to see you.  Only think of their coming so suddenly!  I
thought I heard a carriage last night, while we were drinking our tea,
but it never entered my head that it could be them.  I thought of
nothing but whether it might not be Colonel Brandon come back again; so
I said to Sir John, I do think I hear a carriage; perhaps it is Colonel
Brandon come back again"--

Elinor was obliged to turn from her, in the middle of her story, to
receive the rest of the party; Lady Middleton introduced the two
strangers; Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret came down stairs at the same
time, and they all sat down to look at one another, while Mrs. Jennings
continued her story as she walked through the passage into the parlour,
attended by Sir John.

Mrs. Palmer was several years younger than Lady Middleton, and totally
unlike her in every respect.  She was short and plump, had a very
pretty face, and the finest expression of good humour in it that could
possibly be.  Her manners were by no means so elegant as her sister's,
but they were much more prepossessing.  She came in with a smile,
smiled all the time of her visit, except when she laughed, and smiled
when she went away.  Her husband was a grave looking young man of five
or six and twenty, with an air of more fashion and sense than his wife,
but of less willingness to please or be pleased.  He entered the room
with a look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies, without
speaking a word, and, after briefly surveying them and their
apartments, took up a newspaper from the table, and continued to read
it as long as he staid.

Mrs. Palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature with a
turn for being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before her
admiration of the parlour and every thing in it burst forth.

"Well! what a delightful room this is! I never saw anything so
charming!  Only think, Mama, how it is improved since I was here last!
I always thought it such a sweet place, ma'am! (turning to Mrs.
Dashwood) but you have made it so charming!  Only look, sister, how
delightful every thing is! How I should like such a house for myself!
Should not you, Mr. Palmer?"

Mr. Palmer made her no answer, and did not even raise his eyes from the
newspaper.

"Mr. Palmer does not hear me," said she, laughing; "he never does
sometimes.  It is so ridiculous!"

This was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood; she had never been used to
find wit in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking with
surprise at them both.

Mrs. Jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and
continued her account of their surprise, the evening before, on seeing
their friends, without ceasing till every thing was told.  Mrs. Palmer
laughed heartily at the recollection of their astonishment, and every
body agreed, two or three times over, that it had been quite an
agreeable surprise.

"You may believe how glad we all were to see them," added Mrs.
Jennings, leaning forward towards Elinor, and speaking in a low voice
as if she meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on
different sides of the room; "but, however, I can't help wishing they
had not travelled quite so fast, nor made such a long journey of it,
for they came all round by London upon account of some business, for
you know (nodding significantly and pointing to her daughter) it was
wrong in her situation.  I wanted her to stay at home and rest this
morning, but she would come with us; she longed so much to see you all!"

Mrs. Palmer laughed, and said it would not do her any harm.

"She expects to be confined in February," continued Mrs. Jennings.

Lady Middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and
therefore exerted herself to ask Mr. Palmer if there was any news in
the paper.

"No, none at all," he replied, and read on.

"Here comes Marianne," cried Sir John.  "Now, Palmer, you shall see a
monstrous pretty girl."

He immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and
ushered her in himself.  Mrs. Jennings asked her, as soon as she
appeared, if she had not been to Allenham; and Mrs. Palmer laughed so
heartily at the question, as to show she understood it.  Mr. Palmer
looked up on her entering the room, stared at her some minutes, and
then returned to his newspaper.  Mrs. Palmer's eye was now caught by
the drawings which hung round the room.  She got up to examine them.

"Oh! dear, how beautiful these are!  Well! how delightful!  Do but
look, mama, how sweet! I declare they are quite charming; I could look
at them for ever." And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot
that there were any such things in the room.

When Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid down
the newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all around.

"My love, have you been asleep?" said his wife, laughing.

He made her no answer; and only observed, after again examining the
room, that it was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked.
He then made his bow, and departed with the rest.

Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at
the park.  Mrs. Dashwood, who did not chuse to dine with them oftener
than they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account;
her daughters might do as they pleased.  But they had no curiosity to
see how Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of
pleasure from them in any other way.  They attempted, therefore,
likewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was uncertain, and not
likely to be good.  But Sir John would not be satisfied--the carriage
should be sent for them and they must come.  Lady Middleton too, though
she did not press their mother, pressed them.  Mrs. Jennings and Mrs.
Palmer joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a
family party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield.

"Why should they ask us?" said Marianne, as soon as they were gone.
"The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very
hard terms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying
either with them, or with us."

"They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now," said Elinor, "by
these frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them a
few weeks ago.  The alteration is not in them, if their parties are
grown tedious and dull.  We must look for the change elsewhere."



CHAPTER 20


As the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next
day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as
good humoured and merry as before.  She took them all most
affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them
again.

"I am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself between Elinor and
Marianne, "for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come,
which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. We must
go, for the Westons come to us next week you know.  It was quite a
sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the
carriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I
would go with him to Barton.  He is so droll! He never tells me any
thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again
in town very soon, I hope."

They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation.

"Not go to town!" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, "I shall be quite
disappointed if you do not.  I could get the nicest house in the world for
you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square.  You must come, indeed.  I
am sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am
confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public."

They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties.

"Oh, my love," cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered
the room--"you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to
town this winter."

Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began
complaining of the weather.

"How horrid all this is!" said he.  "Such weather makes every thing and
every body disgusting.  Dullness is as much produced within doors as
without, by rain.  It makes one detest all one's acquaintance.  What
the devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his
house?  How few people know what comfort is!  Sir John is as stupid as
the weather."

The rest of the company soon dropt in.

"I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been able to
take your usual walk to Allenham today."

Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.

"Oh, don't be so sly before us," said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all
about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think
he is extremely handsome.  We do not live a great way from him in the
country, you know.  Not above ten miles, I dare say."

"Much nearer thirty," said her husband.

"Ah, well! there is not much difference.  I never was at his house; but
they say it is a sweet pretty place."

"As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer.

Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her
interest in what was said.

"Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer--"then it must be some other
place that is so pretty I suppose."

When they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with regret
that they were only eight all together.

"My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should be
so few.  Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?"

"Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before,
that it could not be done?  They dined with us last."

"You and I, Sir John," said Mrs. Jennings, "should not stand upon such
ceremony."

"Then you would be very ill-bred," cried Mr. Palmer.

"My love you contradict every body," said his wife with her usual
laugh.  "Do you know that you are quite rude?"

"I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother
ill-bred."

"Ay, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured old lady,
"you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again.
So there I have the whip hand of you."

Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid
of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her,
as they must live together.  It was impossible for any one to be more
thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs.
Palmer.  The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her
husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was
highly diverted.

"Mr. Palmer is so droll!" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor.  "He is
always out of humour."

Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit
for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he
wished to appear.  His temper might perhaps be a little soured by
finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable
bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly
woman,--but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any
sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it.-- It was rather a wish of
distinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of
every body, and his general abuse of every thing before him.  It was
the desire of appearing superior to other people.  The motive was too
common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by
establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach
any one to him except his wife.

"Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, "I have
got such a favour to ask of you and your sister.  Will you come and
spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas?  Now, pray do,--and come
while the Westons are with us.  You cannot think how happy I shall be!
It will be quite delightful!--My love," applying to her husband, "don't
you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?"

"Certainly," he replied, with a sneer--"I came into Devonshire with no
other view."

"There now,"--said his lady, "you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you
cannot refuse to come."

They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation.

"But indeed you must and shall come.  I am sure you will like it of all
things.  The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful.
You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay
now, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing
against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I
never saw before, it is quite charming!  But, poor fellow! it is very
fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him."

Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the
hardship of such an obligation.

"How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in
Parliament!--won't it? How I shall laugh!  It will be so ridiculous to
see all his letters directed to him with an M.P.--But do you know, he
says, he will never frank for me?  He declares he won't.  Don't you,
Mr. Palmer?"

Mr. Palmer took no notice of her.

"He cannot bear writing, you know," she continued--"he says it is quite
shocking."

"No," said he, "I never said any thing so irrational.  Don't palm all
your abuses of languages upon me."

"There now; you see how droll he is.  This is always the way with him!
Sometimes he won't speak to me for half a day together, and then he
comes out with something so droll--all about any thing in the world."

She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room,
by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively.

"Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable."

"Well--I am so glad you do.  I thought you would, he is so pleasant;
and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can
tell you, and you can't think how disappointed he will be if you don't
come to Cleveland.--I can't imagine why you should object to it."

Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the
subject, put a stop to her entreaties.  She thought it probable that as
they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some
more particular account of Willoughby's general character, than could
be gathered from the Middletons' partial acquaintance with him; and she
was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as
might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne.  She began by
inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether
they were intimately acquainted with him.

"Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;--"Not
that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town.
Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was
at Allenham.  Mama saw him here once before;--but I was with my uncle
at Weymouth.  However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of
him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we
should never have been in the country together.  He is very little at
Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr.
Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and
besides it is such a way off.  I know why you inquire about him, very
well; your sister is to marry him.  I am monstrous glad of it, for then
I shall have her for a neighbour you know."

"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter than
I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match."

"Don't pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks
of.  I assure you I heard of it in my way through town."

"My dear Mrs. Palmer!"

"Upon my honour I did.--I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in
Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly."

"You surprise me very much.  Colonel Brandon tell you of it!  Surely
you must be mistaken.  To give such intelligence to a person who could
not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should
expect Colonel Brandon to do."

"But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how
it happened.  When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and
so we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and
another, and I said to him, 'So, Colonel, there is a new family come to
Barton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty,
and that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby of Combe
Magna.  Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have been
in Devonshire so lately.'"

"And what did the Colonel say?"

"Oh--he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so
from that moment I set it down as certain.  It will be quite
delightful, I declare!  When is it to take place?"

"Mr. Brandon was very well I hope?"

"Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but
say fine things of you."

"I am flattered by his commendation.  He seems an excellent man; and I
think him uncommonly pleasing."

"So do I.--He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should
be so grave and so dull.  Mama says HE was in love with your sister
too.-- I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly
ever falls in love with any body."

"Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?" said
Elinor.

"Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are
acquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all
think him extremely agreeable I assure you.  Nobody is more liked than
Mr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister.  She
is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he
is much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and
agreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her.  However, I don't
think her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you; for I think
you both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too I am sure,
though we could not get him to own it last night."

Mrs. Palmer's information respecting Willoughby was not very material;
but any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to her.

"I am so glad we are got acquainted at last," continued
Charlotte.--"And now I hope we shall always be great friends.  You
can't think how much I longed to see you!  It is so delightful that you
should live at the cottage!  Nothing can be like it, to be sure!  And I
am so glad your sister is going to be well married!  I hope you will be
a great deal at Combe Magna.  It is a sweet place, by all accounts."

"You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have not you?"

"Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married.-- He was a
particular friend of Sir John's. I believe," she added in a low voice,
"he would have been very glad to have had me, if he could.  Sir John
and Lady Middleton wished it very much.  But mama did not think the
match good enough for me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to
the Colonel, and we should have been married immediately."

"Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John's proposal to your mother
before it was made?  Had he never owned his affection to yourself?"

"Oh, no; but if mama had not objected to it, I dare say he would have
liked it of all things.  He had not seen me then above twice, for it
was before I left school.  However, I am much happier as I am.  Mr.
Palmer is the kind of man I like."



CHAPTER 21


The Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two families at
Barton were again left to entertain each other.  But this did not last
long; Elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her head, had
hardly done wondering at Charlotte's being so happy without a cause, at
Mr. Palmer's acting so simply, with good abilities, and at the strange
unsuitableness which often existed between husband and wife, before Sir
John's and Mrs. Jennings's active zeal in the cause of society,
procured her some other new acquaintance to see and observe.

In a morning's excursion to Exeter, they had met with two young ladies,
whom Mrs. Jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be her
relations, and this was enough for Sir John to invite them directly to
the park, as soon as their present engagements at Exeter were over.
Their engagements at Exeter instantly gave way before such an
invitation, and Lady Middleton was thrown into no little alarm on the
return of Sir John, by hearing that she was very soon to receive a
visit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, and of whose
elegance,--whose tolerable gentility even, she could have no proof; for
the assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for
nothing at all.  Their being her relations too made it so much the
worse; and Mrs. Jennings's attempts at consolation were therefore
unfortunately founded, when she advised her daughter not to care about
their being so fashionable; because they were all cousins and must put
up with one another.  As it was impossible, however, now to prevent
their coming, Lady Middleton resigned herself to the idea of it, with
all the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting herself with merely
giving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or six times
every day.

The young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no means ungenteel or
unfashionable.  Their dress was very smart, their manners very civil,
they were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the furniture,
and they happened to be so doatingly fond of children that Lady
Middleton's good opinion was engaged in their favour before they had
been an hour at the Park.  She declared them to be very agreeable girls
indeed, which for her ladyship was enthusiastic admiration.  Sir John's
confidence in his own judgment rose with this animated praise, and he
set off directly for the cottage to tell the Miss Dashwoods of the Miss
Steeles' arrival, and to assure them of their being the sweetest girls
in the world.  From such commendation as this, however, there was not
much to be learned; Elinor well knew that the sweetest girls in the
world were to be met with in every part of England, under every
possible variation of form, face, temper and understanding.  Sir John
wanted the whole family to walk to the Park directly and look at his
guests.  Benevolent, philanthropic man!  It was painful to him even to
keep a third cousin to himself.

"Do come now," said he--"pray come--you must come--I declare you shall
come--You can't think how you will like them.  Lucy is monstrous
pretty, and so good humoured and agreeable!  The children are all
hanging about her already, as if she was an old acquaintance.  And they
both long to see you of all things, for they have heard at Exeter that
you are the most beautiful creatures in the world; and I have told them
it is all very true, and a great deal more.  You will be delighted with
them I am sure.  They have brought the whole coach full of playthings
for the children.  How can you be so cross as not to come?  Why they
are your cousins, you know, after a fashion.  YOU are my cousins, and
they are my wife's, so you must be related."

But Sir John could not prevail.  He could only obtain a promise of
their calling at the Park within a day or two, and then left them in
amazement at their indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their
attractions to the Miss Steeles, as he had been already boasting of the
Miss Steeles to them.

When their promised visit to the Park and consequent introduction to
these young ladies took place, they found in the appearance of the
eldest, who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible
face, nothing to admire; but in the other, who was not more than two or
three and twenty, they acknowledged considerable beauty; her features
were pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a smartness of air,
which though it did not give actual elegance or grace, gave distinction
to her person.-- Their manners were particularly civil, and Elinor soon
allowed them credit for some kind of sense, when she saw with what
constant and judicious attention they were making themselves agreeable
to Lady Middleton.  With her children they were in continual raptures,
extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring their
whims; and such of their time as could be spared from the importunate
demands which this politeness made on it, was spent in admiration of
whatever her ladyship was doing, if she happened to be doing any thing,
or in taking patterns of some elegant new dress, in which her
appearance the day before had thrown them into unceasing delight.
Fortunately for those who pay their court through such foibles, a fond
mother, though, in pursuit of praise for her children, the most
rapacious of human beings, is likewise the most credulous; her demands
are exorbitant; but she will swallow any thing; and the excessive
affection and endurance of the Miss Steeles towards her offspring were
viewed therefore by Lady Middleton without the smallest surprise or
distrust.  She saw with maternal complacency all the impertinent
encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins submitted.
She saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their ears, their
work-bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen away, and felt
no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment.  It suggested no other
surprise than that Elinor and Marianne should sit so composedly by,
without claiming a share in what was passing.

"John is in such spirits today!" said she, on his taking Miss Steeles's
pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window--"He is full of
monkey tricks."

And soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one of the
same lady's fingers, she fondly observed, "How playful William is!"

"And here is my sweet little Annamaria," she added, tenderly caressing
a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the last
two minutes; "And she is always so gentle and quiet--Never was there
such a quiet little thing!"

But unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship's
head dress slightly scratching the child's neck, produced from this
pattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone
by any creature professedly noisy.  The mother's consternation was
excessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and
every thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which
affection could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little
sufferer.  She was seated in her mother's lap, covered with kisses, her
wound bathed with lavender-water, by one of the Miss Steeles, who was
on her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by
the other.  With such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to
cease crying.  She still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two
brothers for offering to touch her, and all their united soothings were
ineffectual till Lady Middleton luckily remembering that in a scene of
similar distress last week, some apricot marmalade had been
successfully applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly
proposed for this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of
screams in the young lady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that
it would not be rejected.-- She was carried out of the room therefore
in her mother's arms, in quest of this medicine, and as the two boys
chose to follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay
behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room
had not known for many hours.

"Poor little creatures!" said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone.
"It might have been a very sad accident."

"Yet I hardly know how," cried Marianne, "unless it had been under
totally different circumstances.  But this is the usual way of
heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality."

"What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!" said Lucy Steele.

Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not
feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor therefore the whole
task of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell.  She did
her best when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with more
warmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy.

"And Sir John too," cried the elder sister, "what a charming man he is!"

Here too, Miss Dashwood's commendation, being only simple and just,
came in without any eclat.  She merely observed that he was perfectly
good humoured and friendly.

"And what a charming little family they have!  I never saw such fine
children in my life.--I declare I quite doat upon them already, and
indeed I am always distractedly fond of children."

"I should guess so," said Elinor, with a smile, "from what I have
witnessed this morning."

"I have a notion," said Lucy, "you think the little Middletons rather
too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is
so natural in Lady Middleton; and for my part, I love to see children
full of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame and
quiet."

"I confess," replied Elinor, "that while I am at Barton Park, I never
think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence."

A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss
Steele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now
said rather abruptly, "And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood?
I suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex."

In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of
the manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was.

"Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?" added Miss Steele.

"We have heard Sir John admire it excessively," said Lucy, who seemed
to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister.

"I think every one MUST admire it," replied Elinor, "who ever saw the
place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its
beauties as we do."

"And had you a great many smart beaux there?  I suppose you have not so
many in this part of the world; for my part, I think they are a vast
addition always."

"But why should you think," said Lucy, looking ashamed of her sister,
"that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as Sussex?"

"Nay, my dear, I'm sure I don't pretend to say that there an't.  I'm
sure there's a vast many smart beaux in Exeter; but you know, how could
I tell what smart beaux there might be about Norland; and I was only
afraid the Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they had not
so many as they used to have.  But perhaps you young ladies may not
care about the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with them.
For my part, I think they are vastly agreeable, provided they dress
smart and behave civil.  But I can't bear to see them dirty and nasty.
Now there's Mr. Rose at Exeter, a prodigious smart young man, quite a
beau, clerk to Mr. Simpson, you know, and yet if you do but meet him of
a morning, he is not fit to be seen.-- I suppose your brother was quite
a beau, Miss Dashwood, before he married, as he was so rich?"

"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "I cannot tell you, for I do not
perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word.  But this I can say, that
if he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still for there is
not the smallest alteration in him."

"Oh! dear! one never thinks of married men's being beaux--they have
something else to do."

"Lord! Anne," cried her sister, "you can talk of nothing but
beaux;--you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing else."
And then to turn the discourse, she began admiring the house and the
furniture.

This specimen of the Miss Steeles was enough.  The vulgar freedom and
folly of the eldest left her no recommendation, and as Elinor was not
blinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want
of real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish
of knowing them better.

Not so the Miss Steeles.--They came from Exeter, well provided with
admiration for the use of Sir John Middleton, his family, and all his
relations, and no niggardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair
cousins, whom they declared to be the most beautiful, elegant,
accomplished, and agreeable girls they had ever beheld, and with whom
they were particularly anxious to be better acquainted.-- And to be
better acquainted therefore, Elinor soon found was their inevitable
lot, for as Sir John was entirely on the side of the Miss Steeles,
their party would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of
intimacy must be submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or two
together in the same room almost every day.  Sir John could do no more;
but he did not know that any more was required: to be together was, in
his opinion, to be intimate, and while his continual schemes for their
meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of their being established
friends.

To do him justice, he did every thing in his power to promote their
unreserve, by making the Miss Steeles acquainted with whatever he knew
or supposed of his cousins' situations in the most delicate
particulars,--and Elinor had not seen them more than twice, before the
eldest of them wished her joy on her sister's having been so lucky as
to make a conquest of a very smart beau since she came to Barton.

"'Twill be a fine thing to have her married so young to be sure," said
she, "and I hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious handsome.  And I
hope you may have as good luck yourself soon,--but perhaps you may have
a friend in the corner already."

Elinor could not suppose that Sir John would be more nice in
proclaiming his suspicions of her regard for Edward, than he had been
with respect to Marianne; indeed it was rather his favourite joke of
the two, as being somewhat newer and more conjectural; and since
Edward's visit, they had never dined together without his drinking to
her best affections with so much significancy and so many nods and
winks, as to excite general attention.  The letter F--had been likewise
invariably brought forward, and found productive of such countless
jokes, that its character as the wittiest letter in the alphabet had
been long established with Elinor.

The Miss Steeles, as she expected, had now all the benefit of these
jokes, and in the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know the
name of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often impertinently
expressed, was perfectly of a piece with her general inquisitiveness
into the concerns of their family.  But Sir John did not sport long
with the curiosity which he delighted to raise, for he had at least as
much pleasure in telling the name, as Miss Steele had in hearing it.

"His name is Ferrars," said he, in a very audible whisper; "but pray do
not tell it, for it's a great secret."

"Ferrars!" repeated Miss Steele; "Mr. Ferrars is the happy man, is he?
What! your sister-in-law's brother, Miss Dashwood? a very agreeable
young man to be sure; I know him very well."

"How can you say so, Anne?" cried Lucy, who generally made an amendment
to all her sister's assertions.  "Though we have seen him once or twice
at my uncle's, it is rather too much to pretend to know him very well."

Elinor heard all this with attention and surprise.  "And who was this
uncle?  Where did he live?  How came they acquainted?"  She wished very
much to have the subject continued, though she did not chuse to join in
it herself; but nothing more of it was said, and for the first time in
her life, she thought Mrs. Jennings deficient either in curiosity after
petty information, or in a disposition to communicate it.  The manner
in which Miss Steele had spoken of Edward, increased her curiosity; for
it struck her as being rather ill-natured, and suggested the suspicion
of that lady's knowing, or fancying herself to know something to his
disadvantage.--But her curiosity was unavailing, for no farther notice
was taken of Mr. Ferrars's name by Miss Steele when alluded to, or even
openly mentioned by Sir John.



CHAPTER 22


Marianne, who had never much toleration for any thing like
impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of
taste from herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from
the state of her spirits, to be pleased with the Miss Steeles, or to
encourage their advances; and to the invariable coldness of her
behaviour towards them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on
their side, Elinor principally attributed that preference of herself
which soon became evident in the manners of both, but especially of
Lucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation, or of
striving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank
communication of her sentiments.

Lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing; and
as a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her agreeable;
but her powers had received no aid from education: she was ignorant and
illiterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want of
information in the most common particulars, could not be concealed from
Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to appear to
advantage.  Elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of abilities
which education might have rendered so respectable; but she saw, with
less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of
rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her
assiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have no
lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insincerity
with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in
conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made
every shew of attention and deference towards herself perfectly
valueless.

"You will think my question an odd one, I dare say," said Lucy to her
one day, as they were walking together from the park to the
cottage--"but pray, are you personally acquainted with your
sister-in-law's mother, Mrs. Ferrars?"

Elinor DID think the question a very odd one, and her countenance
expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars.

"Indeed!" replied Lucy; "I wonder at that, for I thought you must have
seen her at Norland sometimes.  Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what
sort of a woman she is?"

"No," returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward's
mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent
curiosity-- "I know nothing of her."

"I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a
way," said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; "but perhaps
there may be reasons--I wish I might venture; but however I hope you
will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be
impertinent."

Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in
silence.  It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by
saying, with some hesitation,

"I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious.  I am sure I
would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person
whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours.  And I am sure I
should not have the smallest fear of trusting YOU; indeed, I should be
very glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable
situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble YOU.
I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars."

"I am sorry I do NOT," said Elinor, in great astonishment, "if it could
be of any use to YOU to know my opinion of her.  But really I never
understood that you were at all connected with that family, and
therefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry
into her character."

"I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it.  But
if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised.  Mrs.
Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present--but the time MAY
come--how soon it will come must depend upon herself--when we may be
very intimately connected."

She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side
glance at her companion to observe its effect on her.

"Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "what do you mean?  Are you acquainted
with Mr. Robert Ferrars?  Can you be?" And she did not feel much
delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law.

"No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. ROBERT Ferrars--I never saw him in my
life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother."

What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as
painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the
assertion attended it.  She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement,
unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though
her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no
danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.

"You may well be surprised," continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could
have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the
smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always
meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so
by me to this hour.  Not a soul of all my relations know of it but
Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt
the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really
thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars
must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained.  And I do not think
Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you,
because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your
family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as
his own sisters."--She paused.

Elinor for a few moments remained silent.  Her astonishment at what she
heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself
to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner,
which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude-- "May I ask
if your engagement is of long standing?"

"We have been engaged these four years."

"Four years!"

"Yes."

Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it.

"I did not know," said she, "that you were even acquainted till the
other day."

"Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date.  He was under my
uncle's care, you know, a considerable while."

"Your uncle!"

"Yes; Mr. Pratt.  Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?"

"I think I have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which
increased with her increase of emotion.

"He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near
Plymouth.  It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me
was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was
formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he
was almost always with us afterwards.  I was very unwilling to enter
into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of
his mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so
prudent as I ought to have been.-- Though you do not know him so well
as me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible
he is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him."

"Certainly," answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but after
a moment's reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward's
honour and love, and her companion's falsehood--"Engaged to Mr. Edward
Ferrars!--I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me,
that really--I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake
of person or name.  We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars."

"We can mean no other," cried Lucy, smiling.  "Mr. Edward Ferrars, the
eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your
sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must allow
that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who
all my happiness depends."

"It is strange," replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity, "that I
should never have heard him even mention your name."

"No; considering our situation, it was not strange.  Our first care has
been to keep the matter secret.-- You knew nothing of me, or my family,
and, therefore, there could be no OCCASION for ever mentioning my name
to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister's
suspecting any thing, THAT was reason enough for his not mentioning it."

She was silent.--Elinor's security sunk; but her self-command did not
sink with it.

"Four years you have been engaged," said she with a firm voice.

"Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait.  Poor
Edward!  It puts him quite out of heart." Then taking a small miniature
from her pocket, she added, "To prevent the possibility of mistake, be
so good as to look at this face.  It does not do him justice, to be
sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was
drew for.--I have had it above these three years."

She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the
painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or
her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she
could have none of its being Edward's face.  She returned it almost
instantly, acknowledging the likeness.

"I have never been able," continued Lucy, "to give him my picture in
return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so
anxious to get it!  But I am determined to set for it the very first
opportunity."

"You are quite in the right," replied Elinor calmly.  They then
proceeded a few paces in silence.  Lucy spoke first.

"I am sure," said she, "I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully
keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to
us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it,
I dare say.  I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding
proud woman."

"I certainly did not seek your confidence," said Elinor; "but you do me
no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on.  Your
secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so
unnecessary a communication.  You must at least have felt that my being
acquainted with it could not add to its safety."

As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover
something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest
part of what she had been saying; but Lucy's countenance suffered no
change.

"I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you,"
said she, "in telling you all this.  I have not known you long to be
sure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by
description a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as
if you was an old acquaintance.  Besides in the present case, I really
thought some explanation was due to you after my making such particular
inquiries about Edward's mother; and I am so unfortunate, that I have
not a creature whose advice I can ask.  Anne is the only person that
knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a
great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her
betraying me.  She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must
perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world
t'other day, when Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she
should out with it all.  You can't think how much I go through in my
mind from it altogether.  I only wonder that I am alive after what I
have suffered for Edward's sake these last four years.  Every thing in
such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom--we can hardly
meet above twice a-year.  I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite
broke."

Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very
compassionate.

"Sometimes." continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, "I think whether it
would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely."  As
she said this, she looked directly at her companion.  "But then at
other times I have not resolution enough for it.-- I cannot bear the
thoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of such
a thing would do.  And on my own account too--so dear as he is to me--I
don't think I could be equal to it.  What would you advise me to do in
such a case, Miss Dashwood?  What would you do yourself?"

"Pardon me," replied Elinor, startled by the question; "but I can give
you no advice under such circumstances.  Your own judgment must direct
you."

"To be sure," continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on both
sides, "his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor
Edward is so cast down by it!  Did you not think him dreadful
low-spirited when he was at Barton?  He was so miserable when he left
us at Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him
quite ill."

"Did he come from your uncle's, then, when he visited us?"

"Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us.  Did you think he
came directly from town?"

"No," replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh
circumstance in favour of Lucy's veracity; "I remember he told us, that
he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth." She
remembered too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing
farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to
their names.

"Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?" repeated Lucy.

"We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived."

"I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was the
matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than
a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected.-- Poor fellow!--I
am afraid it is just the same with him now; for he writes in wretched
spirits.  I heard from him just before I left Exeter;" taking a letter
from her pocket and carelessly showing the direction to Elinor.  "You
know his hand, I dare say, a charming one it is; but that is not
written so well as usual.--He was tired, I dare say, for he had just
filled the sheet to me as full as possible."

Elinor saw that it WAS his hand, and she could doubt no longer.  This
picture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been
accidentally obtained; it might not have been Edward's gift; but a
correspondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a
positive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else; for a few
moments, she was almost overcome--her heart sunk within her, and she
could hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably necessary; and she
struggled so resolutely against the oppression of her feelings, that
her success was speedy, and for the time complete.

"Writing to each other," said Lucy, returning the letter into her
pocket, "is the only comfort we have in such long separations.  Yes, I
have one other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even
THAT.  If he had but my picture, he says he should be easy.  I gave him
a lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at Longstaple last, and
that was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture.
Perhaps you might notice the ring when you saw him?"

"I did," said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was
concealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt
before.  She was mortified, shocked, confounded.

Fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the
conversation could be continued no farther.  After sitting with them a
few minutes, the Miss Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was then
at liberty to think and be wretched.





[At this point in the first and second editions, Volume 1 ends.]





CHAPTER 23


However small Elinor's general dependence on Lucy's veracity might be,
it was impossible for her on serious reflection to suspect it in the
present case, where no temptation could be answerable to the folly of
inventing a falsehood of such a description.  What Lucy had asserted to
be true, therefore, Elinor could not, dared not longer doubt; supported
as it was too on every side by such probabilities and proofs, and
contradicted by nothing but her own wishes.  Their opportunity of
acquaintance in the house of Mr. Pratt was a foundation for the rest,
at once indisputable and alarming; and Edward's visit near Plymouth,
his melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at his own prospects,
his uncertain behaviour towards herself, the intimate knowledge of the
Miss Steeles as to Norland and their family connections, which had
often surprised her, the picture, the letter, the ring, formed
altogether such a body of evidence, as overcame every fear of
condemning him unfairly, and established as a fact, which no partiality
could set aside, his ill-treatment of herself.--Her resentment of such
behaviour, her indignation at having been its dupe, for a short time
made her feel only for herself; but other ideas, other considerations,
soon arose.  Had Edward been intentionally deceiving her?  Had he
feigned a regard for her which he did not feel?  Was his engagement to
Lucy an engagement of the heart?  No; whatever it might once have been,
she could not believe it such at present.  His affection was all her
own.  She could not be deceived in that.  Her mother, sisters, Fanny,
all had been conscious of his regard for her at Norland; it was not an
illusion of her own vanity.  He certainly loved her.  What a softener
of the heart was this persuasion!  How much could it not tempt her to
forgive!  He had been blamable, highly blamable, in remaining at
Norland after he first felt her influence over him to be more than it
ought to be.  In that, he could not be defended; but if he had injured
her, how much more had he injured himself; if her case were pitiable,
his was hopeless.  His imprudence had made her miserable for a while;
but it seemed to have deprived himself of all chance of ever being
otherwise.  She might in time regain tranquillity; but HE, what had he
to look forward to?  Could he ever be tolerably happy with Lucy Steele;
could he, were his affection for herself out of the question, with his
integrity, his delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a
wife like her--illiterate, artful, and selfish?

The youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to every
thing but her beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding
years--years, which if rationally spent, give such improvement to the
understanding, must have opened his eyes to her defects of education,
while the same period of time, spent on her side in inferior society
and more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps robbed her of that simplicity
which might once have given an interesting character to her beauty.

If in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself, his difficulties
from his mother had seemed great, how much greater were they now likely
to be, when the object of his engagement was undoubtedly inferior in
connections, and probably inferior in fortune to herself.  These
difficulties, indeed, with a heart so alienated from Lucy, might not
press very hard upon his patience; but melancholy was the state of the
person by whom the expectation of family opposition and unkindness,
could be felt as a relief!

As these considerations occurred to her in painful succession, she wept
for him, more than for herself.  Supported by the conviction of having
done nothing to merit her present unhappiness, and consoled by the
belief that Edward had done nothing to forfeit her esteem, she thought
she could even now, under the first smart of the heavy blow, command
herself enough to guard every suspicion of the truth from her mother
and sisters.  And so well was she able to answer her own expectations,
that when she joined them at dinner only two hours after she had first
suffered the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one would have
supposed from the appearance of the sisters, that Elinor was mourning
in secret over obstacles which must divide her for ever from the object
of her love, and that Marianne was internally dwelling on the
perfections of a man, of whose whole heart she felt thoroughly
possessed, and whom she expected to see in every carriage which drove
near their house.

The necessity of concealing from her mother and Marianne, what had been
entrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to unceasing
exertion, was no aggravation of Elinor's distress.  On the contrary it
was a relief to her, to be spared the communication of what would give
such affliction to them, and to be saved likewise from hearing that
condemnation of Edward, which would probably flow from the excess of
their partial affection for herself, and which was more than she felt
equal to support.

From their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could receive
no assistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress,
while her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their
example nor from their praise.  She was stronger alone, and her own
good sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken,
her appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as with regrets so
poignant and so fresh, it was possible for them to be.

Much as she had suffered from her first conversation with Lucy on the
subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this for
more reasons than one.  She wanted to hear many particulars of their
engagement repeated again, she wanted more clearly to understand what
Lucy really felt for Edward, whether there were any sincerity in her
declaration of tender regard for him, and she particularly wanted to
convince Lucy, by her readiness to enter on the matter again, and her
calmness in conversing on it, that she was no otherwise interested in
it than as a friend, which she very much feared her involuntary
agitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least
doubtful.  That Lucy was disposed to be jealous of her appeared very
probable: it was plain that Edward had always spoken highly in her
praise, not merely from Lucy's assertion, but from her venturing to
trust her on so short a personal acquaintance, with a secret so
confessedly and evidently important.  And even Sir John's joking
intelligence must have had some weight.  But indeed, while Elinor
remained so well assured within herself of being really beloved by
Edward, it required no other consideration of probabilities to make it
natural that Lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her very
confidence was a proof.  What other reason for the disclosure of the
affair could there be, but that Elinor might be informed by it of
Lucy's superior claims on Edward, and be taught to avoid him in future?
She had little difficulty in understanding thus much of her rival's
intentions, and while she was firmly resolved to act by her as every
principle of honour and honesty directed, to combat her own affection
for Edward and to see him as little as possible; she could not deny
herself the comfort of endeavouring to convince Lucy that her heart was
unwounded.  And as she could now have nothing more painful to hear on
the subject than had already been told, she did not mistrust her own
ability of going through a repetition of particulars with composure.

But it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could be
commanded, though Lucy was as well disposed as herself to take
advantage of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine
enough to allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most
easily separate themselves from the others; and though they met at
least every other evening either at the park or cottage, and chiefly at
the former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake of
conversation.  Such a thought would never enter either Sir John or Lady
Middleton's head; and therefore very little leisure was ever given for
a general chat, and none at all for particular discourse.  They met for
the sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards,
or consequences, or any other game that was sufficiently noisy.

One or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording
Elinor any chance of engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John called at
the cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they
would all dine with Lady Middleton that day, as he was obliged to
attend the club at Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone,
except her mother and the two Miss Steeles.  Elinor, who foresaw a
fairer opening for the point she had in view, in such a party as this
was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil
and well-bred direction of Lady Middleton than when her husband united
them together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the
invitation; Margaret, with her mother's permission, was equally
compliant, and Marianne, though always unwilling to join any of their
parties, was persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to have her
seclude herself from any chance of amusement, to go likewise.

The young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved from
the frightful solitude which had threatened her.  The insipidity of the
meeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected; it produced not one
novelty of thought or expression, and nothing could be less interesting
than the whole of their discourse both in the dining parlour and
drawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied them, and while
they remained there, she was too well convinced of the impossibility of
engaging Lucy's attention to attempt it.  They quitted it only with the
removal of the tea-things.  The card-table was then placed, and Elinor
began to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a hope of
finding time for conversation at the park.  They all rose up in
preparation for a round game.

"I am glad," said Lady Middleton to Lucy, "you are not going to finish
poor little Annamaria's basket this evening; for I am sure it must hurt
your eyes to work filigree by candlelight.  And we will make the dear
little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and then I
hope she will not much mind it."

This hint was enough, Lucy recollected herself instantly and replied,
"Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only waiting
to know whether you can make your party without me, or I should have
been at my filigree already.  I would not disappoint the little angel
for all the world: and if you want me at the card-table now, I am
resolved to finish the basket after supper."

"You are very good, I hope it won't hurt your eyes--will you ring the
bell for some working candles?  My poor little girl would be sadly
disappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow, for
though I told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon
having it done."

Lucy directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with an
alacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to infer that she could taste no
greater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt child.

Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Casino to the others.  No one made
any objection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to the forms
of general civility, exclaimed, "Your Ladyship will have the goodness
to excuse ME--you know I detest cards.  I shall go to the piano-forte;
I have not touched it since it was tuned."  And without farther
ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument.

Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that SHE had never made
so rude a speech.

"Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma'am,"
said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; "and I do not
much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever
heard."

The remaining five were now to draw their cards.

"Perhaps," continued Elinor, "if I should happen to cut out, I may be
of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and
there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be
impossible I think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening.  I
should like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it."

"Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help," cried Lucy,
"for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there was;
and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Annamaria after
all."

"Oh! that would be terrible, indeed," said Miss Steele-- "Dear little
soul, how I do love her!"

"You are very kind," said Lady Middleton to Elinor; "and as you really
like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut in till
another rubber, or will you take your chance now?"

Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by a
little of that address which Marianne could never condescend to
practise, gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same
time.  Lucy made room for her with ready attention, and the two fair
rivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and, with the
utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work.  The pianoforte at
which Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her own thoughts, had
by this time forgotten that any body was in the room besides herself,
was luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now judged she might
safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting
subject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table.



CHAPTER 24


In a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began.

"I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with,
if I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its
subject.  I will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward again."

"Thank you," cried Lucy warmly, "for breaking the ice; you have set my
heart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid I had offended
you by what I told you that Monday."

"Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me," and Elinor spoke
it with the truest sincerity, "nothing could be farther from my
intention than to give you such an idea.  Could you have a motive for
the trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?"

"And yet I do assure you," replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes full of
meaning, "there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your
manner that made me quite uncomfortable.  I felt sure that you was
angry with me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for
having took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs.  But I am
very glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not
blame me.  If you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my
heart speaking to you of what I am always thinking of every moment of
my life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing else I am
sure."

"Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you,
to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall
never have reason to repent it.  Your case is a very unfortunate one;
you seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have
need of all your mutual affection to support you under them.  Mr.
Ferrars, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother."

"He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to
marry upon that, though for my own part, I could give up every prospect
of more without a sigh.  I have been always used to a very small
income, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love him too
well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his
mother might give him if he married to please her.  We must wait, it
may be for many years.  With almost every other man in the world, it
would be an alarming prospect; but Edward's affection and constancy
nothing can deprive me of I know."

"That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly
supported by the same trust in your's.  If the strength of your
reciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under
many circumstances it naturally would during a four years' engagement,
your situation would have been pitiable, indeed."

Lucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her countenance
from every expression that could give her words a suspicious tendency.

"Edward's love for me," said Lucy, "has been pretty well put to the
test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and
it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt
it now.  I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment's alarm
on that account from the first."

Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion.

Lucy went on.  "I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from
our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the
world than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for
suspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been
the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any
lowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had talked
more of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less happy at
Longstaple than he used to be.  I do not mean to say that I am
particularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case
I am sure I could not be deceived."

"All this," thought Elinor, "is very pretty; but it can impose upon
neither of us."

"But what," said she after a short silence, "are your views? or have
you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars's death, which is a
melancholy and shocking extremity?--Is her son determined to submit to
this, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which
it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a
while by owning the truth?"

"If we could be certain that it would be only for a while!  But Mrs.
Ferrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of anger
upon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to Robert, and
the idea of that, for Edward's sake, frightens away all my inclination
for hasty measures."

"And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness
beyond reason."

Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.

"Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?" asked Elinor.

"Not at all--I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his
brother--silly and a great coxcomb."

"A great coxcomb!" repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those
words by a sudden pause in Marianne's music.-- "Oh, they are talking of
their favourite beaux, I dare say."

"No sister," cried Lucy, "you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux
are NOT great coxcombs."

"I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood's is not," said Mrs. Jennings,
laughing heartily; "for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved
young men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly little
creature, there is no finding out who SHE likes."

"Oh," cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them, "I dare
say Lucy's beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss
Dashwood's."

Elinor blushed in spite of herself.  Lucy bit her lip, and looked
angrily at her sister.  A mutual silence took place for some time.
Lucy first put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though Marianne
was then giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent
concerto--

"I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into my
head, for bringing matters to bear; indeed I am bound to let you into
the secret, for you are a party concerned.  I dare say you have seen
enough of Edward to know that he would prefer the church to every other
profession; now my plan is that he should take orders as soon as he
can, and then through your interest, which I am sure you would be kind
enough to use out of friendship for him, and I hope out of some regard
to me, your brother might be persuaded to give him Norland living;
which I understand is a very good one, and the present incumbent not
likely to live a great while.  That would be enough for us to marry
upon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest."

"I should always be happy," replied Elinor, "to show any mark of my
esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do you not perceive that my
interest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary?  He is
brother to Mrs. John Dashwood--THAT must be recommendation enough to
her husband."

"But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward's going into
orders."

"Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very little."

They were again silent for many minutes.  At length Lucy exclaimed with
a deep sigh,

"I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at
once by dissolving the engagement.  We seem so beset with difficulties
on every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we
should be happier perhaps in the end.  But you will not give me your
advice, Miss Dashwood?"

"No," answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated
feelings, "on such a subject I certainly will not.  You know very well
that my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the
side of your wishes."

"Indeed you wrong me," replied Lucy, with great solemnity; "I know
nobody of whose judgment I think so highly as I do of yours; and I do
really believe, that if you was to say to me, 'I advise you by all
means to put an end to your engagement with Edward Ferrars, it will be
more for the happiness of both of you,' I should resolve upon doing it
immediately."

Elinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward's future wife, and
replied, "This compliment would effectually frighten me from giving any
opinion on the subject had I formed one.  It raises my influence much
too high; the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too
much for an indifferent person."

"'Tis because you are an indifferent person," said Lucy, with some
pique, and laying a particular stress on those words, "that your
judgment might justly have such weight with me.  If you could be
supposed to be biased in any respect by your own feelings, your opinion
would not be worth having."

Elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might
provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve; and
was even partly determined never to mention the subject again.  Another
pause therefore of many minutes' duration, succeeded this speech, and
Lucy was still the first to end it.

"Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?" said she with all
her accustomary complacency.

"Certainly not."

"I am sorry for that," returned the other, while her eyes brightened at
the information, "it would have gave me such pleasure to meet you
there!  But I dare say you will go for all that.  To be sure, your
brother and sister will ask you to come to them."

"It will not be in my power to accept their invitation if they do."

"How unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meeting you there.
Anne and me are to go the latter end of January to some relations who
have been wanting us to visit them these several years!  But I only go
for the sake of seeing Edward.  He will be there in February, otherwise
London would have no charms for me; I have not spirits for it."

Elinor was soon called to the card-table by the conclusion of the first
rubber, and the confidential discourse of the two ladies was therefore
at an end, to which both of them submitted without any reluctance, for
nothing had been said on either side to make them dislike each other
less than they had done before; and Elinor sat down to the card table
with the melancholy persuasion that Edward was not only without
affection for the person who was to be his wife; but that he had not
even the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which sincere
affection on HER side would have given, for self-interest alone could
induce a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which she seemed so
thoroughly aware that he was weary.

From this time the subject was never revived by Elinor, and when
entered on by Lucy, who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing it,
and was particularly careful to inform her confidante, of her happiness
whenever she received a letter from Edward, it was treated by the
former with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon as civility
would allow; for she felt such conversations to be an indulgence which
Lucy did not deserve, and which were dangerous to herself.

The visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was lengthened far beyond
what the first invitation implied.  Their favour increased; they could
not be spared; Sir John would not hear of their going; and in spite of
their numerous and long arranged engagements in Exeter, in spite of the
absolute necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately, which was
in full force at the end of every week, they were prevailed on to stay
nearly two months at the park, and to assist in the due celebration of
that festival which requires a more than ordinary share of private
balls and large dinners to proclaim its importance.



CHAPTER 25


Though Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion of
the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not without
a settled habitation of her own.  Since the death of her husband, who
had traded with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had
resided every winter in a house in one of the streets near Portman
Square.  Towards this home, she began on the approach of January to
turn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and very
unexpectedly by them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood to accompany her.
Elinor, without observing the varying complexion of her sister, and the
animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave
a grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself
to be speaking their united inclinations.  The reason alleged was their
determined resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the
year.  Mrs. Jennings received the refusal with some surprise, and
repeated her invitation immediately.

"Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I DO beg
you will favour me with your company, for I've quite set my heart upon
it.  Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I shan't
put myself at all out of my way for you.  It will only be sending Betty
by the coach, and I hope I can afford THAT.  We three shall be able to
go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town, if you do not like
to go wherever I do, well and good, you may always go with one of my
daughters.  I am sure your mother will not object to it; for I have had
such good luck in getting my own children off my hands that she will
think me a very fit person to have the charge of you; and if I don't
get one of you at least well married before I have done with you, it
shall not be my fault.  I shall speak a good word for you to all the
young men, you may depend upon it."

"I have a notion," said Sir John, "that Miss Marianne would not object
to such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it.  It is very
hard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss
Dashwood does not wish it.  So I would advise you two, to set off for
town, when you are tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss
Dashwood about it."

"Nay," cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of
Miss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only the
more the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable for
them to be together; because, if they got tired of me, they might talk
to one another, and laugh at my old ways behind my back.  But one or
the other, if not both of them, I must have.  Lord bless me! how do you
think I can live poking by myself, I who have been always used till
this winter to have Charlotte with me.  Come, Miss Marianne, let us
strike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change her
mind by and bye, why so much the better."

"I thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you," said Marianne, with warmth:
"your invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and it would give
me such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable of,
to be able to accept it.  But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother,--I
feel the justice of what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made
less happy, less comfortable by our absence--Oh! no, nothing should
tempt me to leave her.  It should not, must not be a struggle."

Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could spare
them perfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her sister, and saw
to what indifference to almost every thing else she was carried by her
eagerness to be with Willoughby again, made no farther direct
opposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother's
decision, from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any
support in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not
approve of for Marianne, and which on her own account she had
particular reasons to avoid.  Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her
mother would be eager to promote--she could not expect to influence the
latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which she had
never been able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared not explain
the motive of her own disinclination for going to London.  That
Marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs.
Jennings' manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should overlook
every inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be
most wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object,
was such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object
to her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to
witness.

On being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that such
an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her
daughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to
herself, how much the heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of
their declining the offer upon HER account; insisted on their both
accepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with her usual
cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to them all,
from this separation.

"I am delighted with the plan," she cried, "it is exactly what I could
wish.  Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves.
When you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and
happily together with our books and our music! You will find Margaret
so improved when you come back again!  I have a little plan of
alteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without
any inconvenience to any one.  It is very right that you SHOULD go to
town; I would have every young woman of your condition in life
acquainted with the manners and amusements of London.  You will be
under the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to
you I can have no doubt.  And in all probability you will see your
brother, and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife,
when I consider whose son he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly
estranged from each other."

"Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness," said Elinor, "you
have been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which
occurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion,
cannot be so easily removed."

Marianne's countenance sunk.

"And what," said Mrs. Dashwood, "is my dear prudent Elinor going to
suggest?  What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward?  Do let
me hear a word about the expense of it."

"My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings's
heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or
whose protection will give us consequence."

"That is very true," replied her mother, "but of her society,
separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing
at all, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady
Middleton."

"If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings," said
Marianne, "at least it need not prevent MY accepting her invitation.  I
have no such scruples, and I am sure I could put up with every
unpleasantness of that kind with very little effort."

Elinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards
the manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in
persuading Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved
within herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go
likewise, as she did not think it proper that Marianne should be left
to the sole guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should
be abandoned to the mercy of Marianne for all the comfort of her
domestic hours.  To this determination she was the more easily
reconciled, by recollecting that Edward Ferrars, by Lucy's account, was
not to be in town before February; and that their visit, without any
unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished.

"I will have you BOTH go," said Mrs. Dashwood; "these objections are
nonsensical.  You will have much pleasure in being in London, and
especially in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to
anticipate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of
sources; she would, perhaps, expect some from improving her
acquaintance with her sister-in-law's family."

Elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken her
mother's dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that the
shock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on this
attack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to begin
her design by saying, as calmly as she could, "I like Edward Ferrars
very much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the rest of
the family, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, whether I am
ever known to them or not."

Mrs. Dashwood smiled, and said nothing.  Marianne lifted up her eyes in
astonishment, and Elinor conjectured that she might as well have held
her tongue.

After very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the
invitation should be fully accepted.  Mrs. Jennings received the
information with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness
and care; nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her.  Sir John was
delighted; for to a man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of
being alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in
London, was something.  Even Lady Middleton took the trouble of being
delighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as for
the Miss Steeles, especially Lucy, they had never been so happy in
their lives as this intelligence made them.

Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with
less reluctance than she had expected to feel.  With regard to herself,
it was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not, and
when she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her
sister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all
her usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she
could not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow
herself to distrust the consequence.

Marianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the
perturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone.  Her
unwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness;
and at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive.
Her mother's affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was the only one of
the three, who seemed to consider the separation as any thing short of
eternal.

Their departure took place in the first week in January.  The
Middletons were to follow in about a week.  The Miss Steeles kept their
station at the park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the
family.



CHAPTER 26


Elinor could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings, and
beginning a journey to London under her protection, and as her guest,
without wondering at her own situation, so short had their acquaintance
with that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age and
disposition, and so many had been her objections against such a measure
only a few days before! But these objections had all, with that happy
ardour of youth which Marianne and her mother equally shared, been
overcome or overlooked; and Elinor, in spite of every occasional doubt
of Willoughby's constancy, could not witness the rapture of delightful
expectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the eyes of
Marianne, without feeling how blank was her own prospect, how cheerless
her own state of mind in the comparison, and how gladly she would
engage in the solicitude of Marianne's situation to have the same
animating object in view, the same possibility of hope.  A short, a
very short time however must now decide what Willoughby's intentions
were; in all probability he was already in town.  Marianne's eagerness
to be gone declared her dependence on finding him there; and Elinor was
resolved not only upon gaining every new light as to his character
which her own observation or the intelligence of others could give her,
but likewise upon watching his behaviour to her sister with such
zealous attention, as to ascertain what he was and what he meant,
before many meetings had taken place.  Should the result of her
observations be unfavourable, she was determined at all events to open
the eyes of her sister; should it be otherwise, her exertions would be
of a different nature--she must then learn to avoid every selfish
comparison, and banish every regret which might lessen her satisfaction
in the happiness of Marianne.

They were three days on their journey, and Marianne's behaviour as they
travelled was a happy specimen of what future complaisance and
companionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be expected to be.  She sat in
silence almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely
ever voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque beauty
within their view drew from her an exclamation of delight exclusively
addressed to her sister.  To atone for this conduct therefore, Elinor
took immediate possession of the post of civility which she had
assigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to Mrs. Jennings,
talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever she
could; and Mrs. Jennings on her side treated them both with all
possible kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their ease and
enjoyment, and only disturbed that she could not make them choose their
own dinners at the inn, nor extort a confession of their preferring
salmon to cod, or boiled fowls to veal cutlets.  They reached town by
three o'clock the third day, glad to be released, after such a journey,
from the confinement of a carriage, and ready to enjoy all the luxury
of a good fire.

The house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up, and the young ladies
were immediately put in possession of a very comfortable apartment.  It
had formerly been Charlotte's, and over the mantelpiece still hung a
landscape in coloured silks of her performance, in proof of her having
spent seven years at a great school in town to some effect.

As dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their
arrival, Elinor determined to employ the interval in writing to her
mother, and sat down for that purpose.  In a few moments Marianne did
the same.  "I am writing home, Marianne," said Elinor; "had not you
better defer your letter for a day or two?"

"I am NOT going to write to my mother," replied Marianne, hastily, and
as if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry.  Elinor said no more; it
immediately struck her that she must then be writing to Willoughby; and
the conclusion which as instantly followed was, that, however
mysteriously they might wish to conduct the affair, they must be
engaged.  This conviction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave her
pleasure, and she continued her letter with greater alacrity.
Marianne's was finished in a very few minutes; in length it could be no
more than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, and directed with
eager rapidity.  Elinor thought she could distinguish a large W in the
direction; and no sooner was it complete than Marianne, ringing the
bell, requested the footman who answered it to get that letter conveyed
for her to the two-penny post.  This decided the matter at once.

Her spirits still continued very high; but there was a flutter in them
which prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this
agitation increased as the evening drew on.  She could scarcely eat any
dinner, and when they afterwards returned to the drawing room, seemed
anxiously listening to the sound of every carriage.

It was a great satisfaction to Elinor that Mrs. Jennings, by being much
engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing.  The tea
things were brought in, and already had Marianne been disappointed more
than once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a loud one was suddenly
heard which could not be mistaken for one at any other house, Elinor
felt secure of its announcing Willoughby's approach, and Marianne,
starting up, moved towards the door.  Every thing was silent; this
could not be borne many seconds; she opened the door, advanced a few
steps towards the stairs, and after listening half a minute, returned
into the room in all the agitation which a conviction of having heard
him would naturally produce; in the ecstasy of her feelings at that
instant she could not help exclaiming, "Oh, Elinor, it is Willoughby,
indeed it is!" and seemed almost ready to throw herself into his arms,
when Colonel Brandon appeared.

It was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she immediately
left the room.  Elinor was disappointed too; but at the same time her
regard for Colonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her; and she felt
particularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister should perceive
that she experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in seeing
him.  She instantly saw that it was not unnoticed by him, that he even
observed Marianne as she quitted the room, with such astonishment and
concern, as hardly left him the recollection of what civility demanded
towards herself.

"Is your sister ill?" said he.

Elinor answered in some distress that she was, and then talked of
head-aches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of every thing to which
she could decently attribute her sister's behaviour.

He heard her with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect
himself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of
his pleasure at seeing them in London, making the usual inquiries about
their journey, and the friends they had left behind.

In this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side,
they continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts
of both engaged elsewhere.  Elinor wished very much to ask whether
Willoughby were then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by
any enquiry after his rival; and at length, by way of saying something,
she asked if he had been in London ever since she had seen him last.
"Yes," he replied, with some embarrassment, "almost ever since; I have
been once or twice at Delaford for a few days, but it has never been in
my power to return to Barton."

This, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back to
her remembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with
the uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to Mrs. Jennings, and she
was fearful that her question had implied much more curiosity on the
subject than she had ever felt.

Mrs. Jennings soon came in.  "Oh! Colonel," said she, with her usual
noisy cheerfulness, "I am monstrous glad to see you--sorry I could not
come before--beg your pardon, but I have been forced to look about me a
little, and settle my matters; for it is a long while since I have been
at home, and you know one has always a world of little odd things to do
after one has been away for any time; and then I have had Cartwright to
settle with-- Lord, I have been as busy as a bee ever since dinner!
But pray, Colonel, how came you to conjure out that I should be in town
today?"

"I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Palmer's, where I have been
dining."

"Oh, you did; well, and how do they all do at their house?  How does
Charlotte do?  I warrant you she is a fine size by this time."

"Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well, and I am commissioned to tell you,
that you will certainly see her to-morrow."

"Ay, to be sure, I thought as much.  Well, Colonel, I have brought two
young ladies with me, you see--that is, you see but one of them now,
but there is another somewhere.  Your friend, Miss Marianne, too--which
you will not be sorry to hear.  I do not know what you and Mr.
Willoughby will do between you about her.  Ay, it is a fine thing to be
young and handsome.  Well! I was young once, but I never was very
handsome--worse luck for me.  However, I got a very good husband, and I
don't know what the greatest beauty can do more.  Ah! poor man! he has
been dead these eight years and better.  But Colonel, where have you
been to since we parted?  And how does your business go on?  Come,
come, let's have no secrets among friends."

He replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but
without satisfying her in any.  Elinor now began to make the tea, and
Marianne was obliged to appear again.

After her entrance, Colonel Brandon became more thoughtful and silent
than he had been before, and Mrs. Jennings could not prevail on him to
stay long.  No other visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies were
unanimous in agreeing to go early to bed.

Marianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy looks.
The disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the
expectation of what was to happen that day.  They had not long finished
their breakfast before Mrs. Palmer's barouche stopped at the door, and
in a few minutes she came laughing into the room: so delighted to see
them all, that it was hard to say whether she received most pleasure
from meeting her mother or the Miss Dashwoods again.  So surprised at
their coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all
along; so angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after having
declined her own, though at the same time she would never have forgiven
them if they had not come!

"Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see you," said she; "What do you think
he said when he heard of your coming with Mama?  I forget what it was
now, but it was something so droll!"

After an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable chat,
or in other words, in every variety of inquiry concerning all their
acquaintance on Mrs. Jennings's side, and in laughter without cause on
Mrs. Palmer's, it was proposed by the latter that they should all
accompany her to some shops where she had business that morning, to
which Mrs. Jennings and Elinor readily consented, as having likewise
some purchases to make themselves; and Marianne, though declining it at
first was induced to go likewise.

Wherever they went, she was evidently always on the watch.  In Bond
Street especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were in
constant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her mind
was equally abstracted from every thing actually before them, from all
that interested and occupied the others.  Restless and dissatisfied
every where, her sister could never obtain her opinion of any article
of purchase, however it might equally concern them both: she received
no pleasure from anything; was only impatient to be at home again, and
could with difficulty govern her vexation at the tediousness of Mrs.
Palmer, whose eye was caught by every thing pretty, expensive, or new;
who was wild to buy all, could determine on none, and dawdled away her
time in rapture and indecision.

It was late in the morning before they returned home; and no sooner had
they entered the house than Marianne flew eagerly up stairs, and when
Elinor followed, she found her turning from the table with a sorrowful
countenance, which declared that no Willoughby had been there.

"Has no letter been left here for me since we went out?" said she to
the footman who then entered with the parcels.  She was answered in the
negative.  "Are you quite sure of it?" she replied.  "Are you certain
that no servant, no porter has left any letter or note?"

The man replied that none had.

"How very odd!" said she, in a low and disappointed voice, as she
turned away to the window.

"How odd, indeed!" repeated Elinor within herself, regarding her sister
with uneasiness.  "If she had not known him to be in town she would not
have written to him, as she did; she would have written to Combe Magna;
and if he is in town, how odd that he should neither come nor write!
Oh! my dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting an engagement
between a daughter so young, a man so little known, to be carried on in
so doubtful, so mysterious a manner!  I long to inquire; and how will
MY interference be borne."

She determined, after some consideration, that if appearances continued
many days longer as unpleasant as they now were, she would represent in
the strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some serious
enquiry into the affair.

Mrs. Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jennings's intimate
acquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with
them.  The former left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening
engagements; and Elinor was obliged to assist in making a whist table
for the others.  Marianne was of no use on these occasions, as she
would never learn the game; but though her time was therefore at her
own disposal, the evening was by no means more productive of pleasure
to her than to Elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of
expectation and the pain of disappointment.  She sometimes endeavoured
for a few minutes to read; but the book was soon thrown aside, and she
returned to the more interesting employment of walking backwards and
forwards across the room, pausing for a moment whenever she came to the
window, in hopes of distinguishing the long-expected rap.



CHAPTER 27


"If this open weather holds much longer," said Mrs. Jennings, when they
met at breakfast the following morning, "Sir John will not like leaving
Barton next week; 'tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a day's
pleasure.  Poor souls!  I always pity them when they do; they seem to
take it so much to heart."

"That is true," cried Marianne, in a cheerful voice, and walking to the
window as she spoke, to examine the day.  "I had not thought of that.
This weather will keep many sportsmen in the country."

It was a lucky recollection, all her good spirits were restored by it.
"It is charming weather for THEM indeed," she continued, as she sat
down to the breakfast table with a happy countenance.  "How much they
must enjoy it! But" (with a little return of anxiety) "it cannot be
expected to last long.  At this time of the year, and after such a
series of rain, we shall certainly have very little more of it.  Frosts
will soon set in, and in all probability with severity.  In another day
or two perhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly last longer--nay,
perhaps it may freeze tonight!"

"At any rate," said Elinor, wishing to prevent Mrs. Jennings from
seeing her sister's thoughts as clearly as she did, "I dare say we
shall have Sir John and Lady Middleton in town by the end of next week."

"Ay, my dear, I'll warrant you we do.  Mary always has her own way."

"And now," silently conjectured Elinor, "she will write to Combe by
this day's post."

But if she DID, the letter was written and sent away with a privacy
which eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact.  Whatever the
truth of it might be, and far as Elinor was from feeling thorough
contentment about it, yet while she saw Marianne in spirits, she could
not be very uncomfortable herself.  And Marianne was in spirits; happy
in the mildness of the weather, and still happier in her expectation of
a frost.

The morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the houses of Mrs.
Jennings's acquaintance to inform them of her being in town; and
Marianne was all the time busy in observing the direction of the wind,
watching the variations of the sky and imagining an alteration in the
air.

"Don't you find it colder than it was in the morning, Elinor? There
seems to me a very decided difference.  I can hardly keep my hands warm
even in my muff.  It was not so yesterday, I think.  The clouds seem
parting too, the sun will be out in a moment, and we shall have a clear
afternoon."

Elinor was alternately diverted and pained; but Marianne persevered,
and saw every night in the brightness of the fire, and every morning in
the appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symptoms of approaching
frost.

The Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs.
Jennings's style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her
behaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind.  Every thing in her
household arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and
excepting a few old city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton's regret, she
had never dropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction could at
all discompose the feelings of her young companions.  Pleased to find
herself more comfortably situated in that particular than she had
expected, Elinor was very willing to compound for the want of much real
enjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, whether at home or
abroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her.

Colonel Brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was with
them almost every day; he came to look at Marianne and talk to Elinor,
who often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him than from
any other daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time with much
concern his continued regard for her sister.  She feared it was a
strengthening regard.  It grieved her to see the earnestness with which
he often watched Marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse than
when at Barton.

About a week after their arrival, it became certain that Willoughby was
also arrived.  His card was on the table when they came in from the
morning's drive.

"Good God!" cried Marianne, "he has been here while we were out."
Elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ventured to
say, "Depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow."  But Marianne
seemed hardly to hear her, and on Mrs. Jennings's entrance, escaped with
the precious card.

This event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor, restored to those of
her sister all, and more than all, their former agitation.  From this
moment her mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him every
hour of the day, made her unfit for any thing.  She insisted on being
left behind, the next morning, when the others went out.

Elinor's thoughts were full of what might be passing in Berkeley Street
during their absence; but a moment's glance at her sister when they
returned was enough to inform her, that Willoughby had paid no second
visit there.  A note was just then brought in, and laid on the table.

"For me!" cried Marianne, stepping hastily forward.

"No, ma'am, for my mistress."

But Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up.

"It is indeed for Mrs. Jennings; how provoking!"

"You are expecting a letter, then?" said Elinor, unable to be longer
silent.

"Yes, a little--not much."

After a short pause.  "You have no confidence in me, Marianne."

"Nay, Elinor, this reproach from YOU--you who have confidence in no
one!"

"Me!" returned Elinor in some confusion; "indeed, Marianne, I have
nothing to tell."

"Nor I," answered Marianne with energy, "our situations then are alike.
We have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you do not
communicate, and I, because I conceal nothing."

Elinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she was
not at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to
press for greater openness in Marianne.

Mrs. Jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read it
aloud.  It was from Lady Middleton, announcing their arrival in Conduit
Street the night before, and requesting the company of her mother and
cousins the following evening.  Business on Sir John's part, and a
violent cold on her own, prevented their calling in Berkeley Street.
The invitation was accepted; but when the hour of appointment drew
near, necessary as it was in common civility to Mrs. Jennings, that
they should both attend her on such a visit, Elinor had some difficulty
in persuading her sister to go, for still she had seen nothing of
Willoughby; and therefore was not more indisposed for amusement abroad,
than unwilling to run the risk of his calling again in her absence.

Elinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not
materially altered by a change of abode, for although scarcely settled
in town, Sir John had contrived to collect around him, nearly twenty
young people, and to amuse them with a ball.  This was an affair,
however, of which Lady Middleton did not approve.  In the country, an
unpremeditated dance was very allowable; but in London, where the
reputation of elegance was more important and less easily attained, it
was risking too much for the gratification of a few girls, to have it
known that Lady Middleton had given a small dance of eight or nine
couple, with two violins, and a mere side-board collation.

Mr. and Mrs. Palmer were of the party; from the former, whom they had
not seen before since their arrival in town, as he was careful to avoid
the appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and therefore
never came near her, they received no mark of recognition on their
entrance.  He looked at them slightly, without seeming to know who they
were, and merely nodded to Mrs. Jennings from the other side of the
room.  Marianne gave one glance round the apartment as she entered: it
was enough--HE was not there--and she sat down, equally ill-disposed to
receive or communicate pleasure.  After they had been assembled about
an hour, Mr. Palmer sauntered towards the Miss Dashwoods to express his
surprise on seeing them in town, though Colonel Brandon had been first
informed of their arrival at his house, and he had himself said
something very droll on hearing that they were to come.

"I thought you were both in Devonshire," said he.

"Did you?" replied Elinor.

"When do you go back again?"

"I do not know." And thus ended their discourse.

Never had Marianne been so unwilling to dance in her life, as she was
that evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise.  She
complained of it as they returned to Berkeley Street.

"Aye, aye," said Mrs. Jennings, "we know the reason of all that very
well; if a certain person who shall be nameless, had been there, you
would not have been a bit tired: and to say the truth it was not very
pretty of him not to give you the meeting when he was invited."

"Invited!" cried Marianne.

"So my daughter Middleton told me, for it seems Sir John met him
somewhere in the street this morning." Marianne said no more, but
looked exceedingly hurt.  Impatient in this situation to be doing
something that might lead to her sister's relief, Elinor resolved to
write the next morning to her mother, and hoped by awakening her fears
for the health of Marianne, to procure those inquiries which had been
so long delayed; and she was still more eagerly bent on this measure by
perceiving after breakfast on the morrow, that Marianne was again
writing to Willoughby, for she could not suppose it to be to any other
person.

About the middle of the day, Mrs. Jennings went out by herself on
business, and Elinor began her letter directly, while Marianne, too
restless for employment, too anxious for conversation, walked from one
window to the other, or sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation.
Elinor was very earnest in her application to her mother, relating all
that had passed, her suspicions of Willoughby's inconstancy, urging her
by every plea of duty and affection to demand from Marianne an account
of her real situation with respect to him.

Her letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and
Colonel Brandon was announced.  Marianne, who had seen him from the
window, and who hated company of any kind, left the room before he
entered it.  He looked more than usually grave, and though expressing
satisfaction at finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat in
particular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a word.
Elinor, persuaded that he had some communication to make in which her
sister was concerned, impatiently expected its opening.  It was not the
first time of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for, more than
once before, beginning with the observation of "your sister looks
unwell to-day," or "your sister seems out of spirits," he had appeared
on the point, either of disclosing, or of inquiring, something
particular about her.  After a pause of several minutes, their silence
was broken, by his asking her in a voice of some agitation, when he was
to congratulate her on the acquisition of a brother?  Elinor was not
prepared for such a question, and having no answer ready, was obliged
to adopt the simple and common expedient, of asking what he meant?  He
tried to smile as he replied, "your sister's engagement to Mr.
Willoughby is very generally known."

"It cannot be generally known," returned Elinor, "for her own family do
not know it."

He looked surprised and said, "I beg your pardon, I am afraid my
inquiry has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secrecy
intended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally
talked of."

"How can that be? By whom can you have heard it mentioned?"

"By many--by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom you are
most intimate, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons.  But
still I might not have believed it, for where the mind is perhaps
rather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to
support its doubts, if I had not, when the servant let me in today,
accidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to Mr. Willoughby in
your sister's writing.  I came to inquire, but I was convinced before I
could ask the question.  Is every thing finally settled?  Is it
impossible to-?  But I have no right, and I could have no chance of
succeeding.  Excuse me, Miss Dashwood.  I believe I have been wrong in
saying so much, but I hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I
have the strongest dependence.  Tell me that it is all absolutely
resolved on, that any attempt, that in short concealment, if
concealment be possible, is all that remains."

These words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct avowal of his love for
her sister, affected her very much.  She was not immediately able to
say anything, and even when her spirits were recovered, she debated for
a short time, on the answer it would be most proper to give.  The real
state of things between Willoughby and her sister was so little known
to herself, that in endeavouring to explain it, she might be as liable
to say too much as too little.  Yet as she was convinced that
Marianne's affection for Willoughby, could leave no hope of Colonel
Brandon's success, whatever the event of that affection might be, and
at the same time wished to shield her conduct from censure, she thought
it most prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say more than
she really knew or believed.  She acknowledged, therefore, that though
she had never been informed by themselves of the terms on which they
stood with each other, of their mutual affection she had no doubt, and
of their correspondence she was not astonished to hear.

He listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak,
rose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion,
"to your sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he
may endeavour to deserve her,"--took leave, and went away.

Elinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation, to
lessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points; she was left, on the
contrary, with a melancholy impression of Colonel Brandon's
unhappiness, and was prevented even from wishing it removed, by her
anxiety for the very event that must confirm it.



CHAPTER 28


Nothing occurred during the next three or four days, to make Elinor
regret what she had done, in applying to her mother; for Willoughby
neither came nor wrote.  They were engaged about the end of that time
to attend Lady Middleton to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept
away by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this party,
Marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and seeming
equally indifferent whether she went or staid, prepared, without one
look of hope or one expression of pleasure.  She sat by the
drawing-room fire after tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton's
arrival, without once stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude,
lost in her own thoughts, and insensible of her sister's presence; and
when at last they were told that Lady Middleton waited for them at the
door, she started as if she had forgotten that any one was expected.

They arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as
the string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the
stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to another
in an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full
of company, and insufferably hot.  When they had paid their tribute of
politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were permitted
to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and
inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add.  After some
time spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to
Cassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and
Elinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great
distance from the table.

They had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived
Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest
conversation with a very fashionable looking young woman.  She soon
caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to
speak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her;
and then continued his discourse with the same lady.  Elinor turned
involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by
her.  At that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance
glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him
instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her.

"Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "he is there--he is there--Oh! why does
he not look at me? why cannot I speak to him?"

"Pray, pray be composed," cried Elinor, "and do not betray what you
feel to every body present.  Perhaps he has not observed you yet."

This however was more than she could believe herself; and to be
composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it
was beyond her wish.  She sat in an agony of impatience which affected
every feature.

At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up,
and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to
him.  He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than
Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe
her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and
asked how long they had been in town.  Elinor was robbed of all
presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word.  But
the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed.  Her face was
crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion,
"Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this?  Have you not
received my letters?  Will you not shake hands with me?"

He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he
held her hand only for a moment.  During all this time he was evidently
struggling for composure.  Elinor watched his countenance and saw its
expression becoming more tranquil.  After a moment's pause, he spoke
with calmness.

"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday,
and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find
yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home.  My card was not lost, I hope."

"But have you not received my notes?" cried Marianne in the wildest
anxiety.  "Here is some mistake I am sure--some dreadful mistake.  What
can be the meaning of it?  Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven's sake tell
me, what is the matter?"

He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment
returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he
had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion,
he recovered himself again, and after saying, "Yes, I had the pleasure
of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so
good as to send me," turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined
his friend.

Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into
her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried
to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with
lavender water.

"Go to him, Elinor," she cried, as soon as she could speak, "and force
him to come to me.  Tell him I must see him again--must speak to him
instantly.-- I cannot rest--I shall not have a moment's peace till this
is explained--some dreadful misapprehension or other.-- Oh go to him
this moment."

"How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait.  This is
not the place for explanations.  Wait only till tomorrow."

With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him
herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least,
with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more
privacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued
incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings,
by exclamations of wretchedness.  In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby
quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne
that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that
evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm.  She instantly begged
her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was
too miserable to stay a minute longer.

Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed
that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her
wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they
departed as soon the carriage could be found.  Scarcely a word was
spoken during their return to Berkeley Street.  Marianne was in a
silent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings
was luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room,
where hartshorn restored her a little to herself.  She was soon
undressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her
sister then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings,
had leisure enough for thinking over the past.

That some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and
Marianne she could not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of it,
seemed equally clear; for however Marianne might still feed her own
wishes, SHE could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or
misapprehension of any kind.  Nothing but a thorough change of
sentiment could account for it.  Her indignation would have been still
stronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which
seemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented
her from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with
the affections of her sister from the first, without any design that
would bear investigation.  Absence might have weakened his regard, and
convenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a
regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt.

As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already
have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in
its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest
concern.  Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she
could ESTEEM Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in
future, her mind might be always supported.  But every circumstance
that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery
of Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby--in an immediate and
irreconcilable rupture with him.



CHAPTER 29


Before the house-maid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun
gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne, only
half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake
of all the little light she could command from it, and writing as fast
as a continual flow of tears would permit her.  In this situation,
Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived
her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety,
said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness,

"Marianne, may I ask-?"

"No, Elinor," she replied, "ask nothing; you will soon know all."

The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no
longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return
of the same excessive affliction.  It was some minutes before she could
go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still
obliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of
her feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the
last time to Willoughby.

Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; and
she would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had not
Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous
irritability, not to speak to her for the world.  In such
circumstances, it was better for both that they should not be long
together; and the restless state of Marianne's mind not only prevented
her from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but
requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her
wander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of every
body.

At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and
Elinor's attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in
pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to
engage Mrs. Jennings's notice entirely to herself.

As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a
considerable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it,
round the common working table, when a letter was delivered to
Marianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a
death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room.  Elinor, who saw as
plainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must come
from Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her
hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour as
made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings's notice.  That good
lady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from
Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she
treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to
her liking.  Of Elinor's distress, she was too busily employed in
measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and
calmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she said,

"Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my
life!  MY girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish
enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature.  I
hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won't keep her waiting much
longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn.
Pray, when are they to be married?"

Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment,
obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore,
trying to smile, replied, "And have you really, Ma'am, talked yourself
into a persuasion of my sister's being engaged to Mr. Willoughby?  I
thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to
imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive
yourself any longer.  I do assure you that nothing would surprise me
more than to hear of their being going to be married."

"For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so?  Don't we
all know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in
love with each other from the first moment they met?  Did not I see
them together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I
know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding
clothes?  Come, come, this won't do.  Because you are so sly about it
yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such
thing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever so
long.  I tell every body of it and so does Charlotte."

"Indeed, Ma'am," said Elinor, very seriously, "you are mistaken.
Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and
you will find that you have though you will not believe me now."

Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more,
and eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried
away to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne
stretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand,
and two or three others laying by her.  Elinor drew near, but without
saying a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed
her affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of
tears, which at first was scarcely less violent than Marianne's. The
latter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of
this behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she
put all the letters into Elinor's hands; and then covering her face
with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony.  Elinor, who knew
that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its
course, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat spent
itself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby's letter, read as
follows:

                              "Bond Street, January.
     "MY DEAR MADAM,

     "I have just had the honour of receiving your
     letter, for which I beg to return my sincere
     acknowledgments.  I am much concerned to find there
     was anything in my behaviour last night that did
     not meet your approbation; and though I am quite at
     a loss to discover in what point I could be so
     unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat your
     forgiveness of what I can assure you to have been
     perfectly unintentional.  I shall never reflect on
     my former acquaintance with your family in Devonshire
     without the most grateful pleasure, and flatter
     myself it will not be broken by any mistake or
     misapprehension of my actions.  My esteem for your
     whole family is very sincere; but if I have been so
     unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than
     I felt, or meant to express, I shall reproach myself
     for not having been more guarded in my professions
     of that esteem.  That I should ever have meant more
     you will allow to be impossible, when you understand
     that my affections have been long engaged elsewhere,
     and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before
     this engagement is fulfilled.  It is with great
     regret that I obey your commands in returning the
     letters with which I have been honoured from you,
     and the lock of hair, which you so obligingly bestowed
     on me.

     "I am, dear Madam,
               "Your most obedient
                    "humble servant,
                                        "JOHN WILLOUGHBY."


With what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss
Dashwood, may be imagined.  Though aware, before she began it, that it
must bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their
separation for ever, she was not aware that such language could be
suffered to announce it; nor could she have supposed Willoughby capable
of departing so far from the appearance of every honourable and
delicate feeling--so far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as to
send a letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of bringing
with his desire of a release any professions of regret, acknowledged no
breach of faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever--a letter of
which every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be
deep in hardened villainy.

She paused over it for some time with indignant astonishment; then read
it again and again; but every perusal only served to increase her
abhorrence of the man, and so bitter were her feelings against him,
that she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might wound
Marianne still deeper by treating their disengagement, not as a loss to
her of any possible good but as an escape from the worst and most
irremediable of all evils, a connection, for life, with an unprincipled
man, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the most important.

In her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the
depravity of that mind which could dictate it, and probably, on the
very different mind of a very different person, who had no other
connection whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him with
every thing that passed, Elinor forgot the immediate distress of her
sister, forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and so
entirely forgot how long she had been in the room, that when on hearing
a carriage drive up to the door, she went to the window to see who
could be coming so unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to
perceive Mrs. Jennings's chariot, which she knew had not been ordered
till one.  Determined not to quit Marianne, though hopeless of
contributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away to excuse
herself from attending Mrs. Jennings, on account of her sister being
indisposed.  Mrs. Jennings, with a thoroughly good-humoured concern for
its cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and Elinor, after seeing
her safe off, returned to Marianne, whom she found attempting to rise
from the bed, and whom she reached just in time to prevent her from
falling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want of proper rest
and food; for it was many days since she had any appetite, and many
nights since she had really slept; and now, when her mind was no longer
supported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this was
felt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous
faintness.  A glass of wine, which Elinor procured for her directly,
made her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express some
sense of her kindness, by saying,

"Poor Elinor! how unhappy I make you!"

"I only wish," replied her sister, "there were any thing I COULD do,
which might be of comfort to you."

This, as every thing else would have been, was too much for Marianne,
who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, "Oh! Elinor, I am
miserable, indeed," before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.

Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in
silence.

"Exert yourself, dear Marianne," she cried, "if you would not kill
yourself and all who love you.  Think of your mother; think of her
misery while YOU suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself."

"I cannot, I cannot," cried Marianne; "leave me, leave me, if I
distress you; leave me, hate me, forget me!  but do not torture me so.
Oh! how easy for those, who have no sorrow of their own to talk of
exertion!  Happy, happy Elinor, YOU cannot have an idea of what I
suffer."

"Do you call ME happy, Marianne?  Ah! if you knew!--And can you believe
me to be so, while I see you so wretched!"

"Forgive me, forgive me," throwing her arms round her sister's neck; "I
know you feel for me; I know what a heart you have; but yet you
are--you must be happy; Edward loves you--what, oh what, can do away
such happiness as that?"

"Many, many circumstances," said Elinor, solemnly.

"No, no, no," cried Marianne wildly, "he loves you, and only you.  You
CAN have no grief."

"I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state."

"And you will never see me otherwise.  Mine is a misery which nothing
can do away."

"You must not talk so, Marianne.  Have you no comforts? no friends?  Is
your loss such as leaves no opening for consolation?  Much as you
suffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of
his character had been delayed to a later period--if your engagement
had been carried on for months and months, as it might have been,
before he chose to put an end to it.  Every additional day of unhappy
confidence, on your side, would have made the blow more dreadful."

"Engagement!" cried Marianne, "there has been no engagement."

"No engagement!"

"No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him.  He has broken no faith
with me."

"But he told you that he loved you."

"Yes--no--never absolutely.  It was every day implied, but never
professedly declared.  Sometimes I thought it had been--but it never
was."

"Yet you wrote to him?"--

"Yes--could that be wrong after all that had passed?-- But I cannot
talk."

Elinor said no more, and turning again to the three letters which now
raised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over the
contents of all.  The first, which was what her sister had sent him on
their arrival in town, was to this effect.

                         Berkeley Street, January.

     "How surprised you will be, Willoughby, on
     receiving this; and I think you will feel something
     more than surprise, when you know that I am in town.
     An opportunity of coming hither, though with Mrs.
     Jennings, was a temptation we could not resist.
     I wish you may receive this in time to come here
     to-night, but I will not depend on it.  At any rate
     I shall expect you to-morrow. For the present, adieu.

                                             "M.D."

Her second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance
at the Middletons', was in these words:--

     "I cannot express my disappointment in having
     missed you the day before yesterday, nor my astonishment
     at not having received any answer to a note which
     I sent you above a week ago.  I have been expecting
     to hear from you, and still more to see you, every
     hour of the day.  Pray call again as soon as possible,
     and explain the reason of my having expected this
     in vain.  You had better come earlier another time,
     because we are generally out by one.  We were last
     night at Lady Middleton's, where there was a dance.
     I have been told that you were asked to be of the
     party.  But could it be so?  You must be very much
     altered indeed since we parted, if that could be
     the case, and you not there.  But I will not suppose
     this possible, and I hope very soon to receive your
     personal assurance of its being otherwise.

                                            "M.D."

The contents of her last note to him were these:--

     "What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by your
     behaviour last night?  Again I demand an explanation
     of it.  I was prepared to meet you with the pleasure
     which our separation naturally produced, with the
     familiarity which our intimacy at Barton appeared
     to me to justify.  I was repulsed indeed! I have
     passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse
     a conduct which can scarcely be called less than
     insulting; but though I have not yet been able to
     form any reasonable apology for your behaviour,
     I am perfectly ready to hear your justification of
     it.  You have perhaps been misinformed, or purposely
     deceived, in something concerning me, which may have
     lowered me in your opinion.  Tell me what it is,
     explain the grounds on which you acted, and I shall
     be satisfied, in being able to satisfy you.  It
     would grieve me indeed to be obliged to think ill
     of you; but if I am to do it, if I am to learn that
     you are not what we have hitherto believed you, that
     your regard for us all was insincere, that your
     behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let
     it be told as soon as possible.  My feelings are at
     present in a state of dreadful indecision; I wish
     to acquit you, but certainty on either side will be
     ease to what I now suffer.  If your sentiments are
     no longer what they were, you will return my notes,
     and the lock of my hair which is in your possession.

                                             "M.D."

That such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have been
so answered, Elinor, for Willoughby's sake, would have been unwilling
to believe.  But her condemnation of him did not blind her to the
impropriety of their having been written at all; and she was silently
grieving over the imprudence which had hazarded such unsolicited proofs
of tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding, and most severely
condemned by the event, when Marianne, perceiving that she had finished
the letters, observed to her that they contained nothing but what any
one would have written in the same situation.

"I felt myself," she added, "to be as solemnly engaged to him, as if
the strictest legal covenant had bound us to each other."

"I can believe it," said Elinor; "but unfortunately he did not feel the
same."

"He DID feel the same, Elinor--for weeks and weeks he felt it.  I know
he did.  Whatever may have changed him now, (and nothing but the
blackest art employed against me can have done it), I was once as dear
to him as my own soul could wish.  This lock of hair, which now he can
so readily give up, was begged of me with the most earnest
supplication.  Had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard his
voice at that moment!  Have you forgot the last evening of our being
together at Barton?  The morning that we parted too!  When he told me
that it might be many weeks before we met again--his distress--can I
ever forget his distress?"

For a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion had
passed away, she added, in a firmer tone,

"Elinor, I have been cruelly used; but not by Willoughby."

"Dearest Marianne, who but himself?  By whom can he have been
instigated?"

"By all the world, rather than by his own heart.  I could rather
believe every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me
in his opinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty.  This
woman of whom he writes--whoever she be--or any one, in short, but your
own dear self, mama, and Edward, may have been so barbarous to bely me.
Beyond you three, is there a creature in the world whom I would not
rather suspect of evil than Willoughby, whose heart I know so well?"

Elinor would not contend, and only replied, "Whoever may have been so
detestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph,
my dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own
innocence and good intentions supports your spirits.  It is a
reasonable and laudable pride which resists such malevolence."

"No, no," cried Marianne, "misery such as mine has no pride.  I care
not who knows that I am wretched.  The triumph of seeing me so may be
open to all the world.  Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer little may be
proud and independent as they like--may resist insult, or return
mortification--but I cannot.  I must feel--I must be wretched--and they
are welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can."

"But for my mother's sake and mine--"

"I would do more than for my own.  But to appear happy when I am so
miserable--Oh! who can require it?"

Again they were both silent.  Elinor was employed in walking
thoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire,
without knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerning
objects through the other; and Marianne, seated at the foot of the bed,
with her head leaning against one of its posts, again took up
Willoughby's letter, and, after shuddering over every sentence,
exclaimed--

"It is too much! Oh, Willoughby, Willoughby, could this be yours!
Cruel, cruel--nothing can acquit you.  Elinor, nothing can.  Whatever
he might have heard against me--ought he not to have suspended his
belief? ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power
of clearing myself? 'The lock of hair, (repeating it from the letter,)
which you so obligingly bestowed on me'--That is unpardonable.
Willoughby, where was your heart when you wrote those words?  Oh,
barbarously insolent!--Elinor, can he be justified?"

"No, Marianne, in no possible way."

"And yet this woman--who knows what her art may have been?--how long it
may have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her!--Who is
she?--Who can she be?--Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young and
attractive among his female acquaintance?--Oh! no one, no one--he
talked to me only of myself."

Another pause ensued; Marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended thus.

"Elinor, I must go home.  I must go and comfort mama.  Can not we be
gone to-morrow?"

"To-morrow, Marianne!"

"Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby's sake--and
now who cares for me? Who regards me?"

"It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings much more
than civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent such a
hasty removal as that."

"Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannot stay here long, I
cannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people.
The Middletons and Palmers--how am I to bear their pity?  The pity of
such a woman as Lady Middleton!  Oh, what would HE say to that!"

Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so; but
no attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and body
she moved from one posture to another, till growing more and more
hysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at
all, and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for
assistance.  Some lavender drops, however, which she was at length
persuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till Mrs. Jennings
returned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless.



CHAPTER 30


Mrs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and without
waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the door and
walked in with a look of real concern.

"How do you do my dear?"--said she in a voice of great compassion to
Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer.

"How is she, Miss Dashwood?--Poor thing! she looks very bad.-- No
wonder.  Ay, it is but too true.  He is to be married very soon--a
good-for-nothing fellow!  I have no patience with him.  Mrs. Taylor
told me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular
friend of Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed
it; and I was almost ready to sink as it was.  Well, said I, all I can
say is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my
acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may
plague his heart out.  And so I shall always say, my dear, you may
depend on it.  I have no notion of men's going on in this way; and if
ever I meet him again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not
had this many a day.  But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne;
he is not the only young man in the world worth having; and with your
pretty face you will never want admirers.  Well, poor thing!  I won't
disturb her any longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and
have done with.  The Parrys and Sandersons luckily are coming tonight
you know, and that will amuse her."

She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she
supposed her young friend's affliction could be increased by noise.

Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with
them.  Elinor even advised her against it.  But "no, she would go down;
she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less."
Elinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive,
though believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner,
said no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could,
while Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into
the dining room as soon as they were summoned to it.

When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was calmer
than her sister had expected.  Had she tried to speak, or had she been
conscious of half Mrs. Jennings's well-meant but ill-judged attentions
to her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but not a
syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts
preserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before her.

Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings's kindness, though its
effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made
her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her
sister could not make or return for herself.  Their good friend saw
that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her
which might make her at all less so.  She treated her therefore, with
all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the
last day of its holidays.  Marianne was to have the best place by the
fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to
be amused by the relation of all the news of the day.  Had not Elinor,
in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she
could have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings's endeavours to cure a
disappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a
good fire.  As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was
forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she could stay no longer.
With a hasty exclamation of Misery, and a sign to her sister not to
follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room.

"Poor soul!" cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, "how it
grieves me to see her!  And I declare if she is not gone away without
finishing her wine!  And the dried cherries too!  Lord! nothing seems
to do her any good.  I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I
would send all over the town for it.  Well, it is the oddest thing to
me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill!  But when there is
plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord bless
you! they care no more about such things!--"

"The lady then--Miss Grey I think you called her--is very rich?"

"Fifty thousand pounds, my dear.  Did you ever see her? a smart,
stylish girl they say, but not handsome.  I remember her aunt very
well, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man.  But the family
are all rich together.  Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it
won't come before it's wanted; for they say he is all to pieces.  No
wonder! dashing about with his curricle and hunters!  Well, it don't
signify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes
love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly
off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is
ready to have him.  Why don't he, in such a case, sell his horses, let
his house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once? I
warrant you, Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till matters
came round.  But that won't do now-a-days; nothing in the way of
pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age."

"Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is?  Is she said to be
amiable?"

"I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her
mentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day
Miss Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would
not be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could
never agree."--

"And who are the Ellisons?"

"Her guardians, my dear.  But now she is of age and may choose for
herself; and a pretty choice she has made!--What now," after pausing a
moment--"your poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan
by herself.  Is there nothing one can get to comfort her?  Poor dear,
it seems quite cruel to let her be alone.  Well, by-and-by we shall
have a few friends, and that will amuse her a little.  What shall we
play at?  She hates whist I know; but is there no round game she cares
for?"

"Dear ma'am, this kindness is quite unnecessary.  Marianne, I dare say,
will not leave her room again this evening.  I shall persuade her if I
can to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest."

"Aye, I believe that will be best for her.  Let her name her own
supper, and go to bed.  Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and
so cast down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been
hanging over her head as long as that.  And so the letter that came
today finished it!  Poor soul!  I am sure if I had had a notion of it,
I would not have joked her about it for all my money.  But then you
know, how should I guess such a thing?  I made sure of its being
nothing but a common love letter, and you know young people like to be
laughed at about them.  Lord!  how concerned Sir John and my daughters
will be when they hear it!  If I had my senses about me I might have
called in Conduit Street in my way home, and told them of it.  But I
shall see them tomorrow."

"It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer and
Sir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slightest
allusion to what has passed, before my sister.  Their own good-nature
must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing
about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to
myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my
dear madam will easily believe."

"Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed.  It must be terrible for you to hear
it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a
word about it to her for the world.  You saw I did not all dinner time.
No more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very
thoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I
certainly will.  For my part, I think the less that is said about such
things, the better, the sooner 'tis blown over and forgot.  And what
does talking ever do you know?"

"In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases
of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for
the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the
public conversation.  I must do THIS justice to Mr. Willoughby--he has
broken no positive engagement with my sister."

"Law, my dear!  Don't pretend to defend him.  No positive engagement
indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the
very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"

Elinor, for her sister's sake, could not press the subject farther, and
she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby's; since, though
Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement
of the real truth.  After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings,
with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again.

"Well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be
all the better for Colonel Brandon.  He will have her at last; aye,
that he will.  Mind me, now, if they an't married by Mid-summer.  Lord!
how he'll chuckle over this news!  I hope he will come tonight.  It
will be all to one a better match for your sister.  Two thousand a year
without debt or drawback--except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I
had forgot her; but she may be 'prenticed out at a small cost, and then
what does it signify?  Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you;
exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and
conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered
with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in
one corner!  Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were
there!  Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a
very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for;
and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile
from the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, for if you only go and sit
up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages
that pass along.  Oh! 'tis a nice place!  A butcher hard by in the
village, and the parsonage-house within a stone's throw.  To my fancy,
a thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are forced to
send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than
your mother.  Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon as I can.
One shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down.  If we CAN but
put Willoughby out of her head!"

"Ay, if we can do THAT, Ma'am," said Elinor, "we shall do very well
with or without Colonel Brandon." And then rising, she went away to
join Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room,
leaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which,
till Elinor's entrance, had been her only light.

"You had better leave me," was all the notice that her sister received
from her.

"I will leave you," said Elinor, "if you will go to bed." But this,
from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first
refused to do.  Her sister's earnest, though gentle persuasion,
however, soon softened her to compliance, and Elinor saw her lay her
aching head on the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some quiet
rest before she left her.

In the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined by
Mrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand.

"My dear," said she, entering, "I have just recollected that I have
some of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that ever was
tasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister.  My poor
husband! how fond he was of it!  Whenever he had a touch of his old
colicky gout, he said it did him more good than any thing else in the
world.  Do take it to your sister."

"Dear Ma'am," replied Elinor, smiling at the difference of the
complaints for which it was recommended, "how good you are!  But I have
just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I think
nothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me
leave, I will drink the wine myself."

Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes
earlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and Elinor, as she
swallowed the chief of it, reflected, that though its effects on a
colicky gout were, at present, of little importance to her, its healing
powers, on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried on herself
as on her sister.

Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner
of looking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied that
he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in short, that he
was already aware of what occasioned her absence.  Mrs. Jennings was
not struck by the same thought; for soon after his entrance, she walked
across the room to the tea-table where Elinor presided, and whispered--
"The Colonel looks as grave as ever you see.  He knows nothing of it;
do tell him, my dear."

He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to hers, and, with a look
which perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after her
sister.

"Marianne is not well," said she.  "She has been indisposed all day,
and we have persuaded her to go to bed."

"Perhaps, then," he hesitatingly replied, "what I heard this morning
may be--there may be more truth in it than I could believe possible at
first."

"What did you hear?"

"That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think--in short, that a man,
whom I KNEW to be engaged--but how shall I tell you?  If you know it
already, as surely you must, I may be spared."

"You mean," answered Elinor, with forced calmness, "Mr. Willoughby's
marriage with Miss Grey.  Yes, we DO know it all.  This seems to have
been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first unfolded
it to us.  Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable!  Where did you hear it?"

"In a stationer's shop in Pall Mall, where I had business.  Two ladies
were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other
an account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting
concealment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all.  The name
of Willoughby, John Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my
attention; and what followed was a positive assertion that every thing
was now finally settled respecting his marriage with Miss Grey--it was
no longer to be a secret--it would take place even within a few weeks,
with many particulars of preparations and other matters.  One thing,
especially, I remember, because it served to identify the man still
more:--as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe
Magna, his seat in Somersetshire.  My astonishment!--but it would be
impossible to describe what I felt.  The communicative lady I learnt,
on inquiry, for I stayed in the shop till they were gone, was a Mrs.
Ellison, and that, as I have been since informed, is the name of Miss
Grey's guardian."

"It is.  But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty thousand
pounds?  In that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation."

"It may be so; but Willoughby is capable--at least I think"--he stopped
a moment; then added in a voice which seemed to distrust itself, "And
your sister--how did she--"

"Her sufferings have been very severe.  I have only to hope that they
may be proportionately short.  It has been, it is a most cruel
affliction.  Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard;
and even now, perhaps--but I am almost convinced that he never was
really attached to her.  He has been very deceitful! and, in some
points, there seems a hardness of heart about him."

"Ah!" said Colonel Brandon, "there is, indeed!  But your sister does
not--I think you said so--she does not consider quite as you do?"

"You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would still
justify him if she could."

He made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the
tea-things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was
necessarily dropped.  Mrs. Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure
while they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of Miss
Dashwood's communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel
Brandon's side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of
hope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening
more serious and thoughtful than usual.



CHAPTER 31


From a night of more sleep than she had expected, Marianne awoke the
next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had
closed her eyes.

Elinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt; and
before breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject again and
again; and with the same steady conviction and affectionate counsel on
Elinor's side, the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions on
Marianne's, as before.  Sometimes she could believe Willoughby to be as
unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at others, lost every
consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him.  At one moment she
was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the world, at
another she would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a third
could resist it with energy.  In one thing, however, she was uniform,
when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the
presence of Mrs. Jennings, and in a determined silence when obliged to
endure it.  Her heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs.
Jennings's entering into her sorrows with any compassion.

"No, no, no, it cannot be," she cried; "she cannot feel.  Her kindness
is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness.  All that she wants
is gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it."

Elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which her
sister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable
refinement of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her
on the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a polished
manner.  Like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be
that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities and an
excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid.  She expected
from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she
judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on
herself.  Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together
in their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs.
Jennings still lower in her estimation; because, through her own
weakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself, though
Mrs. Jennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost goodwill.

With a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling,
from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room, saying,

"Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do you good."

Marianne heard enough.  In one moment her imagination placed before her
a letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition,
explanatory of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and
instantly followed by Willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room
to inforce, at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances
of his letter.  The work of one moment was destroyed by the next.  The
hand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was before her;
and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such an
ecstasy of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she had
never suffered.

The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings no language, within her reach in her
moments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could
reproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with
passionate violence--a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its
object, that after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still
referring her to the letter of comfort.  But the letter, when she was
calm enough to read it, brought little comfort.  Willoughby filled
every page.  Her mother, still confident of their engagement, and
relying as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by
Elinor's application, to intreat from Marianne greater openness towards
them both; and this, with such tenderness towards her, such affection
for Willoughby, and such a conviction of their future happiness in each
other, that she wept with agony through the whole of it.

All her impatience to be at home again now returned; her mother was
dearer to her than ever; dearer through the very excess of her mistaken
confidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be gone.
Elinor, unable herself to determine whether it were better for Marianne
to be in London or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own except of
patience till their mother's wishes could be known; and at length she
obtained her sister's consent to wait for that knowledge.

Mrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could not be easy
till the Middletons and Palmers were able to grieve as much as herself;
and positively refusing Elinor's offered attendance, went out alone for
the rest of the morning.  Elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the
pain she was going to communicate, and perceiving, by Marianne's
letter, how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation for it, then
sat down to write her mother an account of what had passed, and entreat
her directions for the future; while Marianne, who came into the
drawing-room on Mrs. Jennings's going away, remained fixed at the table
where Elinor wrote, watching the advancement of her pen, grieving over
her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still more fondly
over its effect on her mother.

In this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when
Marianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was
startled by a rap at the door.

"Who can this be?" cried Elinor.  "So early too! I thought we HAD been
safe."

Marianne moved to the window--

"It is Colonel Brandon!" said she, with vexation.  "We are never safe
from HIM."

"He will not come in, as Mrs. Jennings is from home."

"I will not trust to THAT," retreating to her own room.  "A man who has
nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion on
that of others."

The event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on
injustice and error; for Colonel Brandon DID come in; and Elinor, who
was convinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither, and who
saw THAT solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his
anxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive her sister
for esteeming him so lightly.

"I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street," said he, after the first
salutation, "and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more
easily encouraged, because I thought it probable that I might find you
alone, which I was very desirous of doing.  My object--my wish--my sole
wish in desiring it--I hope, I believe it is--is to be a means of
giving comfort;--no, I must not say comfort--not present comfort--but
conviction, lasting conviction to your sister's mind.  My regard for
her, for yourself, for your mother--will you allow me to prove it, by
relating some circumstances which nothing but a VERY sincere
regard--nothing but an earnest desire of being useful--I think I am
justified--though where so many hours have been spent in convincing
myself that I am right, is there not some reason to fear I may be
wrong?" He stopped.

"I understand you," said Elinor.  "You have something to tell me of Mr.
Willoughby, that will open his character farther.  Your telling it will
be the greatest act of friendship that can be shewn Marianne.  MY
gratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to
that end, and HERS must be gained by it in time.  Pray, pray let me
hear it."

"You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last October,--but
this will give you no idea--I must go farther back.  You will find me a
very awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to begin.  A
short account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it SHALL be
a short one.  On such a subject," sighing heavily, "can I have little
temptation to be diffuse."

He stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went
on.

"You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation--(it is not to be
supposed that it could make any impression on you)--a conversation
between us one evening at Barton Park--it was the evening of a
dance--in which I alluded to a lady I had once known, as resembling, in
some measure, your sister Marianne."

"Indeed," answered Elinor, "I have NOT forgotten it." He looked pleased
by this remembrance, and added,

"If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender
recollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well
in mind as person.  The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of
fancy and spirits.  This lady was one of my nearest relations, an
orphan from her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father.  Our
ages were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were
playfellows and friends.  I cannot remember the time when I did not
love Eliza; and my affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as
perhaps, judging from my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you
might think me incapable of having ever felt.  Hers, for me, was, I
believe, fervent as the attachment of your sister to Mr. Willoughby and
it was, though from a different cause, no less unfortunate.  At
seventeen she was lost to me for ever.  She was married--married
against her inclination to my brother.  Her fortune was large, and our
family estate much encumbered.  And this, I fear, is all that can be
said for the conduct of one, who was at once her uncle and guardian.
My brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her.  I had hoped
that her regard for me would support her under any difficulty, and for
some time it did; but at last the misery of her situation, for she
experienced great unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and though
she had promised me that nothing--but how blindly I relate!  I have
never told you how this was brought on.  We were within a few hours of
eloping together for Scotland.  The treachery, or the folly, of my
cousin's maid betrayed us.  I was banished to the house of a relation
far distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement,
till my father's point was gained.  I had depended on her fortitude too
far, and the blow was a severe one--but had her marriage been happy, so
young as I then was, a few months must have reconciled me to it, or at
least I should not have now to lament it.  This however was not the
case.  My brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not what
they ought to have been, and from the first he treated her unkindly.
The consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so
inexperienced as Mrs. Brandon's, was but too natural.  She resigned
herself at first to all the misery of her situation; and happy had it
been if she had not lived to overcome those regrets which the
remembrance of me occasioned.  But can we wonder that, with such a
husband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to advise or
restrain her (for my father lived only a few months after their
marriage, and I was with my regiment in the East Indies) she should
fall?  Had I remained in England, perhaps--but I meant to promote the
happiness of both by removing from her for years, and for that purpose
had procured my exchange.  The shock which her marriage had given me,"
he continued, in a voice of great agitation, "was of trifling
weight--was nothing to what I felt when I heard, about two years
afterwards, of her divorce.  It was THAT which threw this gloom,--even
now the recollection of what I suffered--"

He could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes about
the room.  Elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by his
distress, could not speak.  He saw her concern, and coming to her, took
her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect.  A few
minutes more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure.

"It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I returned
to England.  My first care, when I DID arrive, was of course to seek
for her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy.  I could
not trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to
fear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of
sin.  Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor
sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from my
brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months
before to another person.  He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it,
that her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to
dispose of it for some immediate relief.  At last, however, and after I
had been six months in England, I DID find her.  Regard for a former
servant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me to
visit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and
there, in the same house, under a similar confinement, was my unfortunate
sister.  So altered--so faded--worn down by acute suffering of every
kind! hardly could I believe the melancholy and sickly figure before
me, to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl, on whom
I had once doted.  What I endured in so beholding her--but I have no
right to wound your feelings by attempting to describe it--I have
pained you too much already.  That she was, to all appearance, in the
last stage of a consumption, was--yes, in such a situation it was my
greatest comfort.  Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time
for a better preparation for death; and that was given.  I saw her
placed in comfortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; I visited
her every day during the rest of her short life: I was with her in her
last moments."

Again he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor spoke her feelings in
an exclamation of tender concern, at the fate of his unfortunate friend.

"Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended," said he, "by the resemblance
I have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation.  Their
fates, their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural sweet
disposition of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a happier
marriage, she might have been all that you will live to see the other
be.  But to what does all this lead?  I seem to have been distressing
you for nothing.  Ah! Miss Dashwood--a subject such as this--untouched
for fourteen years--it is dangerous to handle it at all!  I WILL be
more collected--more concise.  She left to my care her only child, a
little girl, the offspring of her first guilty connection, who was then
about three years old.  She loved the child, and had always kept it
with her.  It was a valued, a precious trust to me; and gladly would I
have discharged it in the strictest sense, by watching over her
education myself, had the nature of our situations allowed it; but I
had no family, no home; and my little Eliza was therefore placed at
school.  I saw her there whenever I could, and after the death of my
brother, (which happened about five years ago, and which left to me the
possession of the family property,) she visited me at Delaford.  I
called her a distant relation; but I am well aware that I have in
general been suspected of a much nearer connection with her.  It is now
three years ago (she had just reached her fourteenth year,) that I
removed her from school, to place her under the care of a very
respectable woman, residing in Dorsetshire, who had the charge of four
or five other girls of about the same time of life; and for two years I
had every reason to be pleased with her situation.  But last February,
almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly disappeared.  I had allowed
her, (imprudently, as it has since turned out,) at her earnest desire,
to go to Bath with one of her young friends, who was attending her
father there for his health.  I knew him to be a very good sort of man,
and I thought well of his daughter--better than she deserved, for, with
a most obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would
give no clue, though she certainly knew all.  He, her father, a
well-meaning, but not a quick-sighted man, could really, I believe,
give no information; for he had been generally confined to the house,
while the girls were ranging over the town and making what acquaintance
they chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was
convinced himself, of his daughter's being entirely unconcerned in the
business.  In short, I could learn nothing but that she was gone; all
the rest, for eight long months, was left to conjecture.  What I
thought, what I feared, may be imagined; and what I suffered too."

"Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "could it be--could Willoughby!"--

"The first news that reached me of her," he continued, "came in a
letter from herself, last October.  It was forwarded to me from
Delaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended party
to Whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly,
which I am sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body,
and which I believe gave offence to some.  Little did Mr. Willoughby
imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in
breaking up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one whom
he had made poor and miserable; but HAD he known it, what would it have
availed?  Would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of
your sister?  No, he had already done that, which no man who CAN feel
for another would do.  He had left the girl whose youth and innocence
he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with no
creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address!  He had
left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor
relieved her."

"This is beyond every thing!" exclaimed Elinor.

"His character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, and worse than
both.  Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess what
I must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on
being assured that she was to marry him: guess what I must have felt
for all your sakes.  When I came to you last week and found you alone,
I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to do when
it WAS known.  My behaviour must have seemed strange to you then; but
now you will comprehend it.  To suffer you all to be so deceived; to
see your sister--but what could I do?  I had no hope of interfering
with success; and sometimes I thought your sister's influence might yet
reclaim him.  But now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what
were his designs on her.  Whatever they may have been, however, she may
now, and hereafter doubtless WILL turn with gratitude towards her own
condition, when she compares it with that of my poor Eliza, when she
considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and
pictures her to herself, with an affection for him so strong, still as
strong as her own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which
must attend her through life.  Surely this comparison must have its use
with her.  She will feel her own sufferings to be nothing.  They
proceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace.  On the
contrary, every friend must be made still more her friend by them.
Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it,
must strengthen every attachment.  Use your own discretion, however, in
communicating to her what I have told you.  You must know best what
will be its effect; but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed
it might be of service, might lessen her regrets, I would not have
suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family
afflictions, with a recital which may seem to have been intended to
raise myself at the expense of others."

Elinor's thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness;
attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to
Marianne, from the communication of what had passed.

"I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit him
than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most
perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do.  Now, though at first
she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier.  Have
you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr. Willoughby
since you left him at Barton?"

"Yes," he replied gravely, "once I have.  One meeting was unavoidable."

Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying,

"What? have you met him to--"

"I could meet him no other way.  Eliza had confessed to me, though most
reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which
was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to
defend, I to punish his conduct.  We returned unwounded, and the
meeting, therefore, never got abroad."

Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a
soldier she presumed not to censure it.

"Such," said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy
resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly
have I discharged my trust!"

"Is she still in town?"

"No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near
her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there
she remains."

Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor
from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again
the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion
and esteem for him.



CHAPTER 32


When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss
Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was
not entirely such as the former had hoped to see.  Not that Marianne
appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to
it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither
objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and
seemed to shew by her tears that she felt it to be impossible.  But
though this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt
WAS carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the
effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called,
in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of
compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently
irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched.  Her mind did
become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection.  She felt the
loss of Willoughby's character yet more heavily than she had felt the
loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the
misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might ONCE
have been on herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits, that
she could not bring herself to speak of what she felt even to Elinor;
and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her sister
than could have been communicated by the most open and most frequent
confession of them.

To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and
answering Elinor's letter would be only to give a repetition of what
her daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly
less painful than Marianne's, and an indignation even greater than
Elinor's.  Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other,
arrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her
anxious solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would bear up with
fortitude under this misfortune.  Bad indeed must the nature of
Marianne's affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude!
mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which
SHE could wish her not to indulge!

Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had
determined that it would be better for Marianne to be any where, at
that time, than at Barton, where every thing within her view would be
bringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by
constantly placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen
him there.  She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all
means not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length of which,
though never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at
least five or six weeks.  A variety of occupations, of objects, and of
company, which could not be procured at Barton, would be inevitable
there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at times, into some
interest beyond herself, and even into some amusement, much as the
ideas of both might now be spurned by her.

From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered her
to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his
acquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her
friends.  Design could never bring them in each other's way: negligence
could never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in
its favour in the crowd of London than even in the retirement of
Barton, where it might force him before her while paying that visit at
Allenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from foreseeing at first
as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain one.

She had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where
they were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his
wife were to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged
it right that they should sometimes see their brother.

Marianne had promised to be guided by her mother's opinion, and she
submitted to it therefore without opposition, though it proved
perfectly different from what she wished and expected, though she felt
it to be entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by
requiring her longer continuance in London it deprived her of the only
possible alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal sympathy of her
mother, and doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent
her ever knowing a moment's rest.

But it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought evil
to herself would bring good to her sister; and Elinor, on the other
hand, suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid Edward
entirely, comforted herself by thinking, that though their longer stay
would therefore militate against her own happiness, it would be better
for Marianne than an immediate return into Devonshire.

Her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing Willoughby's
name mentioned, was not thrown away.  Marianne, though without knowing
it herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor
Sir John, nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her.
Elinor wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards
herself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day
after day to the indignation of them all.

Sir John, could not have thought it possible.  "A man of whom he had
always had such reason to think well!  Such a good-natured fellow!  He
did not believe there was a bolder rider in England!  It was an
unaccountable business.  He wished him at the devil with all his heart.
He would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for
all the world!  No, not if it were to be by the side of Barton covert,
and they were kept watching for two hours together.  Such a scoundrel
of a fellow! such a deceitful dog!  It was only the last time they met
that he had offered him one of Folly's puppies! and this was the end of
it!"

Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry.  "She was determined to
drop his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she
had never been acquainted with him at all.  She wished with all her
heart Combe Magna was not so near Cleveland; but it did not signify,
for it was a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much
that she was resolved never to mention his name again, and she should
tell everybody she saw, how good-for-nothing he was."

The rest of Mrs. Palmer's sympathy was shewn in procuring all the
particulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and communicating
them to Elinor.  She could soon tell at what coachmaker's the new
carriage was building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby's portrait was
drawn, and at what warehouse Miss Grey's clothes might be seen.

The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was a
happy relief to Elinor's spirits, oppressed as they often were by the
clamorous kindness of the others.  It was a great comfort to her to be
sure of exciting no interest in ONE person at least among their circle
of friends: a great comfort to know that there was ONE who would meet
her without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for
her sister's health.

Every qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the
moment, to more than its real value; and she was sometimes worried down
by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more indispensable to
comfort than good-nature.

Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day,
or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, "It is very
shocking, indeed!" and by the means of this continual though gentle
vent, was able not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from the first
without the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them without
recollecting a word of the matter; and having thus supported the
dignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was
wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend to the
interest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (though rather
against the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs. Willoughby would at once
be a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her as soon
as she married.

Colonel Brandon's delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome
to Miss Dashwood.  He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate
discussion of her sister's disappointment, by the friendly zeal with
which he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with
confidence.  His chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing
past sorrows and present humiliations, was given in the pitying eye
with which Marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of her
voice whenever (though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or
could oblige herself to speak to him.  THESE assured him that his
exertion had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and
THESE gave Elinor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter; but
Mrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that the
Colonel continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither prevail
on him to make the offer himself, nor commission her to make it for
him, began, at the end of two days, to think that, instead of
Midsummer, they would not be married till Michaelmas, and by the end of
a week that it would not be a match at all.  The good understanding
between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather to declare that the
honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would all
be made over to HER; and Mrs. Jennings had, for some time ceased to
think at all of Mrs. Ferrars.

Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby's
letter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he
was married.  She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to
herself, as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she was
desirous that Marianne should not receive the first notice of it from
the public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every morning.

She received the news with resolute composure; made no observation on
it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would burst
out, and for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly less
pitiable than when she first learnt to expect the event.

The Willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and Elinor now
hoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to
prevail on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow
first fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before.

About this time the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at their cousin's
house in Bartlett's Buildings, Holburn, presented themselves again
before their more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley Streets; and
were welcomed by them all with great cordiality.

Elinor only was sorry to see them.  Their presence always gave her
pain, and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the
overpowering delight of Lucy in finding her STILL in town.

"I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here
STILL," said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word.  "But
I always thought I SHOULD.  I was almost sure you would not leave
London yet awhile; though you TOLD me, you know, at Barton, that you
should not stay above a MONTH.  But I thought, at the time, that you
would most likely change your mind when it came to the point.  It would
have been such a great pity to have went away before your brother and
sister came.  And now to be sure you will be in no hurry to be gone.  I
am amazingly glad you did not keep to YOUR WORD."

Elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her
self-command to make it appear that she did NOT.

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did you travel?"

"Not in the stage, I assure you," replied Miss Steele, with quick
exultation; "we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to
attend us.  Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we'd join
him in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or
twelve shillings more than we did."

"Oh, oh!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "very pretty, indeed! and the Doctor is
a single man, I warrant you."

"There now," said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering, "everybody laughs
at me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why.  My cousins say they
are sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare I never
think about him from one hour's end to another.  'Lord! here comes your
beau, Nancy,' my cousin said t'other day, when she saw him crossing the
street to the house.  My beau, indeed! said I--I cannot think who you
mean.  The Doctor is no beau of mine."

"Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking--but it won't do--the Doctor is
the man, I see."

"No, indeed!" replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, "and I beg
you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of."

Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she
certainly would NOT, and Miss Steele was made completely happy.

"I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss
Dashwood, when they come to town," said Lucy, returning, after a
cessation of hostile hints, to the charge.

"No, I do not think we shall."

"Oh, yes, I dare say you will."

Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition.

"What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for
so long a time together!"

"Long a time, indeed!" interposed Mrs. Jennings.  "Why, their visit is
but just begun!"

Lucy was silenced.

"I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood," said Miss
Steele.  "I am sorry she is not well--" for Marianne had left the room
on their arrival.

"You are very good.  My sister will be equally sorry to miss the
pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with
nervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation."

"Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and
me!--I think she might see US; and I am sure we would not speak a word."

Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal.  Her sister was
perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore
not able to come to them.

"Oh, if that's all," cried Miss Steele, "we can just as well go and see
HER."

Elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but she
was saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy's sharp reprimand, which
now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness to the
manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of the other.



CHAPTER 33


After some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister's entreaties, and
consented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for half an
hour. She expressly conditioned, however, for paying no visits, and
would do no more than accompany them to Gray's in Sackville Street,
where Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few
old-fashioned jewels of her mother.

When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there was
a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call; and as
she had no business at Gray's, it was resolved, that while her young
friends transacted their's, she should pay her visit and return for
them.

On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people before
them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to tend to
their orders; and they were obliged to wait.  All that could be done
was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to promise the
quickest succession; one gentleman only was standing there, and it is
probable that Elinor was not without hope of exciting his politeness to
a quicker despatch.  But the correctness of his eye, and the delicacy
of his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness.  He was giving orders
for a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size, shape, and
ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining and debating
for a quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were
finally arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to
bestow any other attention on the two ladies, than what was comprised
in three or four very broad stares; a kind of notice which served to
imprint on Elinor the remembrance of a person and face, of strong,
natural, sterling insignificance, though adorned in the first style of
fashion.

Marianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and
resentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and on
the puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of
the different toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining
unconscious of it all; for she was as well able to collect her thoughts
within herself, and be as ignorant of what was passing around her, in
Mr. Gray's shop, as in her own bedroom.

At last the affair was decided.  The ivory, the gold, and the pearls,
all received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the last
day on which his existence could be continued without the possession of
the toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and
bestowing another glance on the Miss Dashwoods, but such a one as
seemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off with a
happy air of real conceit and affected indifference.

Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point
of concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her side.
She turned her eyes towards his face, and found him with some surprise
to be her brother.

Their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a very
creditable appearance in Mr. Gray's shop.  John Dashwood was really far
from being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave them
satisfaction; and his inquiries after their mother were respectful and
attentive.

Elinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two days.

"I wished very much to call upon you yesterday," said he, "but it was
impossible, for we were obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts at
Exeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs. Ferrars.
Harry was vastly pleased.  THIS morning I had fully intended to call on
you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always so
much to do on first coming to town.  I am come here to bespeak Fanny a
seal.  But tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in
Berkeley Street, and be introduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings.  I
understand she is a woman of very good fortune.  And the Middletons
too, you must introduce me to THEM.  As my mother-in-law's relations, I
shall be happy to show them every respect.  They are excellent
neighbours to you in the country, I understand."

"Excellent indeed.  Their attention to our comfort, their friendliness
in every particular, is more than I can express."

"I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed.
But so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they are
related to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to
make your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected.  And so you
are most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for
nothing!  Edward brought us a most charming account of the place: the
most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all
seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing.  It was a great satisfaction to us
to hear it, I assure you."

Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to
be spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs.
Jennings's servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for
them at the door.

Mr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs. Jennings
at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to
call on them the next day, took leave.

His visit was duly paid.  He came with a pretence at an apology from
their sister-in-law, for not coming too; "but she was so much engaged
with her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where."
Mrs. Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not stand
upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she
should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and bring her
sisters to see her.  His manners to THEM, though calm, were perfectly
kind; to Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil; and on Colonel
Brandon's coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity
which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be
equally civil to HIM.

After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him
to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton.
The weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented.  As soon as
they were out of the house, his enquiries began.

"Who is Colonel Brandon?  Is he a man of fortune?"

"Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire."

"I am glad of it.  He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think,
Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable
establishment in life."

"Me, brother! what do you mean?"

"He likes you.  I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it.  What
is the amount of his fortune?"

"I believe about two thousand a year."

"Two thousand a-year;" and then working himself up to a pitch of
enthusiastic generosity, he added, "Elinor, I wish with all my heart it
were TWICE as much, for your sake."

"Indeed I believe you," replied Elinor; "but I am very sure that
Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying ME."

"You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken.  A very little
trouble on your side secures him.  Perhaps just at present he may be
undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his
friends may all advise him against it.  But some of those little
attentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix
him, in spite of himself.  And there can be no reason why you should
not try for him.  It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on
your side--in short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is
quite out of the question, the objections are insurmountable--you have
too much sense not to see all that.  Colonel Brandon must be the man;
and no civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with
you and your family.  It is a match that must give universal
satisfaction.  In short, it is a kind of thing that"--lowering his
voice to an important whisper--"will be exceedingly welcome to ALL
PARTIES." Recollecting himself, however, he added, "That is, I mean to
say--your friends are all truly anxious to see you well settled; Fanny
particularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, I assure
you.  And her mother too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured woman, I am
sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much the other day."

Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer.

"It would be something remarkable, now," he continued, "something
droll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling at the
same time.  And yet it is not very unlikely."

"Is Mr. Edward Ferrars," said Elinor, with resolution, "going to be
married?"

"It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation.
He has a most excellent mother.  Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost
liberality, will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if
the match takes place.  The lady is the Hon. Miss Morton, only daughter
of the late Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds.  A very desirable
connection on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking place in
time.  A thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away, to
make over for ever; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble spirit.  To give you
another instance of her liberality:--The other day, as soon as we came
to town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us just now,
she put bank-notes into Fanny's hands to the amount of two hundred
pounds.  And extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a great
expense while we are here."

He paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to say,

"Your expenses both in town and country must certainly be considerable;
but your income is a large one."

"Not so large, I dare say, as many people suppose.  I do not mean to
complain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope will
in time be better.  The enclosure of Norland Common, now carrying on,
is a most serious drain.  And then I have made a little purchase within
this half year; East Kingham Farm, you must remember the place, where
old Gibson used to live.  The land was so very desirable for me in
every respect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that I felt it
my duty to buy it.  I could not have answered it to my conscience to
let it fall into any other hands.  A man must pay for his convenience;
and it HAS cost me a vast deal of money."

"More than you think it really and intrinsically worth."

"Why, I hope not that.  I might have sold it again, the next day, for
more than I gave: but, with regard to the purchase-money, I might have
been very unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were at that time so low,
that if I had not happened to have the necessary sum in my banker's
hands, I must have sold out to very great loss."

Elinor could only smile.

"Other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first coming to
Norland.  Our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the
Stanhill effects that remained at Norland (and very valuable they were)
to your mother.  Far be it from me to repine at his doing so; he had an
undoubted right to dispose of his own property as he chose, but, in
consequence of it, we have been obliged to make large purchases of
linen, china, &c. to supply the place of what was taken away.  You may
guess, after all these expenses, how very far we must be from being
rich, and how acceptable Mrs. Ferrars's kindness is."

"Certainly," said Elinor; "and assisted by her liberality, I hope you
may yet live to be in easy circumstances."

"Another year or two may do much towards it," he gravely replied; "but
however there is still a great deal to be done.  There is not a stone
laid of Fanny's green-house, and nothing but the plan of the
flower-garden marked out."

"Where is the green-house to be?"

"Upon the knoll behind the house.  The old walnut trees are all come
down to make room for it.  It will be a very fine object from many
parts of the park, and the flower-garden will slope down just before
it, and be exceedingly pretty.  We have cleared away all the old thorns
that grew in patches over the brow."

Elinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very
thankful that Marianne was not present, to share the provocation.

Having now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away the
necessity of buying a pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters, in his
next visit at Gray's his thoughts took a cheerfuller turn, and he began
to congratulate Elinor on having such a friend as Mrs. Jennings.

"She seems a most valuable woman indeed--Her house, her style of
living, all bespeak an exceeding good income; and it is an acquaintance
that has not only been of great use to you hitherto, but in the end may
prove materially advantageous.--Her inviting you to town is certainly a
vast thing in your favour; and indeed, it speaks altogether so great a
regard for you, that in all probability when she dies you will not be
forgotten.-- She must have a great deal to leave."

"Nothing at all, I should rather suppose; for she has only her
jointure, which will descend to her children."

"But it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income.  Few
people of common prudence will do THAT; and whatever she saves, she
will be able to dispose of."

"And do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to her
daughters, than to us?"

"Her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore I
cannot perceive the necessity of her remembering them farther.
Whereas, in my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and
treating you in this kind of way, she has given you a sort of claim on
her future consideration, which a conscientious woman would not
disregard.  Nothing can be kinder than her behaviour; and she can
hardly do all this, without being aware of the expectation it raises."

"But she raises none in those most concerned.  Indeed, brother, your
anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far."

"Why, to be sure," said he, seeming to recollect himself, "people have
little, have very little in their power.  But, my dear Elinor, what is
the matter with Marianne?-- she looks very unwell, has lost her colour,
and is grown quite thin.  Is she ill?"

"She is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her for several
weeks."

"I am sorry for that.  At her time of life, any thing of an illness
destroys the bloom for ever!  Hers has been a very short one!  She was
as handsome a girl last September, as I ever saw; and as likely to
attract the man.  There was something in her style of beauty, to please
them particularly.  I remember Fanny used to say that she would marry
sooner and better than you did; not but what she is exceedingly fond of
YOU, but so it happened to strike her.  She will be mistaken, however.
I question whether Marianne NOW, will marry a man worth more than five
or six hundred a-year, at the utmost, and I am very much deceived if
YOU do not do better.  Dorsetshire!  I know very little of Dorsetshire;
but, my dear Elinor, I shall be exceedingly glad to know more of it;
and I think I can answer for your having Fanny and myself among the
earliest and best pleased of your visitors."

Elinor tried very seriously to convince him that there was no
likelihood of her marrying Colonel Brandon; but it was an expectation
of too much pleasure to himself to be relinquished, and he was really
resolved on seeking an intimacy with that gentleman, and promoting the
marriage by every possible attention.  He had just compunction enough
for having done nothing for his sisters himself, to be exceedingly
anxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an offer from
Colonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means
of atoning for his own neglect.

They were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton at home, and Sir John
came in before their visit ended.  Abundance of civilities passed on
all sides.  Sir John was ready to like anybody, and though Mr. Dashwood
did not seem to know much about horses, he soon set him down as a very
good-natured fellow: while Lady Middleton saw enough of fashion in his
appearance to think his acquaintance worth having; and Mr. Dashwood
went away delighted with both.

"I shall have a charming account to carry to Fanny," said he, as he
walked back with his sister.  "Lady Middleton is really a most elegant
woman!  Such a woman as I am sure Fanny will be glad to know.  And Mrs.
Jennings too, an exceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so elegant
as her daughter.  Your sister need not have any scruple even of
visiting HER, which, to say the truth, has been a little the case, and
very naturally; for we only knew that Mrs. Jennings was the widow of a
man who had got all his money in a low way; and Fanny and Mrs. Ferrars
were both strongly prepossessed, that neither she nor her daughters
were such kind of women as Fanny would like to associate with.  But now
I can carry her a most satisfactory account of both."



CHAPTER 34


Mrs. John Dashwood had so much confidence in her husband's judgment,
that she waited the very next day both on Mrs. Jennings and her
daughter; and her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former,
even the woman with whom her sisters were staying, by no means unworthy
her notice; and as for Lady Middleton, she found her one of the most
charming women in the world!

Lady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs. Dashwood.  There was a
kind of cold hearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually
attracted them; and they sympathised with each other in an insipid
propriety of demeanor, and a general want of understanding.

The same manners, however, which recommended Mrs. John Dashwood to the
good opinion of Lady Middleton did not suit the fancy of Mrs. Jennings,
and to HER she appeared nothing more than a little proud-looking woman
of uncordial address, who met her husband's sisters without any
affection, and almost without having anything to say to them; for of
the quarter of an hour bestowed on Berkeley Street, she sat at least
seven minutes and a half in silence.

Elinor wanted very much to know, though she did not chuse to ask,
whether Edward was then in town; but nothing would have induced Fanny
voluntarily to mention his name before her, till able to tell her that
his marriage with Miss Morton was resolved on, or till her husband's
expectations on Colonel Brandon were answered; because she believed
them still so very much attached to each other, that they could not be
too sedulously divided in word and deed on every occasion.  The
intelligence however, which SHE would not give, soon flowed from
another quarter.  Lucy came very shortly to claim Elinor's compassion
on being unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in town with Mr.
and Mrs. Dashwood.  He dared not come to Bartlett's Buildings for fear
of detection, and though their mutual impatience to meet, was not to be
told, they could do nothing at present but write.

Edward assured them himself of his being in town, within a very short
time, by twice calling in Berkeley Street.  Twice was his card found on
the table, when they returned from their morning's engagements.  Elinor
was pleased that he had called; and still more pleased that she had
missed him.

The Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the Middletons, that,
though not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined to
give them--a dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began, invited
them to dine in Harley Street, where they had taken a very good house
for three months.  Their sisters and Mrs. Jennings were invited
likewise, and John Dashwood was careful to secure Colonel Brandon, who,
always glad to be where the Miss Dashwoods were, received his eager
civilities with some surprise, but much more pleasure.  They were to
meet Mrs. Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn whether her sons were to
be of the party.  The expectation of seeing HER, however, was enough to
make her interested in the engagement; for though she could now meet
Edward's mother without that strong anxiety which had once promised to
attend such an introduction, though she could now see her with perfect
indifference as to her opinion of herself, her desire of being in
company with Mrs. Ferrars, her curiosity to know what she was like, was
as lively as ever.

The interest with which she thus anticipated the party, was soon
afterwards increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing
that the Miss Steeles were also to be at it.

So well had they recommended themselves to Lady Middleton, so agreeable
had their assiduities made them to her, that though Lucy was certainly
not so elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as ready as
Sir John to ask them to spend a week or two in Conduit Street; and it
happened to be particularly convenient to the Miss Steeles, as soon as
the Dashwoods' invitation was known, that their visit should begin a
few days before the party took place.

Their claims to the notice of Mrs. John Dashwood, as the nieces of the
gentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother, might not
have done much, however, towards procuring them seats at her table; but
as Lady Middleton's guests they must be welcome; and Lucy, who had long
wanted to be personally known to the family, to have a nearer view of
their characters and her own difficulties, and to have an opportunity
of endeavouring to please them, had seldom been happier in her life,
than she was on receiving Mrs. John Dashwood's card.

On Elinor its effect was very different.  She began immediately to
determine, that Edward who lived with his mother, must be asked as his
mother was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for the
first time, after all that passed, in the company of Lucy!--she hardly
knew how she could bear it!

These apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, and
certainly not at all on truth.  They were relieved however, not by her
own recollection, but by the good will of Lucy, who believed herself to
be inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that Edward
certainly would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped to
be carrying the pain still farther by persuading her that he was kept
away by the extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal
when they were together.

The important Tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies
to this formidable mother-in-law.

"Pity me, dear Miss Dashwood!" said Lucy, as they walked up the stairs
together--for the Middletons arrived so directly after Mrs. Jennings,
that they all followed the servant at the same time--"There is nobody
here but you, that can feel for me.--I declare I can hardly stand.
Good gracious!--In a moment I shall see the person that all my
happiness depends on--that is to be my mother!"--

Elinor could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the
possibility of its being Miss Morton's mother, rather than her own,
whom they were about to behold; but instead of doing that, she assured
her, and with great sincerity, that she did pity her--to the utter
amazement of Lucy, who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at
least to be an object of irrepressible envy to Elinor.

Mrs. Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality, in
her figure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect.  Her
complexion was sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and
naturally without expression; but a lucky contraction of the brow had
rescued her countenance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it
the strong characters of pride and ill nature.  She was not a woman of
many words; for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to the
number of her ideas; and of the few syllables that did escape her, not
one fell to the share of Miss Dashwood, whom she eyed with the spirited
determination of disliking her at all events.

Elinor could not NOW be made unhappy by this behaviour.-- A few months
ago it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs. Ferrars'
power to distress her by it now;--and the difference of her manners to
the Miss Steeles, a difference which seemed purposely made to humble
her more, only amused her.  She could not but smile to see the
graciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very person-- for
Lucy was particularly distinguished--whom of all others, had they known
as much as she did, they would have been most anxious to mortify; while
she herself, who had comparatively no power to wound them, sat
pointedly slighted by both.  But while she smiled at a graciousness so
misapplied, she could not reflect on the mean-spirited folly from which
it sprung, nor observe the studied attentions with which the Miss
Steeles courted its continuance, without thoroughly despising them all
four.

Lucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and Miss
Steele wanted only to be teazed about Dr. Davies to be perfectly happy.

The dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every thing
bespoke the Mistress's inclination for show, and the Master's ability
to support it.  In spite of the improvements and additions which were
making to the Norland estate, and in spite of its owner having once
been within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell out at a
loss, nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which he had tried to
infer from it;--no poverty of any kind, except of conversation,
appeared--but there, the deficiency was considerable.  John Dashwood
had not much to say for himself that was worth hearing, and his wife
had still less.  But there was no peculiar disgrace in this; for it was
very much the case with the chief of their visitors, who almost all
laboured under one or other of these disqualifications for being
agreeable--Want of sense, either natural or improved--want of
elegance--want of spirits--or want of temper.

When the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this poverty
was particularly evident, for the gentlemen HAD supplied the discourse
with some variety--the variety of politics, inclosing land, and
breaking horses--but then it was all over; and one subject only engaged
the ladies till coffee came in, which was the comparative heights of
Harry Dashwood, and Lady Middleton's second son William, who were
nearly of the same age.

Had both the children been there, the affair might have been determined
too easily by measuring them at once; but as Harry only was present, it
was all conjectural assertion on both sides; and every body had a right
to be equally positive in their opinion, and to repeat it over and over
again as often as they liked.

The parties stood thus:

The two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the
tallest, politely decided in favour of the other.

The two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity,
were equally earnest in support of their own descendant.

Lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other,
thought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could not
conceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world
between them; and Miss Steele, with yet greater address gave it, as
fast as she could, in favour of each.

Elinor, having once delivered her opinion on William's side, by which
she offended Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny still more, did not see the
necessity of enforcing it by any farther assertion; and Marianne, when
called on for hers, offended them all, by declaring that she had no
opinion to give, as she had never thought about it.

Before her removing from Norland, Elinor had painted a very pretty pair
of screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted and
brought home, ornamented her present drawing room; and these screens,
catching the eye of John Dashwood on his following the other gentlemen
into the room, were officiously handed by him to Colonel Brandon for
his admiration.

"These are done by my eldest sister," said he; "and you, as a man of
taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them.  I do not know whether
you have ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she
is in general reckoned to draw extremely well."

The Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship,
warmly admired the screens, as he would have done any thing painted by
Miss Dashwood; and on the curiosity of the others being of course
excited, they were handed round for general inspection.  Mrs. Ferrars,
not aware of their being Elinor's work, particularly requested to look
at them; and after they had received gratifying testimony of Lady
Middletons's approbation, Fanny presented them to her mother,
considerately informing her, at the same time, that they were done by
Miss Dashwood.

"Hum"--said Mrs. Ferrars--"very pretty,"--and without regarding them at
all, returned them to her daughter.

Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude
enough,--for, colouring a little, she immediately said,

"They are very pretty, ma'am--an't they?" But then again, the dread of
having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over her,
for she presently added,

"Do you not think they are something in Miss Morton's style of
painting, Ma'am?--She DOES paint most delightfully!--How beautifully
her last landscape is done!"

"Beautifully indeed!  But SHE does every thing well."

Marianne could not bear this.--She was already greatly displeased with
Mrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor's
expense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by
it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth,

"This is admiration of a very particular kind!--what is Miss Morton to
us?--who knows, or who cares, for her?--it is Elinor of whom WE think
and speak."

And so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law's hands,
to admire them herself as they ought to be admired.

Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more
stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, "Miss
Morton is Lord Morton's daughter."

Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at his
sister's audacity.  Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne's warmth than
she had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon's eyes, as they
were fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was amiable
in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister
slighted in the smallest point.

Marianne's feelings did not stop here.  The cold insolence of Mrs.
Ferrars's general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretell
such difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart
taught her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of
affectionate sensibility, she moved after a moment, to her sister's
chair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to hers,
said in a low, but eager, voice,

"Dear, dear Elinor, don't mind them.  Don't let them make YOU unhappy."

She could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her
face on Elinor's shoulder, she burst into tears.  Every body's
attention was called, and almost every body was concerned.--Colonel
Brandon rose up and went to them without knowing what he did.--Mrs.
Jennings, with a very intelligent "Ah! poor dear," immediately gave her
her salts; and Sir John felt so desperately enraged against the author
of this nervous distress, that he instantly changed his seat to one
close by Lucy Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of
the whole shocking affair.

In a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to put an end
to the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits retained
the impression of what had passed, the whole evening.

"Poor Marianne!" said her brother to Colonel Brandon, in a low voice,
as soon as he could secure his attention,-- "She has not such good
health as her sister,--she is very nervous,--she has not Elinor's
constitution;--and one must allow that there is something very trying
to a young woman who HAS BEEN a beauty in the loss of her personal
attractions.  You would not think it perhaps, but Marianne WAS
remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as Elinor.--
Now you see it is all gone."



CHAPTER 35


Elinor's curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars was satisfied.-- She had found
in her every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between
the families undesirable.-- She had seen enough of her pride, her
meanness, and her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend
all the difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and
retarded the marriage, of Edward and herself, had he been otherwise
free;--and she had seen almost enough to be thankful for her OWN sake,
that one greater obstacle preserved her from suffering under any other
of Mrs. Ferrars's creation, preserved her from all dependence upon her
caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion.  Or at least, if she
did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward's being fettered to
Lucy, she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, she OUGHT to
have rejoiced.

She wondered that Lucy's spirits could be so very much elevated by the
civility of Mrs. Ferrars;--that her interest and her vanity should so
very much blind her as to make the attention which seemed only paid her
because she was NOT ELINOR, appear a compliment to herself--or to allow
her to derive encouragement from a preference only given her, because
her real situation was unknown.  But that it was so, had not only been
declared by Lucy's eyes at the time, but was declared over again the
next morning more openly, for at her particular desire, Lady Middleton
set her down in Berkeley Street on the chance of seeing Elinor alone,
to tell her how happy she was.

The chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon
after she arrived, carried Mrs. Jennings away.

"My dear friend," cried Lucy, as soon as they were by themselves, "I
come to talk to you of my happiness.  Could anything be so flattering
as Mrs. Ferrars's way of treating me yesterday?  So exceeding affable
as she was!--You know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her;--but
the very moment I was introduced, there was such an affability in her
behaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to
me.  Now was not it so?-- You saw it all; and was not you quite struck
with it?"

"She was certainly very civil to you."

"Civil!--Did you see nothing but only civility?-- I saw a vast deal
more.  Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me!--No pride,
no hauteur, and your sister just the same--all sweetness and
affability!"

Elinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her to
own that she had reason for her happiness; and Elinor was obliged to go
on.--

"Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement," said she, "nothing
could be more flattering than their treatment of you;--but as that was
not the case"--

"I guessed you would say so,"--replied Lucy quickly--"but there was no
reason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she did
not, and her liking me is every thing.  You shan't talk me out of my
satisfaction.  I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no
difficulties at all, to what I used to think.  Mrs. Ferrars is a
charming woman, and so is your sister.  They are both delightful women,
indeed!--I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs.
Dashwood was!"

To this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.

"Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?--you seem low--you don't speak;--sure you
an't well."

"I never was in better health."

"I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it.  I
should be sorry to have YOU ill; you, that have been the greatest
comfort to me in the world!--Heaven knows what I should have done
without your friendship."--

Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success.
But it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied,

"Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to
Edward's love, it is the greatest comfort I have.--Poor Edward!--But
now there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty
often, for Lady Middleton's delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall
be a good deal in Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half his
time with his sister--besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will
visit now;--and Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so good to say
more than once, they should always be glad to see me.-- They are such
charming women!--I am sure if ever you tell your sister what I think of
her, you cannot speak too high."

But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she SHOULD
tell her sister.  Lucy continued.

"I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took
a dislike to me.  If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for
instance, without saying a word, and never after had took any notice of
me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way--you know what I mean--if
I had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should have gave
it all up in despair.  I could not have stood it.  For where she DOES
dislike, I know it is most violent."

Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by
the door's being thrown open, the servant's announcing Mr. Ferrars, and
Edward's immediately walking in.

It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each shewed that
it was so.  They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to
have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to
advance farther into it.  The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest
form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen
on them.--They were not only all three together, but were together
without the relief of any other person.  The ladies recovered
themselves first.  It was not Lucy's business to put herself forward,
and the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up.  She could
therefore only LOOK her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him,
said no more.

But Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and her
own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment's
recollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost
easy, and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still
improved them.  She would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the
consciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from
saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much
regretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley Street.
She would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as
a friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of
Lucy, though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her.

Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage enough
to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in
a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might
make it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy's, nor
could his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor's.

Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no
contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word;
and almost every thing that WAS said, proceeded from Elinor, who was
obliged to volunteer all the information about her mother's health,
their coming to town, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about,
but never did.

Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself
so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching
Marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and
THAT in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on
the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she went
to her sister.  When that was once done, however, it was time for the
raptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne's joy hurried her into the
drawing-room immediately.  Her pleasure in seeing him was like every
other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken.  She met
him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the
affection of a sister.

"Dear Edward!" she cried, "this is a moment of great happiness!--This
would almost make amends for every thing!"

Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such
witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt.  Again they all
sat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was
looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and
sometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other
should be checked by Lucy's unwelcome presence.  Edward was the first
to speak, and it was to notice Marianne's altered looks, and express
his fear of her not finding London agree with her.

"Oh, don't think of me!" she replied with spirited earnestness, though
her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, "don't think of MY
health.  Elinor is well, you see.  That must be enough for us both."

This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor
to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no
very benignant expression.

"Do you like London?" said Edward, willing to say any thing that might
introduce another subject.

"Not at all.  I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none.
The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and
thank Heaven! you are what you always were!"

She paused--no one spoke.

"I think, Elinor," she presently added, "we must employ Edward to take
care of us in our return to Barton.  In a week or two, I suppose, we
shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to
accept the charge."

Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even
himself.  But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace
it to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and
soon talked of something else.

"We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday!  So dull, so
wretchedly dull!--But I have much to say to you on that head, which
cannot be said now."

And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her
finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her
being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in
private.

"But why were you not there, Edward?--Why did you not come?"

"I was engaged elsewhere."

"Engaged!  But what was that, when such friends were to be met?"

"Perhaps, Miss Marianne," cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on
her, "you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no
mind to keep them, little as well as great."

Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the
sting; for she calmly replied,

"Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that
conscience only kept Edward from Harley Street.  And I really believe
he HAS the most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous
in performing every engagement, however minute, and however it may make
against his interest or pleasure.  He is the most fearful of giving
pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish,
of any body I ever saw.  Edward, it is so, and I will say it.  What!
are you never to hear yourself praised!--Then you must be no friend of
mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem, must submit to
my open commendation."

The nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened
to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her
auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon
got up to go away.

"Going so soon!" said Marianne; "my dear Edward, this must not be."

And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy
could not stay much longer.  But even this encouragement failed, for he
would go; and Lucy, who would have outstaid him, had his visit lasted
two hours, soon afterwards went away.

"What can bring her here so often?" said Marianne, on her leaving them.
"Could not she see that we wanted her gone!--how teazing to Edward!"

"Why so?--we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest known
to him of any.  It is but natural that he should like to see her as
well as ourselves."

Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, "You know, Elinor, that this
is a kind of talking which I cannot bear.  If you only hope to have
your assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you
ought to recollect that I am the last person in the world to do it.  I
cannot descend to be tricked out of assurances, that are not really
wanted."

She then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more,
for bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give
no information that would convince Marianne; and painful as the
consequences of her still continuing in an error might be, she was
obliged to submit to it.  All that she could hope, was that Edward
would not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing
Marianne's mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of
the pain that had attended their recent meeting--and this she had every
reason to expect.



CHAPTER 36


Within a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to the
world, that the lady of Thomas Palmer, Esq. was safely delivered of a
son and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least
to all those intimate connections who knew it before.

This event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings's happiness, produced a
temporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a
like degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to
be as much as possible with Charlotte, she went thither every morning as
soon as she was dressed, and did not return till late in the evening;
and the Miss Dashwoods, at the particular request of the Middletons,
spent the whole of every day in Conduit Street. For their own comfort
they would much rather have remained, at least all the morning, in Mrs.
Jennings's house; but it was not a thing to be urged against the wishes
of everybody. Their hours were therefore made over to Lady Middleton and
the two Miss Steeles, by whom their company, in fact was as little
valued, as it was professedly sought.

They had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former; and
by the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on
THEIR ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to monopolize.
Though nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton's behaviour to
Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at all.  Because they
neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not believe them
good-natured; and because they were fond of reading, she fancied them
satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was to be satirical;
but THAT did not signify.  It was censure in common use, and easily
given.

Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy.  It checked the
idleness of one, and the business of the other.  Lady Middleton was
ashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was
proud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they would
despise her for offering.  Miss Steele was the least discomposed of the
three, by their presence; and it was in their power to reconcile her to
it entirely.  Would either of them only have given her a full and
minute account of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr. Willoughby,
she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of the
best place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned.
But this conciliation was not granted; for though she often threw out
expressions of pity for her sister to Elinor, and more than once dropt
a reflection on the inconstancy of beaux before Marianne, no effect was
produced, but a look of indifference from the former, or of disgust in
the latter.  An effort even yet lighter might have made her their
friend.  Would they only have laughed at her about the Doctor!  But so
little were they, anymore than the others, inclined to oblige her, that
if Sir John dined from home, she might spend a whole day without
hearing any other raillery on the subject, than what she was kind
enough to bestow on herself.

All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally
unsuspected by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing
for the girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young
friends every night, on having escaped the company of a stupid old
woman so long.  She joined them sometimes at Sir John's, sometimes at
her own house; but wherever it was, she always came in excellent
spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing Charlotte's well
doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail
of her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough to desire.
One thing DID disturb her; and of that she made her daily complaint.
Mr. Palmer maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among his sex,
of all infants being alike; and though she could plainly perceive, at
different times, the most striking resemblance between this baby and
every one of his relations on both sides, there was no convincing his
father of it; no persuading him to believe that it was not exactly like
every other baby of the same age; nor could he even be brought to
acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child in the
world.

I come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time
befell Mrs. John Dashwood.  It so happened that while her two sisters
with Mrs. Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another
of her acquaintance had dropt in--a circumstance in itself not
apparently likely to produce evil to her.  But while the imaginations
of other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our
conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's happiness
must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance.  In the present
instance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun
truth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Miss
Dashwoods, and understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood's sisters, she
immediately concluded them to be staying in Harley Street; and this
misconstruction produced within a day or two afterwards, cards of
invitation for them as well as for their brother and sister, to a small
musical party at her house.  The consequence of which was, that Mrs.
John Dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly great
inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Dashwoods, but, what
was still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing
to treat them with attention: and who could tell that they might not
expect to go out with her a second time?  The power of disappointing
them, it was true, must always be hers.  But that was not enough; for
when people are determined on a mode of conduct which they know to be
wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of any thing better from
them.

Marianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit of
going out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to
her, whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and mechanically
for every evening's engagement, though without expecting the smallest
amusement from any, and very often without knowing, till the last
moment, where it was to take her.

To her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent, as
not to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her
toilet, which it received from Miss Steele in the first five minutes of
their being together, when it was finished.  Nothing escaped HER minute
observation and general curiosity; she saw every thing, and asked every
thing; was never easy till she knew the price of every part of
Marianne's dress; could have guessed the number of her gowns altogether
with better judgment than Marianne herself, and was not without hopes
of finding out before they parted, how much her washing cost per week,
and how much she had every year to spend upon herself.  The
impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally
concluded with a compliment, which though meant as its douceur, was
considered by Marianne as the greatest impertinence of all; for after
undergoing an examination into the value and make of her gown, the
colour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she was almost
sure of being told that upon "her word she looked vastly smart, and she
dared to say she would make a great many conquests."

With such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present
occasion, to her brother's carriage; which they were ready to enter
five minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very
agreeable to their sister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house of
her acquaintance, and was there hoping for some delay on their part
that might inconvenience either herself or her coachman.

The events of this evening were not very remarkable.  The party, like
other musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real
taste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all;
and the performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation,
and that of their immediate friends, the first private performers in
England.

As Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no
scruple of turning her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it
suited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and
violoncello, would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the
room.  In one of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of
young men, the very he, who had given them a lecture on toothpick-cases
at Gray's.  She perceived him soon afterwards looking at herself, and
speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just determined to find out
his name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and Mr.
Dashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert Ferrars.

He addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow
which assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was
exactly the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by Lucy.  Happy
had it been for her, if her regard for Edward had depended less on his
own merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations!  For then his
brother's bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the
ill-humour of his mother and sister would have begun.  But while she
wondered at the difference of the two young men, she did not find that
the emptiness of conceit of the one, put her out of all charity with
the modesty and worth of the other.  Why they WERE different, Robert
exclaimed to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour's
conversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme
GAUCHERIE which he really believed kept him from mixing in proper
society, he candidly and generously attributed it much less to any
natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education;
while he himself, though probably without any particular, any material
superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school,
was as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man.

"Upon my soul," he added, "I believe it is nothing more; and so I often
tell my mother, when she is grieving about it.  'My dear Madam,' I
always say to her, 'you must make yourself easy.  The evil is now
irremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing.  Why would you
be persuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to
place Edward under private tuition, at the most critical time of his
life?  If you had only sent him to Westminster as well as myself,
instead of sending him to Mr. Pratt's, all this would have been
prevented.' This is the way in which I always consider the matter, and
my mother is perfectly convinced of her error."

Elinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her
general estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not
think of Edward's abode in Mr. Pratt's family, with any satisfaction.

"You reside in Devonshire, I think,"--was his next observation, "in a
cottage near Dawlish."

Elinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather
surprising to him that anybody could live in Devonshire, without living
near Dawlish.  He bestowed his hearty approbation however on their
species of house.

"For my own part," said he, "I am excessively fond of a cottage; there
is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them.  And I protest,
if I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and build one
myself, within a short distance of London, where I might drive myself
down at any time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy.  I
advise every body who is going to build, to build a cottage.  My friend
Lord Courtland came to me the other day on purpose to ask my advice,
and laid before me three different plans of Bonomi's.  I was to decide
on the best of them.  'My dear Courtland,' said I, immediately throwing
them all into the fire, 'do not adopt either of them, but by all means
build a cottage.' And that I fancy, will be the end of it.

"Some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space in a
cottage; but this is all a mistake.  I was last month at my friend
Elliott's, near Dartford.  Lady Elliott wished to give a dance.  'But
how can it be done?' said she; 'my dear Ferrars, do tell me how it is
to be managed.  There is not a room in this cottage that will hold ten
couple, and where can the supper be?' I immediately saw that there
could be no difficulty in it, so I said, 'My dear Lady Elliott, do not
be uneasy.  The dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease;
card-tables may be placed in the drawing-room; the library may be open
for tea and other refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the
saloon.'  Lady Elliott was delighted with the thought.  We measured the
dining-room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen couple, and the
affair was arranged precisely after my plan.  So that, in fact, you
see, if people do but know how to set about it, every comfort may be as
well enjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious dwelling."

Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the
compliment of rational opposition.

As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister,
his mind was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a thought
struck him during the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for
her approbation, when they got home.  The consideration of Mrs.
Dennison's mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had
suggested the propriety of their being really invited to become such,
while Mrs. Jennings's engagements kept her from home.  The expense would
be nothing, the inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an
attention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be
requisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his
father.  Fanny was startled at the proposal.

"I do not see how it can be done," said she, "without affronting Lady
Middleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise I should be
exceedingly glad to do it.  You know I am always ready to pay them any
attention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shews.  But
they are Lady Middleton's visitors.  How can I ask them away from her?"

Her husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her
objection.  "They had already spent a week in this manner in Conduit
Street, and Lady Middleton could not be displeased at their giving the
same number of days to such near relations."

Fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said,

"My love I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power.
But I had just settled within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend a
few days with us.  They are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and
I think the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well
by Edward.  We can ask your sisters some other year, you know; but the
Miss Steeles may not be in town any more.  I am sure you will like
them; indeed, you DO like them, you know, very much already, and so
does my mother; and they are such favourites with Harry!"

Mr. Dashwood was convinced.  He saw the necessity of inviting the Miss
Steeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution
of inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly
suspecting that another year would make the invitation needless, by
bringing Elinor to town as Colonel Brandon's wife, and Marianne as
THEIR visitor.

Fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had
procured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company and
her sister's, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady
Middleton could spare them.  This was enough to make Lucy really and
reasonably happy.  Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her,
herself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views!  Such
an opportunity of being with Edward and his family was, above all
things, the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the
most gratifying to her feelings!  It was an advantage that could not be
too gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the
visit to Lady Middleton, which had not before had any precise limits,
was instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days'
time.

When the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within ten minutes after
its arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the
expectations of Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed
on so short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will
towards her arose from something more than merely malice against
herself; and might be brought, by time and address, to do every thing
that Lucy wished.  Her flattery had already subdued the pride of Lady
Middleton, and made an entry into the close heart of Mrs. John
Dashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of
greater.

The Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor
of their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event.
Sir John, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts
of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking.  Mrs.
Dashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in her
life, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book made
by some emigrant; called Lucy by her Christian name; and did not know
whether she should ever be able to part with them.





[At this point in the first and second editions, Volume II ended.]




CHAPTER 37


Mrs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother felt
it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and,
contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from
that period to her own home, and her own habits, in which she found the
Miss Dashwoods very ready to resume their former share.

About the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in
Berkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to
Mrs. Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by
herself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to
hear something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea,
began directly to justify it, by saying,

"Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news?"

"No, ma'am.  What is it?"

"Something so strange!  But you shall hear it all.-- When I got to Mr.
Palmer's, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child.  She was
sure it was very ill--it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples.
So I looked at it directly, and, 'Lord! my dear,' says I, 'it is
nothing in the world, but the red gum--' and nurse said just the same.
But Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for;
and luckily he happened to just come in from Harley Street, so he
stepped over directly, and as soon as ever Mama, he said
just as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and
then Charlotte was easy.  And so, just as he was going away again, it
came into my head, I am sure I do not know how I happened to think of
it, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any news.  So upon
that, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know
something or other, and at last he said in a whisper, 'For fear any
unpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to
their sister's indisposition, I think it advisable to say, that I
believe there is no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will
do very well.'"

"What! is Fanny ill?"

"That is exactly what I said, my dear.  'Lord!' says I, 'is Mrs.
Dashwood ill?' So then it all came out; and the long and the short of
the matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this.  Mr. Edward Ferrars,
the very young man I used to joke with you about (but however, as it
turns out, I am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), Mr.
Edward Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to my
cousin Lucy!--There's for you, my dear!--And not a creature knowing a
syllable of the matter, except Nancy!--Could you have believed such a
thing possible?-- There is no great wonder in their liking one another;
but that matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody
suspect it!--THAT is strange!--I never happened to see them together,
or I am sure I should have found it out directly.  Well, and so this
was kept a great secret, for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, and neither she nor
your brother or sister suspected a word of the matter;--till this very
morning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, but no
conjurer, popt it all out.  'Lord!' thinks she to herself, 'they are
all so fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about it;'
and so, away she went to your sister, who was sitting all alone at her
carpet-work, little suspecting what was to come--for she had just been
saying to your brother, only five minutes before, that she thought to
make a match between Edward and some Lord's daughter or other, I forget
who.  So you may think what a blow it was to all her vanity and pride.
She fell into violent hysterics immediately, with such screams as
reached your brother's ears, as he was sitting in his own dressing-room
down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his steward in the
country.  So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place, for
Lucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming what was going on.
Poor soul!  I pity HER.  And I must say, I think she was used very
hardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and soon drove her into
a fainting fit.  Nancy, she fell upon her knees, and cried bitterly;
and your brother, he walked about the room, and said he did not know
what to do.  Mrs. Dashwood declared they should not stay a minute
longer in the house, and your brother was forced to go down upon HIS
knees too, to persuade her to let them stay till they had packed up
their clothes.  THEN she fell into hysterics again, and he was so
frightened that he would send for Mr. Donavan, and Mr. Donavan found
the house in all this uproar.  The carriage was at the door ready to
take my poor cousins away, and they were just stepping in as he came
off; poor Lucy in such a condition, he says, she could hardly walk; and
Nancy, she was almost as bad.  I declare, I have no patience with your
sister; and I hope, with all my heart, it will be a match in spite of
her.  Lord! what a taking poor Mr. Edward will be in when he hears of
it!  To have his love used so scornfully! for they say he is monstrous
fond of her, as well he may.  I should not wonder, if he was to be in
the greatest passion!--and Mr. Donavan thinks just the same.  He and I
had a great deal of talk about it; and the best of all is, that he is
gone back again to Harley Street, that he may be within call when Mrs.
Ferrars is told of it, for she was sent for as soon as ever my cousins
left the house, for your sister was sure SHE would be in hysterics too;
and so she may, for what I care.  I have no pity for either of them.  I
have no notion of people's making such a to-do about money and
greatness.  There is no reason on earth why Mr. Edward and Lucy should
not marry; for I am sure Mrs. Ferrars may afford to do very well by her
son, and though Lucy has next to nothing herself, she knows better than
any body how to make the most of every thing; I dare say, if Mrs.
Ferrars would only allow him five hundred a-year, she would make as
good an appearance with it as any body else would with eight.  Lord!
how snug they might live in such another cottage as yours--or a little
bigger--with two maids, and two men; and I believe I could help them to
a housemaid, for my Betty has a sister out of place, that would fit
them exactly."

Here Mrs. Jennings ceased, and as Elinor had had time enough to collect
her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make such
observations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to produce.
Happy to find that she was not suspected of any extraordinary interest
in it; that Mrs. Jennings (as she had of late often hoped might be the
case) had ceased to imagine her at all attached to Edward; and happy
above all the rest, in the absence of Marianne, she felt very well able
to speak of the affair without embarrassment, and to give her judgment,
as she believed, with impartiality on the conduct of every one
concerned in it.

She could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event really
was; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its being
possible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of Edward and
Lucy.  What Mrs. Ferrars would say and do, though there could not be a
doubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still more anxious to
know how Edward would conduct himself.  For HIM she felt much
compassion;--for Lucy very little--and it cost her some pains to
procure that little;--for the rest of the party none at all.

As Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor soon saw the
necessity of preparing Marianne for its discussion.  No time was to be
lost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth,
and in endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others,
without betraying that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any
resentment against Edward.

Elinor's office was a painful one.--She was going to remove what she
really believed to be her sister's chief consolation,--to give such
particulars of Edward as she feared would ruin him for ever in her good
opinion,-and to make Marianne, by a resemblance in their situations,
which to HER fancy would seem strong, feel all her own disappointment
over again.  But unwelcome as such a task must be, it was necessary to
be done, and Elinor therefore hastened to perform it.

She was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to
represent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the
self-command she had practised since her first knowledge of Edward's
engagement, might suggest a hint of what was practicable to Marianne.
Her narration was clear and simple; and though it could not be given
without emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agitation, nor
impetuous grief.--THAT belonged rather to the hearer, for Marianne
listened with horror, and cried excessively.  Elinor was to be the
comforter of others in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and
all the comfort that could be given by assurances of her own composure
of mind, and a very earnest vindication of Edward from every charge but
of imprudence, was readily offered.

But Marianne for some time would give credit to neither.  Edward seemed
a second Willoughby; and acknowledging as Elinor did, that she HAD
loved him most sincerely, could she feel less than herself!  As for
Lucy Steele, she considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely
incapable of attaching a sensible man, that she could not be persuaded
at first to believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former affection of
Edward for her.  She would not even admit it to have been natural; and
Elinor left her to be convinced that it was so, by that which only
could convince her, a better knowledge of mankind.

Her first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact
of the engagement, and the length of time it had existed.--Marianne's
feelings had then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of
detail; and for some time all that could be done was to soothe her
distress, lessen her alarms, and combat her resentment.  The first
question on her side, which led to farther particulars, was,--

"How long has this been known to you, Elinor? has he written to you?"

"I have known it these four months.  When Lucy first came to Barton
Park last November, she told me in confidence of her engagement."

At these words, Marianne's eyes expressed the astonishment which her
lips could not utter.  After a pause of wonder, she exclaimed--

"Four months!--Have you known of this four months?"

Elinor confirmed it.

"What!--while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your
heart?--And I have reproached you for being happy!"--

"It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the reverse!"

"Four months!"--cried Marianne again.--"So calm!--so cheerful!--how
have you been supported?"--

"By feeling that I was doing my duty.--My promise to Lucy, obliged me
to be secret.  I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of
the truth; and I owed it to my family and friends, not to create in
them a solicitude about me, which it could not be in my power to
satisfy."

Marianne seemed much struck.

"I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother," added
Elinor; "and once or twice I have attempted it;--but without betraying
my trust, I never could have convinced you."

"Four months!--and yet you loved him!"--

"Yes. But I did not love only him;--and while the comfort of others was
dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt.
Now, I can think and speak of it with little emotion.  I would not have
you suffer on my account; for I assure you I no longer suffer
materially myself.  I have many things to support me.  I am not
conscious of having provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of my
own, I have borne it as much as possible without spreading it farther.
I acquit Edward of essential misconduct.  I wish him very happy; and I
am so sure of his always doing his duty, that though now he may harbour
some regret, in the end he must become so.  Lucy does not want sense,
and that is the foundation on which every thing good may be built.--And
after all, Marianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a
single and constant attachment, and all that can be said of one's
happiness depending entirely on any particular person, it is not
meant--it is not fit--it is not possible that it should be so.-- Edward
will marry Lucy; he will marry a woman superior in person and
understanding to half her sex; and time and habit will teach him to
forget that he ever thought another superior to HER."--

"If such is your way of thinking," said Marianne, "if the loss of what
is most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your
resolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be
wondered at.--They are brought more within my comprehension."

"I understand you.--You do not suppose that I have ever felt much.--For
four months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind, without
being at liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it
would make you and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to
you, yet unable to prepare you for it in the least.-- It was told
me,--it was in a manner forced on me by the very person herself, whose
prior engagement ruined all my prospects; and told me, as I thought,
with triumph.-- This person's suspicions, therefore, I have had to
oppose, by endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most
deeply interested;--and it has not been only once;--I have had her
hopes and exultation to listen to again and again.-- I have known
myself to be divided from Edward for ever, without hearing one
circumstance that could make me less desire the connection.--Nothing
has proved him unworthy; nor has anything declared him indifferent to
me.-- I have had to contend against the unkindness of his sister, and
the insolence of his mother; and have suffered the punishment of an
attachment, without enjoying its advantages.-- And all this has been
going on at a time, when, as you know too well, it has not been my only
unhappiness.-- If you can think me capable of ever feeling--surely you
may suppose that I have suffered NOW.  The composure of mind with which
I have brought myself at present to consider the matter, the
consolation that I have been willing to admit, have been the effect of
constant and painful exertion;--they did not spring up of
themselves;--they did not occur to relieve my spirits at first.-- No,
Marianne.--THEN, if I had not been bound to silence, perhaps nothing
could have kept me entirely--not even what I owed to my dearest
friends--from openly shewing that I was VERY unhappy."--

Marianne was quite subdued.--

"Oh! Elinor," she cried, "you have made me hate myself for ever.--How
barbarous have I been to you!--you, who have been my only comfort, who
have borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only
suffering for me!--Is this my gratitude?--Is this the only return I can
make you?--Because your merit cries out upon myself, I have been trying
to do it away."

The tenderest caresses followed this confession.  In such a frame of
mind as she was now in, Elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from her
whatever promise she required; and at her request, Marianne engaged
never to speak of the affair to any one with the least appearance of
bitterness;--to meet Lucy without betraying the smallest increase of
dislike to her;--and even to see Edward himself, if chance should bring
them together, without any diminution of her usual cordiality.-- These
were great concessions;--but where Marianne felt that she had injured,
no reparation could be too much for her to make.

She performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration.--She
attended to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say upon the subject, with an
unchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard
three times to say, "Yes, ma'am."--She listened to her praise of Lucy
with only moving from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings
talked of Edward's affection, it cost her only a spasm in her
throat.--Such advances towards heroism in her sister, made Elinor feel
equal to any thing herself.

The next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from their
brother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful
affair, and bring them news of his wife.

"You have heard, I suppose," said he with great solemnity, as soon as
he was seated, "of the very shocking discovery that took place under
our roof yesterday."

They all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech.

"Your sister," he continued, "has suffered dreadfully.  Mrs. Ferrars
too--in short it has been a scene of such complicated distress--but I
will hope that the storm may be weathered without our being any of us
quite overcome.  Poor Fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday.  But I
would not alarm you too much.  Donavan says there is nothing materially
to be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her resolution
equal to any thing.  She has borne it all, with the fortitude of an
angel!  She says she never shall think well of anybody again; and one
cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived!--meeting with such
ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shewn, so much confidence
had been placed!  It was quite out of the benevolence of her heart,
that she had asked these young women to her house; merely because she
thought they deserved some attention, were harmless, well-behaved
girls, and would be pleasant companions; for otherwise we both wished
very much to have invited you and Marianne to be with us, while your
kind friend there, was attending her daughter.  And now to be so
rewarded!  'I wish, with all my heart,' says poor Fanny in her
affectionate way, 'that we had asked your sisters instead of them.'"

Here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on.

"What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered, when first Fanny broke it to her, is
not to be described.  While she with the truest affection had been
planning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that
he could be all the time secretly engaged to another person!--such a
suspicion could never have entered her head!  If she suspected ANY
prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in THAT quarter.  'THERE, to
be sure,' said she, 'I might have thought myself safe.' She was quite
in an agony.  We consulted together, however, as to what should be
done, and at last she determined to send for Edward.  He came.  But I
am sorry to relate what ensued.  All that Mrs. Ferrars could say to
make him put an end to the engagement, assisted too as you may well
suppose by my arguments, and Fanny's entreaties, was of no avail.
Duty, affection, every thing was disregarded.  I never thought Edward
so stubborn, so unfeeling before.  His mother explained to him her
liberal designs, in case of his marrying Miss Morton; told him she
would settle on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of land-tax,
brings in a good thousand a-year; offered even, when matters grew
desperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he
still persisted in this low connection, represented to him the certain
penury that must attend the match.  His own two thousand pounds she
protested should be his all; she would never see him again; and so far
would she be from affording him the smallest assistance, that if he
were to enter into any profession with a view of better support, she
would do all in her power to prevent him advancing in it."

Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands
together, and cried, "Gracious God!  can this be possible!"

"Well may you wonder, Marianne," replied her brother, "at the obstinacy
which could resist such arguments as these.  Your exclamation is very
natural."

Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and
forbore.

"All this, however," he continued, "was urged in vain.  Edward said
very little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner.
Nothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement.  He would
stand to it, cost him what it might."

"Then," cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be
silent, "he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr.
Dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a
rascal.  I have some little concern in the business, as well as
yourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not a
better kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good
husband."

John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not open
to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially
anybody of good fortune.  He therefore replied, without any resentment,

"I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours,
madam.  Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman,
but in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible.
And to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under her
uncle's care, the son of a woman especially of such very large fortune
as Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little extraordinary. In
short, I do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any person whom
you have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings.  We all wish her extremely happy;
and Mrs. Ferrars's conduct throughout the whole, has been such as every
conscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would adopt.  It has
been dignified and liberal.  Edward has drawn his own lot, and I fear
it will be a bad one."

Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor's heart wrung
for the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother's threats, for a
woman who could not reward him.

"Well, sir," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did it end?"

"I am sorry to say, ma'am, in a most unhappy rupture:-- Edward is
dismissed for ever from his mother's notice.  He left her house
yesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do
not know; for WE of course can make no inquiry."

"Poor young man!--and what is to become of him?"

"What, indeed, ma'am!  It is a melancholy consideration.  Born to the
prospect of such affluence!  I cannot conceive a situation more
deplorable.  The interest of two thousand pounds--how can a man live on
it?--and when to that is added the recollection, that he might, but for
his own folly, within three months have been in the receipt of two
thousand, five hundred a-year (for Miss Morton has thirty thousand
pounds,) I cannot picture to myself a more wretched condition.  We must
all feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally out of our
power to assist him."

"Poor young man!" cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure he should be very
welcome to bed and board at my house; and so I would tell him if I
could see him.  It is not fit that he should be living about at his own
charge now, at lodgings and taverns."

Elinor's heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward, though she
could not forbear smiling at the form of it.

"If he would only have done as well by himself," said John Dashwood,
"as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have been
in his proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing.  But as it
is, it must be out of anybody's power to assist him.  And there is one
thing more preparing against him, which must be worse than all--his
mother has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle
THAT estate upon Robert immediately, which might have been Edward's, on
proper conditions.  I left her this morning with her lawyer, talking
over the business."

"Well!" said Mrs. Jennings, "that is HER revenge.  Everybody has a way
of their own.  But I don't think mine would be, to make one son
independent, because another had plagued me."

Marianne got up and walked about the room.

"Can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man," continued John,
"than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which might
have been his own?  Poor Edward!  I feel for him sincerely."

A few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded his
visit; and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really
believed there was no material danger in Fanny's indisposition, and
that they need not therefore be very uneasy about it, he went away;
leaving the three ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present
occasion, as far at least as it regarded Mrs. Ferrars's conduct, the
Dashwoods', and Edward's.

Marianne's indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room; and
as her vehemence made reserve impossible in Elinor, and unnecessary in
Mrs. Jennings, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon the
party.



CHAPTER 38


Mrs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward's conduct, but only
Elinor and Marianne understood its true merit.  THEY only knew how
little he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small was the
consolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could remain
to him in the loss of friends and fortune.  Elinor gloried in his
integrity; and Marianne forgave all his offences in compassion for his
punishment.  But though confidence between them was, by this public
discovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a subject on which
either of them were fond of dwelling when alone.  Elinor avoided it
upon principle, as tending to fix still more upon her thoughts, by the
too warm, too positive assurances of Marianne, that belief of Edward's
continued affection for herself which she rather wished to do away; and
Marianne's courage soon failed her, in trying to converse upon a topic
which always left her more dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the
comparison it necessarily produced between Elinor's conduct and her own.

She felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sister had
hoped, to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain of
continual self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never
exerted herself before; but it brought only the torture of penitence,
without the hope of amendment.  Her mind was so much weakened that she
still fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only
dispirited her more.

Nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs
in Harley Street, or Bartlett's Buildings.  But though so much of the
matter was known to them already, that Mrs. Jennings might have had
enough to do in spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking after
more, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort and
inquiry to her cousins as soon as she could; and nothing but the
hindrance of more visitors than usual, had prevented her going to them
within that time.

The third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so
fine, so beautiful a Sunday as to draw many to Kensington Gardens,
though it was only the second week in March.  Mrs. Jennings and Elinor
were of the number; but Marianne, who knew that the Willoughbys were
again in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose rather
to stay at home, than venture into so public a place.

An intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them soon after they
entered the Gardens, and Elinor was not sorry that by her continuing
with them, and engaging all Mrs. Jennings's conversation, she was
herself left to quiet reflection.  She saw nothing of the Willoughbys,
nothing of Edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could by
any chance whether grave or gay, be interesting to her.  But at last
she found herself with some surprise, accosted by Miss Steele, who,
though looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting
them, and on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of
Mrs. Jennings, left her own party for a short time, to join their's.
Mrs. Jennings immediately whispered to Elinor,

"Get it all out of her, my dear.  She will tell you any thing if you
ask.  You see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke."

It was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings's curiosity and Elinor's too,
that she would tell any thing WITHOUT being asked; for nothing would
otherwise have been learnt.

"I am so glad to meet you;" said Miss Steele, taking her familiarly by
the arm--"for I wanted to see you of all things in the world."  And
then lowering her voice, "I suppose Mrs. Jennings has heard all about
it.  Is she angry?"

"Not at all, I believe, with you."

"That is a good thing.  And Lady Middleton, is SHE angry?"

"I cannot suppose it possible that she should be."

"I am monstrous glad of it.  Good gracious!  I have had such a time of
it!  I never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life.  She vowed at first
she would never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me
again, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are
as good friends as ever.  Look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put
in the feather last night.  There now, YOU are going to laugh at me
too.  But why should not I wear pink ribbons?  I do not care if it IS
the Doctor's favourite colour.  I am sure, for my part, I should never
have known he DID like it better than any other colour, if he had not
happened to say so.  My cousins have been so plaguing me!  I declare
sometimes I do not know which way to look before them."

She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to say,
and therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to
the first.

"Well, but Miss Dashwood," speaking triumphantly, "people may say what
they chuse about Mr. Ferrars's declaring he would not have Lucy, for it
is no such thing I can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such
ill-natured reports to be spread abroad.  Whatever Lucy might think
about it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set
it down for certain."

"I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assure you,"
said Elinor.

"Oh, did not you?  But it WAS said, I know, very well, and by more than
one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses could
expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with thirty
thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had nothing at
all; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself.  And besides that, my cousin
Richard said himself, that when it came to the point he was afraid Mr.
Ferrars would be off; and when Edward did not come near us for three
days, I could not tell what to think myself; and I believe in my heart
Lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away from your brother's
Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all Thursday, Friday, and
Saturday, and did not know what was become of him.  Once Lucy thought
to write to him, but then her spirits rose against that.  However this
morning he came just as we came home from church; and then it all came
out, how he had been sent for Wednesday to Harley Street, and been
talked to by his mother and all of them, and how he had declared before
them all that he loved nobody but Lucy, and nobody but Lucy would he
have.  And how he had been so worried by what passed, that as soon as
he had went away from his mother's house, he had got upon his horse,
and rid into the country, some where or other; and how he had stayed
about at an inn all Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get the better
of it.  And after thinking it all over and over again, he said, it
seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at all, it
would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because it must
be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no
hope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he had some
thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live
upon that?--He could not bear to think of her doing no better, and so
he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the
matter directly, and leave him shift for himself.  I heard him say all
this as plain as could possibly be.  And it was entirely for HER sake,
and upon HER account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon
his own.  I will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of being tired
of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or any thing like it.  But,
to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of talking; so she
told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, you know,
and all that--Oh, la! one can't repeat such kind of things you
know)--she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world
to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so
ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know,
or something of the kind.  So then he was monstrous happy, and talked
on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he should take
orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he got a living.
And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin called from
below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would take
one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room
and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but she did
not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of
silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons."

"I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said Elinor;
"you were all in the same room together, were not you?"

"No, indeed, not us.  La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love
when any body else is by?  Oh, for shame!--To be sure you must know
better than that.  (Laughing affectedly.)--No, no; they were shut up in
the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the
door."

"How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only
learnt yourself by listening at the door?  I am sorry I did not know it
before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me
particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known
yourself.  How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?"

"Oh, la! there is nothing in THAT.  I only stood at the door, and heard
what I could.  And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by me;
for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets
together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a
chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said."

Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be
kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind.

"Edward talks of going to Oxford soon," said she; "but now he is
lodging at No. --, Pall Mall.  What an ill-natured woman his mother is,
an't she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I
shan't say anything against them to YOU; and to be sure they did send
us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for.  And
for my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us
for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however,
nothing was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight.
Edward have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there
for a time; and after THAT, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he
will be ordained.  I wonder what curacy he will get!--Good gracious!
(giggling as she spoke) I'd lay my life I know what my cousins will
say, when they hear of it.  They will tell me I should write to the
Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new living.  I know they will;
but I am sure I would not do such a thing for all the world.-- 'La!' I
shall say directly, 'I wonder how you could think of such a thing?  I
write to the Doctor, indeed!'"

"Well," said Elinor, "it is a comfort to be prepared against the worst.
You have got your answer ready."

Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach of
her own party made another more necessary.

"Oh, la! here come the Richardsons.  I had a vast deal more to say to
you, but I must not stay away from them not any longer.  I assure you
they are very genteel people.  He makes a monstrous deal of money, and
they keep their own coach.  I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings
about it myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear she is not
in anger against us, and Lady Middleton the same; and if anything
should happen to take you and your sister away, and Mrs. Jennings
should want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and stay
with her for as long a time as she likes.  I suppose Lady Middleton
won't ask us any more this bout.  Good-by; I am sorry Miss Marianne was
not here.  Remember me kindly to her.  La! if you have not got your
spotted muslin on!--I wonder you was not afraid of its being torn."

Such was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to pay
her farewell compliments to Mrs. Jennings, before her company was
claimed by Mrs. Richardson; and Elinor was left in possession of
knowledge which might feed her powers of reflection some time, though
she had learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen and
foreplanned in her own mind.  Edward's marriage with Lucy was as firmly
determined on, and the time of its taking place remained as absolutely
uncertain, as she had concluded it would be;--every thing depended,
exactly after her expectation, on his getting that preferment, of
which, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance.

As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings was eager for
information; but as Elinor wished to spread as little as possible
intelligence that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained, she
confined herself to the brief repetition of such simple particulars, as
she felt assured that Lucy, for the sake of her own consequence, would
choose to have known.  The continuance of their engagement, and the
means that were able to be taken for promoting its end, was all her
communication; and this produced from Mrs. Jennings the following
natural remark.

"Wait for his having a living!--ay, we all know how THAT will
end:--they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it,
will set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest
of his two thousand pounds, and what little matter Mr. Steele and Mr.
Pratt can give her.--Then they will have a child every year! and Lord
help 'em! how poor they will be!--I must see what I can give them
towards furnishing their house.  Two maids and two men, indeed!--as I
talked of t'other day.--No, no, they must get a stout girl of all
works.-- Betty's sister would never do for them NOW."

The next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from
Lucy herself.  It was as follows:

                    "Bartlett's Building, March.

     "I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the
     liberty I take of writing to her; but I know your
     friendship for me will make you pleased to hear such
     a good account of myself and my dear Edward, after
     all the troubles we have went through lately,
     therefore will make no more apologies, but proceed
     to say that, thank God! though we have suffered
     dreadfully, we are both quite well now, and as happy
     as we must always be in one another's love.  We have
     had great trials, and great persecutions, but
     however, at the same time, gratefully acknowledge
     many friends, yourself not the least among them,
     whose great kindness I shall always thankfully
     remember, as will Edward too, who I have told of
     it.  I am sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise
     dear Mrs. Jennings, I spent two happy hours with
     him yesterday afternoon, he would not hear of our
     parting, though earnestly did I, as I thought my
     duty required, urge him to it for prudence sake,
     and would have parted for ever on the spot, would
     he consent to it; but he said it should never be,
     he did not regard his mother's anger, while he could
     have my affections; our prospects are not very
     bright, to be sure, but we must wait, and hope for
     the best; he will be ordained shortly; and should
     it ever be in your power to recommend him to any
     body that has a living to bestow, am very sure you
     will not forget us, and dear Mrs. Jennings too,
     trust she will speak a good word for us to Sir John,
     or Mr. Palmer, or any friend that may be able to
     assist us.--Poor Anne was much to blame for what
     she did, but she did it for the best, so I say
     nothing; hope Mrs. Jennings won't think it too much
     trouble to give us a call, should she come this way
     any morning, 'twould be a great kindness, and my
     cousins would be proud to know her.--My paper reminds
     me to conclude; and begging to be most gratefully
     and respectfully remembered to her, and to Sir John,
     and Lady Middleton, and the dear children, when you
     chance to see them, and love to Miss Marianne,

                                      "I am, &c."

As soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded to
be its writer's real design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs.
Jennings, who read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and
praise.

"Very well indeed!--how prettily she writes!--aye, that was quite
proper to let him be off if he would.  That was just like Lucy.--Poor
soul! I wish I COULD get him a living, with all my heart.--She calls me
dear Mrs. Jennings, you see.  She is a good-hearted girl as ever
lived.--Very well upon my word.  That sentence is very prettily turned.
Yes, yes, I will go and see her, sure enough.  How attentive she is, to
think of every body!--Thank you, my dear, for shewing it me.  It is as
pretty a letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy's head and heart great
credit."



CHAPTER 39


The Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town,
and Marianne's impatience to be gone increased every day.  She sighed
for the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that if
any place could give her ease, Barton must do it.  Elinor was hardly
less anxious than herself for their removal, and only so much less bent
on its being effected immediately, as that she was conscious of the
difficulties of so long a journey, which Marianne could not be brought
to acknowledge.  She began, however, seriously to turn her thoughts
towards its accomplishment, and had already mentioned their wishes to
their kind hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence of her
good-will, when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining them from
home yet a few weeks longer, appeared to Elinor altogether much more
eligible than any other. The Palmers were to remove to Cleveland about
the end of March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs. Jennings, with both
her friends, received a very warm invitation from Charlotte to go with
them.  This would not, in itself, have been sufficient for the delicacy
of Miss Dashwood;--but it was inforced with so much real politeness by
Mr. Palmer himself, as, joined to the very great amendment of his
manners towards them since her sister had been known to be unhappy,
induced her to accept it with pleasure.

When she told Marianne what she had done, however, her first reply was
not very auspicious.

"Cleveland!"--she cried, with great agitation.  "No, I cannot go to
Cleveland."--

"You forget," said Elinor gently, "that its situation is not...that it
is not in the neighbourhood of..."

"But it is in Somersetshire.--I cannot go into Somersetshire.--There,
where I looked forward to going...No, Elinor, you cannot expect me to
go there."

Elinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such
feelings;--she only endeavoured to counteract them by working on
others;--represented it, therefore, as a measure which would fix the
time of her returning to that dear mother, whom she so much wished to
see, in a more eligible, more comfortable manner, than any other plan
could do, and perhaps without any greater delay.  From Cleveland, which
was within a few miles of Bristol, the distance to Barton was not
beyond one day, though a long day's journey; and their mother's servant
might easily come there to attend them down; and as there could be no
occasion of their staying above a week at Cleveland, they might now be
at home in little more than three weeks' time.  As Marianne's affection
for her mother was sincere, it must triumph with little difficulty,
over the imaginary evils she had started.

Mrs. Jennings was so far from being weary of her guests, that she
pressed them very earnestly to return with her again from Cleveland.
Elinor was grateful for the attention, but it could not alter her
design; and their mother's concurrence being readily gained, every
thing relative to their return was arranged as far as it could be;--and
Marianne found some relief in drawing up a statement of the hours that
were yet to divide her from Barton.

"Ah! Colonel, I do not know what you and I shall do without the Miss
Dashwoods;"--was Mrs. Jennings's address to him when he first called on
her, after their leaving her was settled--"for they are quite resolved
upon going home from the Palmers;--and how forlorn we shall be, when I
come back!--Lord! we shall sit and gape at one another as dull as two
cats."

Perhaps Mrs. Jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their
future ennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give
himself an escape from it;--and if so, she had soon afterwards good
reason to think her object gained; for, on Elinor's moving to the
window to take more expeditiously the dimensions of a print, which she
was going to copy for her friend, he followed her to it with a look of
particular meaning, and conversed with her there for several minutes.
The effect of his discourse on the lady too, could not escape her
observation, for though she was too honorable to listen, and had even
changed her seat, on purpose that she might NOT hear, to one close by
the piano forte on which Marianne was playing, she could not keep
herself from seeing that Elinor changed colour, attended with
agitation, and was too intent on what he said to pursue her
employment.-- Still farther in confirmation of her hopes, in the
interval of Marianne's turning from one lesson to another, some words
of the Colonel's inevitably reached her ear, in which he seemed to be
apologising for the badness of his house.  This set the matter beyond a
doubt.  She wondered, indeed, at his thinking it necessary to do so;
but supposed it to be the proper etiquette.  What Elinor said in reply
she could not distinguish, but judged from the motion of her lips, that
she did not think THAT any material objection;--and Mrs. Jennings
commended her in her heart for being so honest.  They then talked on
for a few minutes longer without her catching a syllable, when another
lucky stop in Marianne's performance brought her these words in the
Colonel's calm voice,--

"I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."

Astonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost
ready to cry out, "Lord! what should hinder it?"--but checking her
desire, confined herself to this silent ejaculation.

"This is very strange!--sure he need not wait to be older."

This delay on the Colonel's side, however, did not seem to offend or
mortify his fair companion in the least, for on their breaking up the
conference soon afterwards, and moving different ways, Mrs. Jennings
very plainly heard Elinor say, and with a voice which shewed her to
feel what she said,

"I shall always think myself very much obliged to you."

Mrs. Jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only wondered that
after hearing such a sentence, the Colonel should be able to take leave
of them, as he immediately did, with the utmost sang-froid, and go away
without making her any reply!--She had not thought her old friend could
have made so indifferent a suitor.

What had really passed between them was to this effect.

"I have heard," said he, with great compassion, "of the injustice your
friend Mr. Ferrars has suffered from his family; for if I understand
the matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them for persevering
in his engagement with a very deserving young woman.-- Have I been
rightly informed?--Is it so?--"

Elinor told him that it was.

"The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,"--he replied, with great
feeling,--"of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people long
attached to each other, is terrible.-- Mrs. Ferrars does not know what
she may be doing--what she may drive her son to.  I have seen Mr.
Ferrars two or three times in Harley Street, and am much pleased with
him.  He is not a young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted
in a short time, but I have seen enough of him to wish him well for his
own sake, and as a friend of yours, I wish it still more.  I understand
that he intends to take orders.  Will you be so good as to tell him
that the living of Delaford, now just vacant, as I am informed by this
day's post, is his, if he think it worth his acceptance--but THAT,
perhaps, so unfortunately circumstanced as he is now, it may be
nonsense to appear to doubt; I only wish it were more  valuable.-- It
is a rectory, but a small one; the late incumbent, I believe, did not
make more than 200 L per annum, and though it is certainly capable of
improvement, I fear, not to such an amount as to afford him a very
comfortable income.  Such as it is, however, my pleasure in presenting
it to him, will be very great.  Pray assure him of it."

Elinor's astonishment at this commission could hardly have been
greater, had the Colonel been really making her an offer of his hand.
The preferment, which only two days before she had considered as
hopeless for Edward, was already provided to enable him to marry;--and
SHE, of all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it!--Her
emotion was such as Mrs. Jennings had attributed to a very different
cause;--but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might
have a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence,
and her gratitude for the particular friendship, which together
prompted Colonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly
expressed.  She thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of
Edward's principles and disposition with that praise which she knew
them to deserve; and promised to undertake the commission with
pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an office
to another.  But at the same time, she could not help thinking that no
one could so well perform it as himself.  It was an office in short,
from which, unwilling to give Edward the pain of receiving an
obligation from HER, she would have been very glad to be spared
herself;-- but Colonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining
it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through her
means, that she would not on any account make farther opposition.
Edward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had heard
his address from Miss Steele.  She could undertake therefore to inform
him of it, in the course of the day.  After this had been settled,
Colonel Brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so
respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and THEN it was that he
mentioned with regret, that the house was small and indifferent;--an
evil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed her to do, made very
light of, at least as far as regarded its size.

"The smallness of the house," said she, "I cannot imagine any
inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and
income."

By which the Colonel was surprised to find that SHE was considering Mr.
Ferrars's marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for
he did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply such
an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle
on--and he said so.

"This little rectory CAN do no more than make Mr. Ferrars comfortable
as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry.  I am sorry to say that
my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive.
If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve
him farther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do,
if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I
could be at present.  What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all,
since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal,
his only object of happiness.  His marriage must still be a distant
good;--at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.--"

Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the
delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what
really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at
the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may
perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less
properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage.



CHAPTER 40


"Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon
as the gentleman had withdrawn, "I do not ask you what the Colonel has
been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I TRIED to keep out of
hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his business.
And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I wish you
joy of it with all my heart."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Elinor.  "It is a matter of great joy to me;
and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly.  There are
not many men who would act as he has done.  Few people who have so
compassionate a heart!  I never was more astonished in my life."

"Lord! my dear, you are very modest.  I an't the least astonished at it
in the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more
likely to happen."

"You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel's general benevolence;
but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very
soon occur."

"Opportunity!" repeated Mrs. Jennings--"Oh! as to that, when a man has
once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon
find an opportunity.  Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and
again; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I
shall soon know where to look for them."

"You mean to go to Delaford after them I suppose," said Elinor, with a
faint smile.

"Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed.  And as to the house being a bad one,
I do not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as
ever I saw."

"He spoke of its being out of repair."

"Well, and whose fault is that? why don't he repair it?--who should do
it but himself?"

They were interrupted by the servant's coming in to announce the
carriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to
go, said,--

"Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out.
But, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be
quite alone.  I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind
is too full of the matter to care for company; and besides, you must
long to tell your sister all about it."

Marianne had left the room before the conversation began.

"Certainly, ma'am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall not mention
it at present to any body else."

"Oh! very well," said Mrs. Jennings rather disappointed.  "Then you
would not have me tell it to Lucy, for I think of going as far as
Holborn to-day."

"No, ma'am, not even Lucy if you please.  One day's delay will not be
very material; and till I have written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it ought
not to be mentioned to any body else.  I shall do THAT directly.  It is
of importance that no time should be lost with him, for he will of
course have much to do relative to his ordination."

This speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly.  Why Mr.
Ferrars was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she could
not immediately comprehend.  A few moments' reflection, however,
produced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed;--

"Oh, ho!--I understand you.  Mr. Ferrars is to be the man.  Well, so
much the better for him.  Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in
readiness; and I am very glad to find things are so forward between
you.  But, my dear, is not this rather out of character?  Should not
the Colonel write himself?--sure, he is the proper person."

Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings's
speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore
only replied to its conclusion.

"Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to
announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself."

"And so YOU are forced to do it.  Well THAT is an odd kind of delicacy!
However, I will not disturb you (seeing her preparing to write.)  You
know your own concerns best.  So goodby, my dear.  I have not heard of
any thing to please me so well since Charlotte was brought to bed."

And away she went; but returning again in a moment,

"I have just been thinking of Betty's sister, my dear.  I should be
very glad to get her so good a mistress.  But whether she would do for
a lady's maid, I am sure I can't tell.  She is an excellent housemaid,
and works very well at her needle.  However, you will think of all that
at your leisure."

"Certainly, ma'am," replied Elinor, not hearing much of what she said,
and more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of the subject.

How she should begin--how she should express herself in her note to
Edward, was now all her concern.  The particular circumstances between
them made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have
been the easiest thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too
much or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with the pen
in her hand, till broken in on by the entrance of Edward himself.

He had met Mrs. Jennings at the door in her way to the carriage, as he
came to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising for not
returning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that Miss
Dashwood was above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular
business.

Elinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her
perplexity, that however difficult it might be to express herself
properly by letter, it was at least preferable to giving the
information by word of mouth, when her visitor entered, to force her
upon this greatest exertion of all.  Her astonishment and confusion
were very great on his so sudden appearance.  She had not seen him
before since his engagement became public, and therefore not since his
knowing her to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of
what she had been thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her
feel particularly uncomfortable for some minutes.  He too was much
distressed; and they sat down together in a most promising state of
embarrassment.--Whether he had asked her pardon for his intrusion on
first coming into the room, he could not recollect; but determining to
be on the safe side, he made his apology in form as soon as he could
say any thing, after taking a chair.

"Mrs. Jennings told me," said he, "that you wished to speak with me, at
least I understood her so--or I certainly should not have intruded on
you in such a manner; though at the same time, I should have been
extremely sorry to leave London without seeing you and your sister;
especially as it will most likely be some time--it is not probable that
I should soon have the pleasure of meeting you again.  I go to Oxford
tomorrow."

"You would not have gone, however," said Elinor, recovering herself,
and determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon as
possible, "without receiving our good wishes, even if we had not been
able to give them in person.  Mrs. Jennings was quite right in what she
said.  I have something of consequence to inform you of, which I was on
the point of communicating by paper.  I am charged with a most
agreeable office (breathing rather faster than usual as she spoke.)
Colonel Brandon, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me to
say, that understanding you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure
in offering you the living of Delaford now just vacant, and only wishes
it were more valuable.  Allow me to congratulate you on having so
respectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in his wish that the
living--it is about two hundred a-year--were much more considerable,
and such as might better enable you to--as might be more than a
temporary accommodation to yourself--such, in short, as might establish
all your views of happiness."

What Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected
that any one else should say for him.  He LOOKED all the astonishment
which such unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail of
exciting; but he said only these two words,

"Colonel Brandon!"

"Yes," continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the
worst was over, "Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his concern
for what has lately passed--for the cruel situation in which the
unjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you--a concern which I
am sure Marianne, myself, and all your friends, must share; and
likewise as a proof of his high esteem for your general character, and
his particular approbation of your behaviour on the present occasion."

"Colonel Brandon give ME a living!--Can it be possible?"

"The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find
friendship any where."

"No," replied he, with sudden consciousness, "not to find it in YOU;
for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe it
all.--I feel it--I would express it if I could--but, as you well know,
I am no orator."

"You are very much mistaken.  I do assure you that you owe it entirely,
at least almost entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon's
discernment of it.  I have had no hand in it.  I did not even know,
till I understood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it
ever occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift.
As a friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps--indeed I know he
HAS, still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe
nothing to my solicitation."

Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but
she was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of
Edward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably
contributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently
entered it.  For a short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had
ceased to speak;--at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said,

"Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability.  I have
always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems him
highly.  He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly
the gentleman."

"Indeed," replied Elinor, "I believe that you will find him, on farther
acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you will be
such very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is almost
close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he
SHOULD be all this."

Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her
a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he
might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the
mansion-house much greater.

"Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street," said he, soon
afterwards, rising from his chair.

Elinor told him the number of the house.

"I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not
allow me to give YOU; to assure him that he has made me a very--an
exceedingly happy man."

Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very
earnest assurance on HER side of her unceasing good wishes for his
happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on HIS,
with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of
expressing it.

"When I see him again," said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him
out, "I shall see him the husband of Lucy."

And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the
past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of
Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent.

When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people
whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a
great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important
secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to
it again as soon as Elinor appeared.

"Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the young man.  Did not I
do right?--And I suppose you had no great difficulty--You did not find
him very unwilling to accept your proposal?"

"No, ma'am; THAT was not very likely."

"Well, and how soon will he be ready?--For it seems all to depend upon
that."

"Really," said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I
can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation
necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his
ordination."

"Two or three months!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly
you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord
bless me!--I am sure it would put ME quite out of patience!--And though
one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think
it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him.  Sure
somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in
orders already."

"My dear ma'am," said Elinor, "what can you be thinking of?-- Why,
Colonel Brandon's only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars."

"Lord bless you, my dear!--Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the
Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr.
Ferrars!"

The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation
immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for
the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs.
Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still
without forfeiting her expectation of the first.

"Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one," said she, after the first
ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, "and very likely MAY
be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I thought, for a
house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the ground-floor,
and I think the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds!--and to
you too, that had been used to live in Barton cottage!-- It seems quite
ridiculous.  But, my dear, we must touch up the Colonel to do some
thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them, before Lucy
goes to it."

"But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living's
being enough to allow them to marry."

"The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year
himself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less.  Take my word
for it, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at Delaford
Parsonage before Michaelmas; and I am sure I shan't go if Lucy an't
there."

Elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not
waiting for any thing more.



CHAPTER 41


Edward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with
his happiness to Lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he
reached Bartlett's Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs.
Jennings, who called on her again the next day with her
congratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in
her life.

Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and
she joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their
being all comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas.
So far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to give Elinor
that credit which Edward WOULD give her, that she spoke of her
friendship for them both with the most grateful warmth, was ready to
own all their obligation to her, and openly declared that no exertion
for their good on Miss Dashwood's part, either present or future, would
ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing any thing in
the world for those she really valued.  As for Colonel Brandon, she was
not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover truly
anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly concerns;
anxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and scarcely
resolved to avail herself, at Delaford, as far as she possibly could,
of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poultry.

It was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley
Street, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his
wife's indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, Elinor began to feel
it necessary to pay her a visit.--This was an obligation, however,
which not only opposed her own inclination, but which had not the
assistance of any encouragement from her companions.  Marianne, not
contented with absolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent to
prevent her sister's going at all; and Mrs. Jennings, though her
carriage was always at Elinor's service, so very much disliked Mrs.
John Dashwood, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after
the late discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking
Edward's part, could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company
again.  The consequence was, that Elinor set out by herself to pay a
visit, for which no one could really have less inclination, and to run
the risk of a tete-a-tete with a woman, whom neither of the others had
so much reason to dislike.

Mrs. Dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from the
house, her husband accidentally came out.  He expressed great pleasure
in meeting Elinor, told her that he had been just going to call in
Berkeley Street, and, assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to see
her, invited her to come in.

They walked up stairs in to the drawing-room.--Nobody was there.

"Fanny is in her own room, I suppose," said he:--"I will go to her
presently, for I am sure she will not have the least objection in the
world to seeing YOU.-- Very far from it, indeed.  NOW especially there
cannot be--but however, you and Marianne were always great
favourites.--Why would not Marianne come?"--

Elinor made what excuse she could for her.

"I am not sorry to see you alone," he replied, "for I have a good deal
to say to you.  This living of Colonel Brandon's--can it be true?--has
he really given it to Edward?--I heard it yesterday by chance, and was
coming to you on purpose to enquire farther about it."

"It is perfectly true.--Colonel Brandon has given the living of
Delaford to Edward."

"Really!--Well, this is very astonishing!--no relationship!--no
connection between them!--and now that livings fetch such a
price!--what was the value of this?"

"About two hundred a year."

"Very well--and for the next presentation to a living of that
value--supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly, and
likely to vacate it soon--he might have got I dare say--fourteen
hundred pounds.  And how came he not to have settled that matter before
this person's death?--NOW indeed it would be too late to sell it, but a
man of Colonel Brandon's sense!--I wonder he should be so improvident
in a point of such common, such natural, concern!--Well, I am convinced
that there is a vast deal of inconsistency in almost every human
character.  I suppose, however--on recollection--that the case may
probably be THIS.  Edward is only to hold the living till the person to
whom the Colonel has really sold the presentation, is old enough to
take it.--Aye, aye, that is the fact, depend upon it."

Elinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating that
she had herself been employed in conveying the offer from Colonel
Brandon to Edward, and, therefore, must understand the terms on which
it was given, obliged him to submit to her authority.

"It is truly astonishing!"--he cried, after hearing what she
said--"what could be the Colonel's motive?"

"A very simple one--to be of use to Mr. Ferrars."

"Well, well; whatever Colonel Brandon may be, Edward is a very lucky
man.--You will not mention the matter to Fanny, however, for though I
have broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well,--she will not like
to hear it much talked of."

Elinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that she
thought Fanny might have borne with composure, an acquisition of wealth
to her brother, by which neither she nor her child could be possibly
impoverished.

"Mrs. Ferrars," added he, lowering his voice to the tone becoming so
important a subject, "knows nothing about it at present, and I believe
it will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as may
be.-- When the marriage takes place, I fear she must hear of it all."

"But why should such precaution be used?--Though it is not to be
supposed that Mrs. Ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in
knowing that her son has money enough to live upon,--for THAT must be
quite out of the question; yet why, upon her late behaviour, is she
supposed to feel at all?--She has done with her son, she cast him off
for ever, and has made all those over whom she had any influence, cast
him off likewise.  Surely, after doing so, she cannot be imagined
liable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account--she cannot
be interested in any thing that befalls him.-- She would not be so weak
as to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the anxiety of
a parent!"

"Ah! Elinor," said John, "your reasoning is very good, but it is
founded on ignorance of human nature.  When Edward's unhappy match
takes place, depend upon it his mother will feel as much as if she had
never discarded him; and, therefore every circumstance that may
accelerate that dreadful event, must be concealed from her as much as
possible.  Mrs. Ferrars can never forget that Edward is her son."

"You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have escaped her memory
by THIS time."

"You wrong her exceedingly.  Mrs. Ferrars is one of the most
affectionate mothers in the world."

Elinor was silent.

"We think NOW,"--said Mr. Dashwood, after a short pause, "of ROBERT'S
marrying Miss Morton."

Elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother's
tone, calmly replied,

"The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair."

"Choice!--how do you mean?"

"I only mean that I suppose, from your manner of speaking, it must be
the same to Miss Morton whether she marry Edward or Robert."

"Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert will now to all
intents and purposes be considered as the eldest son;--and as to any
thing else, they are both very agreeable young men: I do not know that
one is superior to the other."

Elinor said no more, and John was also for a short time silent.--His
reflections ended thus.

"Of ONE thing, my dear sister," kindly taking her hand, and speaking in
an awful whisper,--"I may assure you;--and I WILL do it, because I know
it must gratify you.  I have good reason to think--indeed I have it
from the best authority, or I should not repeat it, for otherwise it
would be very wrong to say any thing about it--but I have it from the
very best authority--not that I ever precisely heard Mrs. Ferrars say
it herself--but her daughter DID, and I have it from her--That in
short, whatever objections there might be against a certain--a certain
connection--you understand me--it would have been far preferable to
her, it would not have given her half the vexation that THIS does.  I
was exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferrars considered it in that
light--a very gratifying circumstance you know to us all.  'It would
have been beyond comparison,' she said, 'the least evil of the two, and
she would be glad to compound NOW for nothing worse.' But however, all
that is quite out of the question--not to be thought of or
mentioned--as to any attachment you know--it never could be--all that
is gone by.  But I thought I would just tell you of this, because I
knew how much it must please you.  Not that you have any reason to
regret, my dear Elinor.  There is no doubt of your doing exceedingly
well--quite as well, or better, perhaps, all things considered.  Has
Colonel Brandon been with you lately?"

Elinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity, and raise her
self-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind;--and she was
therefore glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much in reply
herself, and from the danger of hearing any thing more from her
brother, by the entrance of Mr. Robert Ferrars.  After a few moments'
chat, John Dashwood, recollecting that Fanny was yet uninformed of her
sister's being there, quitted the room in quest of her; and Elinor was
left to improve her acquaintance with Robert, who, by the gay
unconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner while enjoying so
unfair a division of his mother's love and liberality, to the prejudice
of his banished brother, earned only by his own dissipated course of
life, and that brother's integrity, was confirming her most
unfavourable opinion of his head and heart.

They had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before he began to
speak of Edward; for he, too, had heard of the living, and was very
inquisitive on the subject.  Elinor repeated the particulars of it, as
she had given them to John; and their effect on Robert, though very
different, was not less striking than it had been on HIM.  He laughed
most immoderately.  The idea of Edward's being a clergyman, and living
in a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure;--and when to
that was added the fanciful imagery of Edward reading prayers in a
white surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage between John Smith
and Mary Brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous.

Elinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity, the
conclusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed
on him with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited.  It was a
look, however, very well bestowed, for it relieved her own feelings,
and gave no intelligence to him.  He was recalled from wit to wisdom,
not by any reproof of hers, but by his own sensibility.

"We may treat it as a joke," said he, at last, recovering from the
affected laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine gaiety
of the moment--"but, upon my soul, it is a most serious business.  Poor
Edward!  he is ruined for ever.  I am extremely sorry for it--for I
know him to be a very good-hearted creature; as well-meaning a fellow
perhaps, as any in the world.  You must not judge of him, Miss
Dashwood, from YOUR slight acquaintance.--Poor Edward!--His manners are
certainly not the happiest in nature.--But we are not all born, you
know, with the same powers,--the same address.-- Poor fellow!--to see
him in a circle of strangers!--to be sure it was pitiable enough!--but
upon my soul, I believe he has as good a heart as any in the kingdom;
and I declare and protest to you I never was so shocked in my life, as
when it all burst forth.  I could not believe it.-- My mother was the
first person who told me of it; and I, feeling myself called on to act
with resolution, immediately said to her, 'My dear madam, I do not know
what you may intend to do on the occasion, but as for myself, I must
say, that if Edward does marry this young woman, I never will see him
again.' That was what I said immediately.-- I was most uncommonly
shocked, indeed!--Poor Edward!--he has done for himself
completely--shut himself out for ever from all decent society!--but, as
I directly said to my mother, I am not in the least surprised at it;
from his style of education, it was always to be expected.  My poor
mother was half frantic."

"Have you ever seen the lady?"

"Yes; once, while she was staying in this house, I happened to drop in
for ten minutes; and I saw quite enough of her.  The merest awkward
country girl, without style, or elegance, and almost without beauty.--
I remember her perfectly.  Just the kind of girl I should suppose
likely to captivate poor Edward.  I offered immediately, as soon as my
mother related the affair to me, to talk to him myself, and dissuade
him from the match; but it was too late THEN, I found, to do any thing,
for unluckily, I was not in the way at first, and knew nothing of it
till after the breach had taken place, when it was not for me, you
know, to interfere.  But had I been informed of it a few hours
earlier--I think it is most probable--that something might have been
hit on.  I certainly should have represented it to Edward in a very
strong light.  'My dear fellow,' I should have said, 'consider what you
are doing.  You are making a most disgraceful connection, and such a
one as your family are unanimous in disapproving.' I cannot help
thinking, in short, that means might have been found.  But now it is
all too late.  He must be starved, you know;--that is certain;
absolutely starved."

He had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance
of Mrs. John Dashwood put an end to the subject.  But though SHE never
spoke of it out of her own family, Elinor could see its influence on
her mind, in the something like confusion of countenance with which she
entered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour to herself.  She
even proceeded so far as to be concerned to find that Elinor and her
sister were so soon to leave town, as she had hoped to see more of
them;--an exertion in which her husband, who attended her into the
room, and hung enamoured over her accents, seemed to distinguish every
thing that was most affectionate and graceful.



CHAPTER 42


One other short call in Harley Street, in which Elinor received her
brother's congratulations on their travelling so far towards Barton
without any expense, and on Colonel Brandon's being to follow them to
Cleveland in a day or two, completed the intercourse of the brother and
sisters in town;--and a faint invitation from Fanny, to come to Norland
whenever it should happen to be in their way, which of all things was
the most unlikely to occur, with a more warm, though less public,
assurance, from John to Elinor, of the promptitude with which he should
come to see her at Delaford, was all that foretold any meeting in the
country.

It amused her to observe that all her friends seemed determined to send
her to Delaford;--a place, in which, of all others, she would now least
chuse to visit, or wish to reside; for not only was it considered as
her future home by her brother and Mrs. Jennings, but even Lucy, when
they parted, gave her a pressing invitation to visit her there.

Very early in April, and tolerably early in the day, the two parties
from Hanover Square and Berkeley Street set out from their respective
homes, to meet, by appointment, on the road.  For the convenience of
Charlotte and her child, they were to be more than two days on their
journey, and Mr. Palmer, travelling more expeditiously with Colonel
Brandon, was to join them at Cleveland soon after their arrival.

Marianne, few as had been her hours of comfort in London, and eager as
she had long been to quit it, could not, when it came to the point, bid
adieu to the house in which she had for the last time enjoyed those
hopes, and that confidence, in Willoughby, which were now extinguished
for ever, without great pain.  Nor could she leave the place in which
Willoughby remained, busy in new engagements, and new schemes, in which
SHE could have no share, without shedding many tears.

Elinor's satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was more positive.
She had no such object for her lingering thoughts to fix on, she left
no creature behind, from whom it would give her a moment's regret to be
divided for ever, she was pleased to be free herself from the
persecution of Lucy's friendship, she was grateful for bringing her
sister away unseen by Willoughby since his marriage, and she looked
forward with hope to what a few months of tranquility at Barton might
do towards restoring Marianne's peace of mind, and confirming her own.

Their journey was safely performed.  The second day brought them into
the cherished, or the prohibited, county of Somerset, for as such was
it dwelt on by turns in Marianne's imagination; and in the forenoon of
the third they drove up to Cleveland.

Cleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated on a sloping
lawn.  It had no park, but the pleasure-grounds were tolerably
extensive; and like every other place of the same degree of importance,
it had its open shrubbery, and closer wood walk, a road of smooth
gravel winding round a plantation, led to the front, the lawn was
dotted over with timber, the house itself was under the guardianship of
the fir, the mountain-ash, and the acacia, and a thick screen of them
altogether, interspersed with tall Lombardy poplars, shut out the
offices.

Marianne entered the house with a heart swelling with emotion from the
consciousness of being only eighty miles from Barton, and not thirty
from Combe Magna; and before she had been five minutes within its
walls, while the others were busily helping Charlotte to show her child
to the housekeeper, she quitted it again, stealing away through the
winding shrubberies, now just beginning to be in beauty, to gain a
distant eminence; where, from its Grecian temple, her eye, wandering
over a wide tract of country to the south-east, could fondly rest on
the farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and fancy that from their
summits Combe Magna might be seen.

In such moments of precious, invaluable misery, she rejoiced in tears
of agony to be at Cleveland; and as she returned by a different circuit
to the house, feeling all the happy privilege of country liberty, of
wandering from place to place in free and luxurious solitude, she
resolved to spend almost every hour of every day while she remained
with the Palmers, in the indulgence of such solitary rambles.

She returned just in time to join the others as they quitted the house,
on an excursion through its more immediate premises; and the rest of
the morning was easily whiled away, in lounging round the kitchen
garden, examining the bloom upon its walls, and listening to the
gardener's lamentations upon blights, in dawdling through the
green-house, where the loss of her favourite plants, unwarily exposed,
and nipped by the lingering frost, raised the laughter of
Charlotte,--and in visiting her poultry-yard, where, in the
disappointed hopes of her dairy-maid, by hens forsaking their nests, or
being stolen by a fox, or in the rapid decrease of a promising young
brood, she found fresh sources of merriment.

The morning was fine and dry, and Marianne, in her plan of employment
abroad, had not calculated for any change of weather during their stay
at Cleveland.  With great surprise therefore, did she find herself
prevented by a settled rain from going out again after dinner.  She had
depended on a twilight walk to the Grecian temple, and perhaps all over
the grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp would not have deterred
her from it; but a heavy and settled rain even SHE could not fancy dry
or pleasant weather for walking.

Their party was small, and the hours passed quietly away.  Mrs. Palmer
had her child, and Mrs. Jennings her carpet-work; they talked of the
friends they had left behind, arranged Lady Middleton's engagements,
and wondered whether Mr. Palmer and Colonel Brandon would get farther
than Reading that night.  Elinor, however little concerned in it,
joined in their discourse; and Marianne, who had the knack of finding
her way in every house to the library, however it might be avoided by
the family in general, soon procured herself a book.

Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer's side that constant and friendly
good humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome.  The
openness and heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that want of
recollection and elegance which made her often deficient in the forms
of politeness; her kindness, recommended by so pretty a face, was
engaging; her folly, though evident was not disgusting, because it was
not conceited; and Elinor could have forgiven every thing but her laugh.

The two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner, affording
a pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome variety to
their conversation, which a long morning of the same continued rain had
reduced very low.

Elinor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer, and in that little had seen so
much variety in his address to her sister and herself, that she knew
not what to expect to find him in his own family.  She found him,
however, perfectly the gentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors,
and only occasionally rude to his wife and her mother; she found him
very capable of being a pleasant companion, and only prevented from
being so always, by too great an aptitude to fancy himself as much
superior to people in general, as he must feel himself to be to Mrs.
Jennings and Charlotte.  For the rest of his character and habits, they
were marked, as far as Elinor could perceive, with no traits at all
unusual in his sex and time of life.  He was nice in his eating,
uncertain in his hours; fond of his child, though affecting to slight
it; and idled away the mornings at billiards, which ought to have been
devoted to business.  She liked him, however, upon the whole, much
better than she had expected, and in her heart was not sorry that she
could like him no more;--not sorry to be driven by the observation of
his Epicurism, his selfishness, and his conceit, to rest with
complacency on the remembrance of Edward's generous temper, simple
taste, and diffident feelings.

Of Edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now received
intelligence from Colonel Brandon, who had been into Dorsetshire
lately; and who, treating her at once as the disinterested friend of
Mr. Ferrars, and the kind confidante of himself, talked to her a
great deal of the parsonage at Delaford, described its deficiencies,
and told her what he meant to do himself towards removing them.--His
behaviour to her in this, as well as in every other particular, his
open pleasure in meeting her after an absence of only ten days, his
readiness to converse with her, and his deference for her opinion,
might very well justify Mrs. Jennings's persuasion of his attachment,
and would have been enough, perhaps, had not Elinor still, as from the
first, believed Marianne his real favourite, to make her suspect it
herself.  But as it was, such a notion had scarcely ever entered her
head, except by Mrs. Jennings's suggestion; and she could not help
believing herself the nicest observer of the two;--she watched his
eyes, while Mrs. Jennings thought only of his behaviour;--and while his
looks of anxious solicitude on Marianne's feeling, in her head and
throat, the beginning of a heavy cold, because unexpressed by words,
entirely escaped the latter lady's observation;--SHE could discover in
them the quick feelings, and needless alarm of a lover.

Two delightful twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of her
being there, not merely on the dry gravel of the shrubbery, but all
over the grounds, and especially in the most distant parts of them,
where there was something more of wildness than in the rest, where the
trees were the oldest, and the grass was the longest and wettest,
had--assisted by the still greater imprudence of sitting in her wet
shoes and stockings--given Marianne a cold so violent as, though for a
day or two trifled with or denied, would force itself by increasing
ailments on the concern of every body, and the notice of herself.
Prescriptions poured in from all quarters, and as usual, were all
declined.  Though heavy and feverish, with a pain in her limbs, and a
cough, and a sore throat, a good night's rest was to cure her entirely;
and it was with difficulty that Elinor prevailed on her, when she went
to bed, to try one or two of the simplest of the remedies.



CHAPTER 43


Marianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry
replied that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by engaging
in her accustomary employments.  But a day spent in sitting shivering
over the fire with a book in her hand, which she was unable to read, or
in lying, weary and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of
her amendment; and when, at last, she went early to bed, more and more
indisposed, Colonel Brandon was only astonished at her sister's
composure, who, though attending and nursing her the whole day, against
Marianne's inclination, and forcing proper medicines on her at night,
trusted, like Marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and
felt no real alarm.

A very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the
expectation of both; and when Marianne, after persisting in rising,
confessed herself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to her
bed, Elinor was very ready to adopt Mrs. Jennings's advice, of sending
for the Palmers' apothecary.

He came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood to
expect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet, by
pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing the
word "infection" to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs. Palmer,
on her baby's account.  Mrs. Jennings, who had been inclined from the
first to think Marianne's complaint more serious than Elinor, now
looked very grave on Mr. Harris's report, and confirming Charlotte's
fears and caution, urged the necessity of her immediate removal with
her infant; and Mr. Palmer, though treating their apprehensions as
idle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife too great to be
withstood.  Her departure, therefore, was fixed on; and within an hour
after Mr. Harris's arrival, she set off, with her little boy and his
nurse, for the house of a near relation of Mr. Palmer's, who lived a
few miles on the other side of Bath; whither her husband promised, at
her earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two; and whither she was
almost equally urgent with her mother to accompany her.  Mrs. Jennings,
however, with a kindness of heart which made Elinor really love her,
declared her resolution of not stirring from Cleveland as long as
Marianne remained ill, and of endeavouring, by her own attentive care,
to supply to her the place of the mother she had taken her from; and
Elinor found her on every occasion a most willing and active helpmate,
desirous to share in all her fatigues, and often by her better
experience in nursing, of material use.

Poor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and
feeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope that tomorrow
would find her recovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have
produced, but for this unlucky illness, made every ailment severe; for
on that day they were to have begun their journey home; and, attended
the whole way by a servant of Mrs. Jennings, were to have taken their
mother by surprise on the following forenoon.  The little she said was
all in lamentation of this inevitable delay; though Elinor tried to
raise her spirits, and make her believe, as she THEN really believed
herself, that it would be a very short one.

The next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the
patient; she certainly was not better, and, except that there was no
amendment, did not appear worse.  Their party was now farther reduced;
for Mr. Palmer, though very unwilling to go as well from real humanity
and good-nature, as from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away
by his wife, was persuaded at last by Colonel Brandon to perform his
promise of following her; and while he was preparing to go, Colonel
Brandon himself, with a much greater exertion, began to talk of going
likewise.--Here, however, the kindness of Mrs. Jennings interposed most
acceptably; for to send the Colonel away while his love was in so much
uneasiness on her sister's account, would be to deprive them both, she
thought, of every comfort; and therefore telling him at once that his
stay at Cleveland was necessary to herself, that she should want him to
play at piquet of an evening, while Miss Dashwood was above with her
sister, &c. she urged him so strongly to remain, that he, who was
gratifying the first wish of his own heart by a compliance, could not
long even affect to demur; especially as Mrs. Jennings's entreaty was
warmly seconded by Mr. Palmer, who seemed to feel a relief to himself,
in leaving behind him a person so well able to assist or advise Miss
Dashwood in any emergence.

Marianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these arrangements.
She knew not that she had been the means of sending the owners of
Cleveland away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival.  It
gave her no surprise that she saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer; and as it
gave her likewise no concern, she never mentioned her name.

Two days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer's departure, and her
situation continued, with little variation, the same.  Mr. Harris, who
attended her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and
Miss Dashwood was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others
was by no means so cheerful.  Mrs. Jennings had determined very early
in the seizure that Marianne would never get over it, and Colonel
Brandon, who was chiefly of use in listening to Mrs. Jennings's
forebodings, was not in a state of mind to resist their influence.  He
tried to reason himself out of fears, which the different judgment of
the apothecary seemed to render absurd; but the many hours of each day
in which he was left entirely alone, were but too favourable for the
admission of every melancholy idea, and he could not expel from his
mind the persuasion that he should see Marianne no more.

On the morning of the third day however, the gloomy anticipations of
both were almost done away; for when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared
his patient materially better.  Her pulse was much stronger, and every
symptom more favourable than on the preceding visit.  Elinor, confirmed
in every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her
letters to her mother, she had pursued her own judgment rather than her
friend's, in making very light of the indisposition which delayed them
at Cleveland; and almost fixing on the time when Marianne would be able
to travel.

But the day did not close so auspiciously as it began.-- Towards the
evening Marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and
uncomfortable than before.  Her sister, however, still sanguine, was
willing to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of
having sat up to have her bed made; and carefully administering the
cordials prescribed, saw her, with satisfaction, sink at last into a
slumber, from which she expected the most beneficial effects.  Her
sleep, though not so quiet as Elinor wished to see it, lasted a
considerable time; and anxious to observe the result of it herself, she
resolved to sit with her during the whole of it.  Mrs. Jennings,
knowing nothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to
bed; her maid, who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating
herself in the housekeeper's room, and Elinor remained alone with
Marianne.

The repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and her
sister, who watched, with unremitting attention her continual change of
posture, and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint
which passed her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from so painful
a slumber, when Marianne, suddenly awakened by some accidental noise in
the house, started hastily up, and, with feverish wildness, cried out,--

"Is mama coming?--"

"Not yet," cried the other, concealing her terror, and assisting
Marianne to lie down again, "but she will be here, I hope, before it is
long.  It is a great way, you know, from hence to Barton."

"But she must not go round by London," cried Marianne, in the same
hurried manner.  "I shall never see her, if she goes by London."

Elinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and, while
attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse.  It was lower and
quicker than ever!  and Marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her
alarm increased so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly
for Mr. Harris, and despatching a messenger to Barton for her mother.
To consult with Colonel Brandon on the best means of effecting the
latter, was a thought which immediately followed the resolution of its
performance; and as soon she had rung up the maid to take her place by
her sister, she hastened down to the drawing-room, where she knew he
was generally to be found at a much later hour than the present.

It was no time for hesitation.  Her fears and her difficulties were
immediately before him.  Her fears, he had no courage, no confidence to
attempt the removal of:--he listened to them in silent despondence;--but
her difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that
seemed to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his mind,
he offered himself as the messenger who should fetch Mrs. Dashwood.
Elinor made no resistance that was not easily overcome. She thanked him
with brief, though fervent gratitude, and while he went to hurry off his
servant with a message to Mr. Harris, and an order for post-horses
directly, she wrote a few lines to her mother.

The comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon--or such
a companion for her mother,--how gratefully was it felt!--a companion
whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose
friendship might soothe her!--as far as the shock of such a summons
COULD be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his assistance,
would lessen it.

HE, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness of a
collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost
despatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which she might
look for his return.  Not a moment was lost in delay of any kind.  The
horses arrived, even before they were expected, and Colonel Brandon
only pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words spoken
too low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage.  It was then about
twelve o'clock, and she returned to her sister's apartment to wait for
the arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the rest of the
night.  It was a night of almost equal suffering to both.  Hour after
hour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium on Marianne's side, and
in the most cruel anxiety on Elinor's, before Mr. Harris appeared.  Her
apprehensions once raised, paid by their excess for all her former
security; and the servant who sat up with her, for she would not allow
Mrs. Jennings to be called, only tortured her more, by hints of what
her mistress had always thought.

Marianne's ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on her
mother, and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the
heart of poor Elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled with
so many days of illness, and wretched for some immediate relief,
fancied that all relief might soon be in vain, that every thing had
been delayed too long, and pictured to herself her suffering mother
arriving too late to see this darling child, or to see her rational.

She was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if HE could
not come, for some other advice, when the former--but not till after
five o'clock--arrived.  His opinion, however, made some little amends
for his delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected and
unpleasant alteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger to
be material, and talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treatment
must procure, with a confidence which, in a lesser degree, was
communicated to Elinor.  He promised to call again in the course of
three or four hours, and left both the patient and her anxious
attendant more composed than he had found them.

With strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to
their aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the morning of what had passed.
Her former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her no
doubt of the event; and though trying to speak comfort to Elinor, her
conviction of her sister's danger would not allow her to offer the
comfort of hope.  Her heart was really grieved.  The rapid decay, the
early death of a girl so young, so lovely as Marianne, must have struck
a less interested person with concern.  On Mrs. Jennings's compassion
she had other claims.  She had been for three months her companion, was
still under her care, and she was known to have been greatly injured,
and long unhappy.  The distress of her sister too, particularly a
favourite, was before her;--and as for their mother, when Mrs. Jennings
considered that Marianne might probably be to HER what Charlotte was to
herself, her sympathy in HER sufferings was very sincere.

Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit;--but he came to be
disappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce.  His
medicines had failed;--the fever was unabated; and Marianne only more
quiet--not more herself--remained in a heavy stupor.  Elinor, catching
all, and more than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in
further advice.  But he judged it unnecessary: he had still something
more to try, some more fresh application, of whose success he was as
confident as the last, and his visit concluded with encouraging
assurances which reached the ear, but could not enter the heart of Miss
Dashwood.  She was calm, except when she thought of her mother; but she
was almost hopeless; and in this state she continued till noon,
scarcely stirring from her sister's bed, her thoughts wandering from
one image of grief, one suffering friend to another, and her spirits
oppressed to the utmost by the conversation of Mrs. Jennings, who
scrupled not to attribute the severity and danger of this attack to the
many weeks of previous indisposition which Marianne's disappointment
had brought on.  Elinor felt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it
gave fresh misery to her reflections.

About noon, however, she began--but with a caution--a dread of
disappointment which for some time kept her silent, even to her
friend--to fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her
sister's pulse;--she waited, watched, and examined it again and
again;--and at last, with an agitation more difficult to bury under
exterior calmness, than all her foregoing distress, ventured to
communicate her hopes.  Mrs. Jennings, though forced, on examination,
to acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to keep her young friend from
indulging a thought of its continuance;--and Elinor, conning over every
injunction of distrust, told herself likewise not to hope.  But it was
too late.  Hope had already entered; and feeling all its anxious
flutter, she bent over her sister to watch--she hardly knew for what.
Half an hour passed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed her.
Others even arose to confirm it.  Her breath, her skin, her lips, all
flattered Elinor with signs of amendment; and Marianne fixed her eyes
on her with a rational, though languid, gaze.  Anxiety and hope now
oppressed her in equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity
till the arrival of Mr. Harris at four o'clock;--when his assurances,
his felicitations on a recovery in her sister even surpassing his
expectation, gave her confidence, comfort, and tears of joy.

Marianne was in every respect materially better, and he declared her
entirely out of danger.  Mrs. Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the
partial justification of her forebodings which had been found in their
late alarm, allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted,
with unfeigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the
probability of an entire recovery.

Elinor could not be cheerful.  Her joy was of a different kind, and led
to any thing rather than to gaiety.  Marianne restored to life, health,
friends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with
sensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent
gratitude;--but it led to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words,
no smiles.  All within Elinor's breast was satisfaction, silent and
strong.

She continued by the side of her sister, with little intermission the
whole afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her
enfeebled spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every
look and every breath.  The possibility of a relapse would of course,
in some moments, occur to remind her of what anxiety was--but when she
saw, on her frequent and minute examination, that every symptom of
recovery continued, and saw Marianne at six o'clock sink into a quiet,
steady, and to all appearance comfortable, sleep, she silenced every
doubt.

The time was now drawing on, when Colonel Brandon might be expected
back.  At ten o'clock, she trusted, or at least not much later her
mother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must
now be travelling towards them.  The Colonel, too!--perhaps scarcely
less an object of pity!--Oh!--how slow was the progress of time which
yet kept them in ignorance!

At seven o'clock, leaving Marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined
Mrs. Jennings in the drawing-room to tea.  Of breakfast she had been
kept by her fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating
much;--and the present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of
content as she brought to it, was particularly welcome.  Mrs. Jennings
would have persuaded her, at its conclusion, to take some rest before
her mother's arrival, and allow HER to take her place by Marianne; but
Elinor had no sense of fatigue, no capability of sleep at that moment
about her, and she was not to be kept away from her sister an
unnecessary instant.  Mrs. Jennings therefore attending her up stairs
into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right,
left her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to her
own room to write letters and sleep.

The night was cold and stormy.  The wind roared round the house, and
the rain beat against the windows; but Elinor, all happiness within,
regarded it not.  Marianne slept through every blast; and the
travellers--they had a rich reward in store, for every present
inconvenience.

The clock struck eight.  Had it been ten, Elinor would have been
convinced that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the
house; and so strong was the persuasion that she DID, in spite of the
ALMOST impossibility of their being already come, that she moved into
the adjoining dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to be
satisfied of the truth.  She instantly saw that her ears had not
deceived her.  The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in
view.  By their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be
drawn by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poor
mother's alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity.

Never in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as at
that moment.  The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the
carriage stopt at the door--of her doubt--her dread--perhaps her
despair!--and of what SHE had to tell!--with such knowledge it was
impossible to be calm.  All that remained to be done was to be speedy;
and, therefore staying only till she could leave Mrs. Jennings's maid
with her sister, she hurried down stairs.

The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby,
assured her that they were already in the house.  She rushed to the
drawing-room,--she entered it,--and saw only Willoughby.



CHAPTER 44


Elinor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed
the first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the room,
and her hand was already on the lock, when its action was suspended by
his hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command than
supplication,

"Miss Dashwood, for half an hour--for ten minutes--I entreat you to
stay."

"No, sir," she replied with firmness, "I shall NOT stay.  Your business
cannot be with ME.  The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell you that
Mr. Palmer was not in the house."

"Had they told me," he cried with vehemence, "that Mr. Palmer and all
his relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the
door.  My business is with you, and only you."

"With me!"--in the utmost amazement--"well, sir,--be quick--and if you
can--less violent."

"Sit down, and I will be both."

She hesitated; she knew not what to do.  The possibility of Colonel
Brandon's arriving and finding her there, came across her.  But she had
promised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor was
engaged.  After a moment's recollection, therefore, concluding that
prudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best
promote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down.  He
took the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said by
either.

"Pray be quick, sir,"--said Elinor, impatiently;--"I have no time to
spare."

He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to
hear her.

"Your sister," said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards--"is out
of danger.  I heard it from the servant.  God be praised!--But is it
true? is it really true?"

Elinor would not speak.  He repeated the inquiry with yet greater
eagerness.

"For God's sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?"

"We hope she is."

He rose up, and walked across the room.

"Had I known as much half an hour ago--But since I AM here,"--speaking
with a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat--"what does it
signify?--For once, Miss Dashwood--it will be the last time,
perhaps--let us be cheerful together.--I am in a fine mood for
gaiety.-- Tell me honestly"--a deeper glow overspreading his
cheeks--"do you think me most a knave or a fool?"

Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever.  She began to
think that he must be in liquor;--the strangeness of such a visit, and
of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this
impression she immediately rose, saying,

"Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe--I am not
at leisure to remain with you longer.-- Whatever your business may be
with me, it will be better recollected and explained to-morrow."

"I understand you," he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice
perfectly calm; "yes, I am very drunk.-- A pint of porter with my cold
beef at Marlborough was enough to over-set me."

"At Marlborough!"--cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to understand
what he would be at.

"Yes,--I left London this morning at eight o'clock, and the only ten
minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a
nuncheon at Marlborough."

The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he
spoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might
bring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she
said, after a moment's recollection,

"Mr. Willoughby, you OUGHT to feel, and I certainly DO--that after what
has passed--your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon
my notice, requires a very particular excuse.--What is it, that you
mean by it?"--

"I mean,"--said he, with serious energy--"if I can, to make you hate me
one degree less than you do NOW.  I mean to offer some kind of
explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart
to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a
blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like
forgiveness from Ma--from your sister."

"Is this the real reason of your coming?"

"Upon my soul it is,"--was his answer, with a warmth which brought all
the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made
her think him sincere.

"If that is all, you may be satisfied already,--for Marianne DOES--she
has LONG forgiven you."

"Has she?"--he cried, in the same eager tone.-- "Then she has forgiven
me before she ought to have done it.  But she shall forgive me again,
and on more reasonable grounds.--NOW will you listen to me?"

Elinor bowed her assent.

"I do not know," said he, after a pause of expectation on her side, and
thoughtfulness on his own,--"how YOU may have accounted for my
behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have
imputed to me.-- Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me,--it is
worth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing.  When I first
became intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other view
in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged
to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before.
Your sister's lovely person and interesting manners could not but
please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a
kind--It is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what SHE
was, that my heart should have been so insensible!  But at first I must
confess, my vanity only was elevated by it.  Careless of her happiness,
thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had
always been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by every
means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design
of returning her affection."

Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most
angry contempt, stopped him, by saying,

"It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me
to listen any longer.  Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by
any thing.-- Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the
subject."

"I insist on you hearing the whole of it," he replied, "My fortune was
never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of
associating with people of better income than myself.  Every year since
my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts; and
though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free; yet
that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for
some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying a
woman of fortune.  To attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not
a thing to be thought of;--and with a meanness, selfishness,
cruelty--which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, Miss
Dashwood, can ever reprobate too much--I was acting in this manner,
trying to engage her regard, without a thought of returning it.--But
one thing may be said for me: even in that horrid state of selfish
vanity, I did not know the extent of the injury I meditated, because I
did not THEN know what it was to love.  But have I ever known it?--Well
may it be doubted; for, had I really loved, could I have sacrificed my
feelings to vanity, to avarice?--or, what is more, could I have
sacrificed hers?-- But I have done it.  To avoid a comparative poverty,
which her affection and her society would have deprived of all its
horrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence, lost every thing that
could make it a blessing."

"You did then," said Elinor, a little softened, "believe yourself at
one time attached to her?"

"To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such
tenderness!--Is there a man on earth who could have done it?--Yes, I
found myself, by insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the
happiest hours of my life were what I spent with her when I felt my
intentions were strictly honourable, and my feelings blameless.  Even
THEN, however, when fully determined on paying my addresses to her, I
allowed myself most improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment
of doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my
circumstances were so greatly embarrassed.  I will not reason here--nor
will I stop for YOU to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than
absurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already
bound.  The event has proved, that I was a cunning fool, providing with
great circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself
contemptible and wretched for ever.  At last, however, my resolution
was taken, and I had determined, as soon as I could engage her alone,
to justify the attentions I had so invariably paid her, and openly
assure her of an affection which I had already taken such pains to
display.  But in the interim--in the interim of the very few hours that
were to pass, before I could have an opportunity of speaking with her
in private--a circumstance occurred--an unlucky circumstance, to ruin
all my resolution, and with it all my comfort.  A discovery took
place,"--here he hesitated and looked down.--"Mrs. Smith had somehow or
other been informed, I imagine by some distant relation, whose interest
it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a connection--but I
need not explain myself farther," he added, looking at her with an
heightened colour and an enquiring eye--"your particular intimacy--you
have probably heard the whole story long ago."

"I have," returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heart
anew against any compassion for him, "I have heard it all.  And how you
will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, I
confess is beyond my comprehension."

"Remember," cried Willoughby, "from whom you received the account.
Could it be an impartial one?  I acknowledge that her situation and her
character ought to have been respected by me.  I do not mean to justify
myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have
nothing to urge--that because she was injured she was irreproachable,
and because I was a libertine, SHE must be a saint.  If the violence of
her passions, the weakness of her understanding--I do not mean,
however, to defend myself.  Her affection for me deserved better
treatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness
which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return.  I
wish--I heartily wish it had never been.  But I have injured more than
herself; and I have injured one, whose affection for me--(may I say
it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind--Oh! how
infinitely superior!"--

"Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl--I must say
it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well
be--your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her.  Do
not think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of
understanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours.
You must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in
Devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was
reduced to the extremest indigence."

"But, upon my soul, I did NOT know it," he warmly replied; "I did not
recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction; and common sense
might have told her how to find it out."

"Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?"

"She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be
guessed.  The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her
ignorance of the world--every thing was against me.  The matter itself
I could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it.  She was
previously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in
general, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention,
the very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on her, in my
present visit.  In short, it ended in a total breach.  By one measure I
might have saved myself.  In the height of her morality, good woman!
she offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza.  That could
not be--and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house.
The night following this affair--I was to go the next morning--was
spent by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be.  The
struggle was great--but it ended too soon.  My affection for Marianne,
my thorough conviction of her attachment to me--it was all insufficient
to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of those false
ideas of the necessity of riches, which I was naturally inclined to
feel, and expensive society had increased.  I had reason to believe
myself secure of my present wife, if I chose to address her, and I
persuaded myself to think that nothing else in common prudence remained
for me to do.  A heavy scene however awaited me, before I could leave
Devonshire;--I was engaged to dine with you on that very day; some
apology was therefore necessary for my breaking this engagement.  But
whether I should write this apology, or deliver it in person, was a
point of long debate.  To see Marianne, I felt, would be dreadful, and
I even doubted whether I could see her again, and keep to my
resolution.  In that point, however, I undervalued my own magnanimity,
as the event declared; for I went, I saw her, and saw her miserable,
and left her miserable--and left her hoping never to see her again."

"Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby?" said Elinor, reproachfully; "a note
would have answered every purpose.-- Why was it necessary to call?"

"It was necessary to my own pride.  I could not bear to leave the
country in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the
neighbourhood, to suspect any part of what had really passed between
Mrs. Smith and myself--and I resolved therefore on calling at the
cottage, in my way to Honiton.  The sight of your dear sister, however,
was really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, I found her alone.
You were all gone I do not know where.  I had left her only the evening
before, so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right!  A
few hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and I remember how
happy, how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage to
Allenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with every body!  But in
this, our last interview of friendship, I approached her with a sense
of guilt that almost took from me the power of dissembling.  Her
sorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret, when I told her that I was
obliged to leave Devonshire so immediately--I never shall forget
it--united too with such reliance, such confidence in me!--Oh,
God!--what a hard-hearted rascal I was!"

They were both silent for a few moments.  Elinor first spoke.

"Did you tell her that you should soon return?"

"I do not know what I told her," he replied, impatiently; "less than
was due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more
than was justified by the future.  I cannot think of it.--It won't
do.--Then came your dear mother to torture me farther, with all her
kindness and confidence.  Thank Heaven! it DID torture me.  I was
miserable.  Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it
gives me to look back on my own misery.  I owe such a grudge to myself
for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past
sufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now.  Well, I
went, left all that I loved, and went to those to whom, at best, I was
only indifferent.  My journey to town--travelling with my own horses,
and therefore so tediously--no creature to speak to--my own reflections
so cheerful--when I looked forward every thing so inviting!--when I
looked back at Barton, the picture so soothing!--oh, it was a blessed
journey!"

He stopped.

"Well, sir," said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient for
his departure, "and this is all?"

"Ah!--no,--have you forgot what passed in town?-- That infamous
letter--Did she shew it you?"

"Yes, I saw every note that passed."

"When the first of hers reached me (as it immediately did, for I was in
town the whole time,) what I felt is--in the common phrase, not to be
expressed; in a more simple one--perhaps too simple to raise any
emotion--my feelings were very, very painful.--Every line, every word
was--in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here,
would forbid--a dagger to my heart.  To know that Marianne was in town
was--in the same language--a thunderbolt.--Thunderbolts and
daggers!--what a reproof would she have given me!--her taste, her
opinions--I believe they are better known to me than my own,--and I am
sure they are dearer."

Elinor's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this
extraordinary conversation, was now softened again;--yet she felt it
her duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last.

"This is not right, Mr. Willoughby.--Remember that you are married.
Relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to hear."

"Marianne's note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as in
former days, that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been
separated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of
faith in the constancy of mine as ever, awakened all my remorse.  I say
awakened, because time and London, business and dissipation, had in
some measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine hardened
villain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and chusing to fancy that
she too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself of our
past attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my
shoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach,
overcoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, 'I shall be
heartily glad to hear she is well married.'-- But this note made me
know myself better.  I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than
any other woman in the world, and that I was using her infamously.  But
every thing was then just settled between Miss Grey and me.  To retreat
was impossible.  All that I had to do, was to avoid you both.  I sent
no answer to Marianne, intending by that to preserve myself from her
farther notice; and for some time I was even determined not to call in
Berkeley Street;--but at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a
cool, common acquaintance than anything else, I watched you all safely
out of the house one morning, and left my name."

"Watched us out of the house!"

"Even so.  You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, how
often I was on the point of falling in with you.  I have entered many a
shop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by.  Lodging as I did
in Bond Street, there was hardly a day in which I did not catch a
glimpse of one or other of you; and nothing but the most constant
watchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep
out of your sight, could have separated us so long.  I avoided the
Middletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was
likely to prove an acquaintance in common.  Not aware of their being in
town, however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of his
coming, and the day after I had called at Mrs. Jennings's.  He asked me
to a party, a dance at his house in the evening.--Had he NOT told me as
an inducement that you and your sister were to be there, I should have
felt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near him.  The next
morning brought another short note from Marianne--still affectionate,
open, artless, confiding--everything that could make MY conduct most
hateful.  I could not answer it.  I tried--but could not frame a
sentence.  But I thought of her, I believe, every moment of the day.
If you CAN pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was THEN.
With my head and heart full of your sister, I was forced to play the
happy lover to another woman!--Those three or four weeks were worse
than all.  Well, at last, as I need not tell you, you were forced on
me; and what a sweet figure I cut!--what an evening of agony it was!--
Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me Willoughby in
such a tone!--Oh, God!--holding out her hand to me, asking me for an
explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking
solicitude on my face!--and Sophia, jealous as the devil on the other
hand, looking all that was--Well, it does not signify; it is over
now.-- Such an evening!--I ran away from you all as soon as I could;
but not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face as white as
death.--THAT was the last, last look I ever had of her;--the last
manner in which she appeared to me.  It was a horrid sight!--yet when I
thought of her to-day as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me
to imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those, who saw
her last in this world.  She was before me, constantly before me, as I
travelled, in the same look and hue."

A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded.  Willoughby first
rousing himself, broke it thus:

"Well, let me make haste and be gone.  Your sister is certainly better,
certainly out of danger?"

"We are assured of it."

"Your poor mother, too!--doting on Marianne."

"But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter; have you any thing to
say about that?"

"Yes, yes, THAT in particular.  Your sister wrote to me again, you
know, the very next morning.  You saw what she said.  I was
breakfasting at the Ellisons,--and her letter, with some others, was
brought to me there from my lodgings.  It happened to catch Sophia's
eye before it caught mine--and its size, the elegance of the paper, the
hand-writing altogether, immediately gave her a suspicion.  Some vague
report had reached her before of my attachment to some young lady in
Devonshire, and what had passed within her observation the preceding
evening had marked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous
than ever.  Affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is
delightful in a woman one loves, she opened the letter directly,
and read its contents.  She was well paid for her impudence.
She read what made her wretched.  Her wretchedness I could have
borne, but her passion--her malice--At all events it must be appeased.
And, in short--what do you think of my wife's style of
letter-writing?--delicate--tender--truly feminine--was it not?"

"Your wife!--The letter was in your own hand-writing."

"Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as
I was ashamed to put my name to.  The original was all her own--her own
happy thoughts and gentle diction.  But what could I do!--we were
engaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed--But I am
talking like a fool.  Preparation!--day!--In honest words, her money
was necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to be
done to prevent a rupture.  And after all, what did it signify to my
character in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what language
my answer was couched?--It must have been only to one end.  My business
was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow or a
bluster was of little importance.-- 'I am ruined for ever in their
opinion--' said I to myself--'I am shut out for ever from their
society, they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter will
only make them think me a blackguard one.' Such were my reasonings, as,
in a sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my wife's words, and
parted with the last relics of Marianne.  Her three notes--unluckily
they were all in my pocketbook, or I should have denied their
existence, and hoarded them for ever--I was forced to put them up, and
could not even kiss them.  And the lock of hair--that too I had always
carried about me in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by
Madam with the most ingratiating virulence,--the dear lock--all, every
memento was torn from me."

"You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable," said Elinor, while
her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion;
"you ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my
sister.  You had made your own choice.  It was not forced on you.  Your
wife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least.  She
must be attached to you, or she would not have married you.  To treat
her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly is no atonement to
Marianne--nor can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience."

"Do not talk to me of my wife," said he with a heavy sigh.-- "She does
not deserve your compassion.--She knew I had no regard for her when we
married.--Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be
happy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay.--And now do you pity
me, Miss Dashwood?--or have I said all this to no purpose?-- Am I--be
it only one degree--am I less guilty in your opinion than I was
before?--My intentions were not always wrong.  Have I explained away
any part of my guilt?"

"Yes, you have certainly removed something--a little.-- You have proved
yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you.  You have
proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked.  But I hardly
know--the misery that you have inflicted--I hardly know what could have
made it worse."

"Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what I have been
telling you?--Let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as well
as in yours.  You tell me that she has forgiven me already.  Let me be
able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present
feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more
gentle, less dignified, forgiveness.  Tell her of my misery and my
penitence--tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if
you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever."

"I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be
called, your justification.  But you have not explained to me the
particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness."

"Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton, and
when he saw who I was--for the first time these two months--he spoke to
me.--That he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen without
surprise or resentment.  Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid
soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your sister,
could not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought
to--though probably he did not think it WOULD--vex me horridly.  As
bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that Marianne
Dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland--a letter that
morning received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most
imminent--the Palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c.--I was too much
shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even to the
undiscerning Sir John.  His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer;
and so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he
almost shook me by the hand while he reminded me of an old promise
about a pointer puppy.  What I felt on hearing that your sister was
dying--and dying too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth,
scorning, hating me in her latest moments--for how could I tell what
horrid projects might not have been imputed?  ONE person I was sure
would represent me as capable of any thing-- What I felt was
dreadful!--My resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock this
morning I was in my carriage.  Now you know all."

Elinor made no answer.  Her thoughts were silently fixed on the
irreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent
habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the
character, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person
and talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a
feeling, affectionate temper.  The world had made him extravagant and
vain--Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish.
Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another,
had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least
its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed.  Each faulty
propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment.
The attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, against
every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no
longer allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for the
sake of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to misery,
was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more
incurable nature.  From a reverie of this kind she was recalled at the
end of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing himself from a reverie
at least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and
said--

"There is no use in staying here; I must be off."

"Are you going back to town?"

"No--to Combe Magna.  I have business there; from thence to town in a
day or two.  Good bye."

He held out his hand.  She could not refuse to give him hers;--he
pressed it with affection.

"And you DO think something better of me than you did?"--said he,
letting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgetting
he was to go.

Elinor assured him that she did;--that she forgave, pitied, wished him
well--was even interested in his happiness--and added some gentle
counsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it.  His answer was
not very encouraging.

"As to that," said he, "I must rub through the world as well as I can.
Domestic happiness is out of the question.  If, however, I am allowed
to think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it
may be the means--it may put me on my guard--at least, it may be
something to live for.  Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever.
Were I even by any blessed chance at liberty again--"

Elinor stopped him with a reproof.

"Well,"--he replied--"once more good bye. I shall now go away and live
in dread of one event."

"What do you mean?"

"Your sister's marriage."

"You are very wrong.  She can never be more lost to you than she is
now."

"But she will be gained by some one else.  And if that some one should
be the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear--but I will not
stay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by shewing that
where I have most injured I can least forgive.  Good bye,--God bless
you!"

And with these words, he almost ran out of the room.



CHAPTER 45


Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the
sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a
crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness
was the general result, to think even of her sister.

Willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most
worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a
degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made
her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a
tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged
within herself--to his wishes than to his merits.  She felt that his
influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not
in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that
open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess;
and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even
innocent to indulge.  But she felt that it was so, long, long before
she could feel his influence less.

When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her
just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of
her hopes.  Elinor's heart was full.  The past, the present, the
future, Willoughby's visit, Marianne's safety, and her mother's
expected arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits
which kept off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful
of betraying herself to her sister.  Short was the time, however, in
which that fear could affect her, for within half an hour after
Willoughby's leaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the
sound of another carriage.--Eager to save her mother from every
unnecessary moment's horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the
hall, and reached the outward door just in time to receive and support
her as she entered it.

Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced
almost the conviction of Marianne's being no more, had no voice to
inquire after her, no voice even for Elinor; but SHE, waiting neither
for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief;--and her
mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much
overcome by her happiness, as she had been before by her fears.  She
was supported into the drawing-room between her daughter and her
friend;--and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable to
speak, embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals
to press Colonel Brandon's hand, with a look which spoke at once her
gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss
of the moment.  He shared it, however, in a silence even greater than
her own.

As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was her
first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child,
rendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger.
Elinor's delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only
checked by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther
sleep;--but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when
the life of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in knowing
her mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for
conversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by
every nurse around her.  Mrs. Dashwood WOULD sit up with her all night;
and Elinor, in compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to bed.  But
the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the
most wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by
irritation of spirits.  Willoughby, "poor Willoughby," as she now
allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would
not but have heard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now
acquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before.  But her
promise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful.  She
dreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne
might be; doubted whether after such an explanation she could ever be
happy with another; and for a moment wished Willoughby a widower.
Then, remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved herself, felt that to HIS
sufferings and his constancy far more than to his rival's, the reward
of her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than Mrs.
Willoughby's death.

The shock of Colonel Brandon's errand at Barton had been much softened
to Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her
uneasiness about Marianne, that she had already determined to set out
for Cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any further
intelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival,
that the Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret away,
as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be infection.

Marianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of
Mrs. Dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly
declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world.  Elinor could
not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes
wondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward.  But Mrs.
Dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment
which Elinor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to
think only of what would increase it.  Marianne was restored to her
from a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken
judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby, had
contributed to place her;--and in her recovery she had yet another
source of joy unthought of by Elinor.  It was thus imparted to her, as
soon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred.

"At last we are alone.  My Elinor, you do not yet know all my
happiness.  Colonel Brandon loves Marianne.  He has told me so himself."

Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and
not surprised, was all silent attention.

"You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your
composure now.  Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my
family, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's marrying one of you as
the object most desirable.  And I believe Marianne will be the most
happy with him of the two."

Elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because
satisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their age,
characters, or feelings, could be given;--but her mother must always be
carried away by her imagination on any interesting subject, and
therefore instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.

"He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled.  It came
out quite unawares, quite undesignedly.  I, you may well believe, could
talk of nothing but my child;--he could not conceal his distress; I saw
that it equalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere friendship,
as the world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy--or rather,
not thinking at all, I suppose--giving way to irresistible feelings,
made me acquainted with his earnest, tender, constant, affection for
Marianne.  He has loved her, my Elinor, ever since the first moment of
seeing her."

Here, however, Elinor perceived,--not the language, not the professions
of Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother's
active fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it chose.

"His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby
ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or
constant--which ever we are to call it--has subsisted through all the
knowledge of dear Marianne's unhappy prepossession for that worthless
young man!--and without selfishness--without encouraging a hope!--could
he have seen her happy with another--Such a noble mind!--such openness,
such sincerity!--no one can be deceived in HIM."

"Colonel Brandon's character," said Elinor, "as an excellent man, is
well established."

"I know it is,"--replied her mother seriously, "or after such a warning,
I should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be pleased
by it.  But his coming for me as he did, with such active, such ready
friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men."

"His character, however," answered Elinor, "does not rest on ONE act of
kindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of the
case, would have prompted him.  To Mrs. Jennings, to the Middletons, he
has been long and intimately known; they equally love and respect him;
and even my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very
considerable; and so highly do I value and esteem him, that if Marianne
can be happy with him, I shall be as ready as yourself to think our
connection the greatest blessing to us in the world.  What answer did
you give him?--Did you allow him to hope?"

"Oh! my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself.
Marianne might at that moment be dying.  But he did not ask for hope or
encouragement.  His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible
effusion to a soothing friend--not an application to a parent.  Yet
after a time I DID say, for at first I was quite overcome--that if she
lived, as I trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in
promoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful
security, I have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every
encouragement in my power.  Time, a very little time, I tell him, will
do everything;--Marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a
man as Willoughby.-- His own merits must soon secure it."

"To judge from the Colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet made
him equally sanguine."

"No.--He thinks Marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any change
in it under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again
free, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a
difference of age and disposition he could ever attach her.  There,
however, he is quite mistaken.  His age is only so much beyond hers as
to be an advantage, as to make his character and principles fixed;--and
his disposition, I am well convinced, is exactly the very one to make
your sister happy.  And his person, his manners too, are all in his
favour.  My partiality does not blind me; he certainly is not so
handsome as Willoughby--but at the same time, there is something much
more pleasing in his countenance.-- There was always a something,--if
you remember,--in Willoughby's eyes at times, which I did not like."

Elinor could NOT remember it;--but her mother, without waiting for her
assent, continued,

"And his manners, the Colonel's manners are not only more pleasing to
me than Willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to
be more solidly attaching to Marianne.  Their gentleness, their genuine
attention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much
more accordant with her real disposition, than the liveliness--often
artificial, and often ill-timed of the other.  I am very sure myself,
that had Willoughby turned out as really amiable, as he has proved
himself the contrary, Marianne would yet never have been so happy with
HIM, as she will be with Colonel Brandon."

She paused.--Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her
dissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence.

"At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me," added Mrs.
Dashwood, "even if I remain at Barton; and in all probability,--for I
hear it is a large village,--indeed there certainly MUST be some small
house or cottage close by, that would suit us quite as well as our
present situation."

Poor Elinor!--here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford!--but
her spirit was stubborn.

"His fortune too!--for at my time of life you know, everybody cares
about THAT;--and though I neither know nor desire to know, what it
really is, I am sure it must be a good one."

Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and
Elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her
friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.



CHAPTER 46


Marianne's illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long
enough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength, and
her mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her
to remove, within four days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs.
Palmer's dressing-room.  When there, at her own particular request, for
she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to him for fetching her
mother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit her.

His emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and in
receiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was
such, as, in Elinor's conjecture, must arise from something more than
his affection for Marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to
others; and she soon discovered in his melancholy eye and varying
complexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many
past scenes of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblance
between Marianne and Eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened
by the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness,
and the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.

Mrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, but
with a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to very
different effect, saw nothing in the Colonel's behaviour but what arose
from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions
and words of Marianne she persuaded herself to think that something
more than gratitude already dawned.

At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger
every twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her
daughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton.  On HER
measures depended those of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could not
quit Cleveland during the Dashwoods' stay; and Colonel Brandon was soon
brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there as
equally determinate, if not equally indispensable.  At his and Mrs.
Jennings's united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to
accept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better
accommodation of her sick child; and the Colonel, at the joint
invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-nature
made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself,
engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the cottage, in the
course of a few weeks.

The day of separation and departure arrived; and Marianne, after taking
so particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so earnestly
grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her own
heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding
Colonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was carefully
assisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed anxious that she
should engross at least half.  Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor then followed,
and the others were left by themselves, to talk of the travellers, and
feel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings was summoned to her chaise
to take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two young
companions; and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took his
solitary way to Delaford.

The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journey
on both, without essential fatigue.  Every thing that the most zealous
affection, the most solicitous care could do to render her comfortable,
was the office of each watchful companion, and each found their reward
in her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits.  To Elinor, the
observation of the latter was particularly grateful.  She, who had seen
her week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of
heart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude to
conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally share, an
apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as she trusted
of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and
cheerfulness.

As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which every
field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection,
she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their
notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window.  But here, Elinor
could neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she assisted
Marianne from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only an
emotion too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender than pity,
and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise.  In the whole of her
subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened to
reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common
sitting-room, than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of
resolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the
sight of every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could be
connected.--She said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness,
and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed away without
the atonement of a smile.  After dinner she would try her piano-forte.
She went to it; but the music on which her eye first rested was an
opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some of their
favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his
hand-writing.--That would not do.--She shook her head, put the music
aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of
feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaring
however with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practice
much.

The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms.  On the
contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked
and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of
Margaret's return, and talking of the dear family party which would
then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the
only happiness worth a wish.

"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength," said
she, "we will take long walks together every day.  We will walk to the
farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will
walk to Sir John's new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland;
and we will often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its
foundations as far as we are told they once reached.  I know we shall
be happy.  I know the summer will pass happily away.  I mean never to
be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall
divide every moment between music and reading.  I have formed my plan,
and am determined to enter on a course of serious study.  Our own
library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond
mere amusement.  But there are many works well worth reading at the
Park; and there are others of more modern production which I know I can
borrow of Colonel Brandon.  By reading only six hours a-day, I shall
gain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which
I now feel myself to want."

Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this;
though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her
to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work
in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and
virtuous self-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh when she
remembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared
she had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of
Marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy
tranquillity.  Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved
to wait till her sister's health were more secure, before she appointed
it.  But the resolution was made only to be broken.

Marianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was
fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out.  But at last a
soft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter's
wishes and the mother's confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor's
arm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in
the lane before the house.

The sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne in an
exercise hitherto untried since her illness required;--and they had
advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the
hill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned
towards it, Marianne calmly said,

"There, exactly there,"--pointing with one hand, "on that projecting
mound,--there I fell; and there I first saw Willoughby."

Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added,

"I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the
spot!--shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?"--hesitatingly it
was said.--"Or will it be wrong?--I can talk of it now, I hope, as I
ought to do."--

Elinor tenderly invited her to be open.

"As for regret," said Marianne, "I have done with that, as far as HE is
concerned.  I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been
for him, but what they are NOW.--At present, if I could be satisfied on
one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not ALWAYS acting
a part, not ALWAYS deceiving me;--but above all, if I could be assured
that he never was so VERY wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied
him, since the story of that unfortunate girl"--

She stopt.  Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered,

"If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy."

"Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it;--for not only is it
horrible to suspect a person, who has been what HE has been to ME, of
such designs,--but what must it make me appear to myself?--What in a
situation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could
expose me to"--

"How then," asked her sister, "would you account for his behaviour?"

"I would suppose him,--Oh, how gladly would I suppose him, only fickle,
very, very fickle."

Elinor said no more.  She was debating within herself on the
eligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till
Marianne were in stronger health;--and they crept on for a few minutes
in silence.

"I am not wishing him too much good," said Marianne at last with a
sigh, "when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant
than my own.  He will suffer enough in them."

"Do you compare your conduct with his?"

"No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with
yours."

"Our situations have borne little resemblance."

"They have borne more than our conduct.--Do not, my dearest Elinor, let
your kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure.  My
illness has made me think-- It has given me leisure and calmness for
serious recollection.  Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I
was perfectly able to reflect.  I considered the past: I saw in my own
behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last
autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of
kindness to others.  I saw that my own feelings had prepared my
sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me
to the grave.  My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by
myself by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the
time to be wrong.  Had I died,--it would have been self-destruction. I
did not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with such
feelings as these reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery,--wonder
that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for
atonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once.  Had I
died,--in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse, my
friend, my sister!--You, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my
latter days; who had known all the murmurings of my heart!--How should
I have lived in YOUR remembrance!--My mother too! How could you have
consoled her!--I cannot express my own abhorrence of myself.  Whenever
I looked towards the past, I saw some duty neglected, or some failing
indulged.  Every body seemed injured by me.  The kindness, the
unceasing kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I had repaid with ungrateful
contempt.  To the Middletons, to the Palmers, the Steeles, to every
common acquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust; with a heart
hardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very
attention.--To John, to Fanny,--yes, even to them, little as they
deserve, I had given less than their due.  But you,--you above all,
above my mother, had been wronged by me.  I, and only I, knew your
heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?--not to any
compassion that could benefit you or myself.--Your example was before
me; but to what avail?--Was I more considerate of you and your comfort?
Did I imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking
any part in those offices of general complaisance or particular
gratitude which you had hitherto been left to discharge
alone?--No;--not less when I knew you to be unhappy, than when I had
believed you at ease, did I turn away from every exertion of duty or
friendship; scarcely allowing sorrow to exist but with me, regretting
only THAT heart which had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you, for
whom I professed an unbounded affection, to be miserable for my sake."

Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor,
impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly
that praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well
deserved.  Marianne pressed her hand and replied,

"You are very good.--The future must be my proof.  I have laid down my
plan, and if I am capable of adhering to it--my feelings shall be
governed and my temper improved.  They shall no longer worry others,
nor torture myself.  I shall now live solely for my family.  You, my
mother, and Margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you will
share my affections entirely between you.  From you, from my home, I
shall never again have the smallest incitement to move; and if I do mix
in other society, it will be only to shew that my spirit is humbled, my
heart amended, and that I can practise the civilities, the lesser
duties of life, with gentleness and forbearance.  As for Willoughby--to
say that I shall soon or that I shall ever forget him, would be idle.
His remembrance can be overcome by no change of circumstances or
opinions.  But it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion,
by reason, by constant employment."

She paused--and added in a low voice, "If I could but know HIS heart,
everything would become easy."

Elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or
impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at all
nearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as
reflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself
leading to the fact.

She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her
anxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief
points on which Willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his
repentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard.
Marianne said not a word.--She trembled, her eyes were fixed on the
ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them.  A
thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge
one.  She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand,
unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears covered
her cheeks.

Elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they
reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her curiosity
must be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing
but Willoughby, and their conversation together; and was carefully
minute in every particular of speech and look, where minuteness could
be safely indulged.  As soon as they entered the house, Marianne with a
kiss of gratitude and these two words just articulate through her
tears, "Tell mama," withdrew from her sister and walked slowly up
stairs.  Elinor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable
as what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its
result, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should Marianne
fail to do it, she turned into the parlour to fulfill her parting
injunction.



CHAPTER 47


Mrs. Dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former
favourite.  She rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his
imputed guilt;--she was sorry for him;--she wished him happy.  But the
feelings of the past could not be recalled.--Nothing could restore him
with a faith unbroken--a character unblemished, to Marianne.  Nothing
could do away the knowledge of what the latter had suffered through his
means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza.  Nothing
could replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the
interests of Colonel Brandon.

Had Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby's story from
himself--had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence
of his countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion
would have been greater.  But it was neither in Elinor's power, nor in
her wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her retailed
explanation, as had at first been called forth in herself.  Reflection
had given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own opinion of
Willoughby's deserts;--she wished, therefore, to declare only the
simple truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his
character, without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy
astray.

In the evening, when they were all three together, Marianne began
voluntarily to speak of him again;--but that it was not without an
effort, the restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for
some time previously sitting--her rising colour, as she spoke,--and her
unsteady voice, plainly shewed.

"I wish to assure you both," said she, "that I see every thing--as you
can desire me to do."

Mrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing
tenderness, had not Elinor, who really wished to hear her sister's
unbiased opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence.  Marianne
slowly continued--

"It is a great relief to me--what Elinor told me this morning--I have
now heard exactly what I wished to hear."--For some moments her voice
was lost; but recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness
than before--"I am now perfectly satisfied, I wish for no change.  I
never could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or later
I must have known, all this.--I should have had no confidence, no
esteem.  Nothing could have done it away to my feelings."

"I know it--I know it," cried her mother.  "Happy with a man of
libertine practices!--With one who so injured the peace of the dearest
of our friends, and the best of men!--No--my Marianne has not a heart
to be made happy with such a man!--Her conscience, her sensitive
conscience, would have felt all that the conscience of her husband
ought to have felt."

Marianne sighed, and repeated, "I wish for no change."

"You consider the matter," said Elinor, "exactly as a good mind and a
sound understanding must consider it; and I dare say you perceive, as
well as myself, not only in this, but in many other circumstances,
reason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved you
in many certain troubles and disappointments, in which you would have
been poorly supported by an affection, on his side, much less certain.
Had you married, you must have been always poor.  His expensiveness is
acknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct declares that
self-denial is a word hardly understood by him.  His demands and your
inexperience together, on a small, very small income, must have brought
on distresses which would not be the LESS grievous to you, from having
been entirely unknown and unthought of before.  YOUR sense of honour
and honesty would have led you, I know, when aware of your situation,
to attempt all the economy that would appear to you possible: and,
perhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched only on your own comfort,
you might have been suffered to practice it, but beyond that--and how
little could the utmost of your single management do to stop the ruin
which had begun before your marriage?-- Beyond THAT, had you
endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge HIS enjoyments, is it not
to be feared, that instead of prevailing on feelings so selfish to
consent to it, you would have lessened your own influence on his heart,
and made him regret the connection which had involved him in such
difficulties?"

Marianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the word "Selfish?" in a
tone that implied--"do you really think him selfish?"

"The whole of his behaviour," replied Elinor, "from the beginning to
the end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness.  It was
selfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which
afterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession of
it, and which finally carried him from Barton.  His own enjoyment, or
his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle."

"It is very true.  MY happiness never was his object."

"At present," continued Elinor, "he regrets what he has done.  And why
does he regret it?--Because he finds it has not answered towards
himself.  It has not made him happy.  His circumstances are now
unembarrassed--he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks only
that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than yourself.
But does it follow that had he married you, he would have been
happy?--The inconveniences would have been different.  He would then
have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are
removed, he now reckons as nothing.  He would have had a wife of whose
temper he could make no complaint, but he would have been always
necessitous--always poor; and probably would soon have learned to rank
the innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far
more importance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a
wife."

"I have not a doubt of it," said Marianne; "and I have nothing to
regret--nothing but my own folly."

"Rather say your mother's imprudence, my child," said Mrs. Dashwood;
"SHE must be answerable."

Marianne would not let her proceed;--and Elinor, satisfied that each
felt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that might
weaken her sister's spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first
subject, immediately continued,

"One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the
story--that all Willoughby's difficulties have arisen from the first
offence against virtue, in his behaviour to Eliza Williams.  That crime
has been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present
discontents."

Marianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led
by it to an enumeration of Colonel Brandon's injuries and merits, warm
as friendship and design could unitedly dictate.  Her daughter did not
look, however, as if much of it were heard by her.

Elinor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or three following
days, that Marianne did not continue to gain strength as she had done;
but while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried to appear
cheerful and easy, her sister could safely trust to the effect of time
upon her health.

Margaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each
other, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if not pursuing their
usual studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to
Barton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future.

Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward.  She had heard
nothing of him since her leaving London, nothing new of his plans,
nothing certain even of his present abode.  Some letters had passed
between her and her brother, in consequence of Marianne's illness; and
in the first of John's, there had been this sentence:-- "We know
nothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so
prohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford;" which
was all the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence,
for his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters.
She was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures.

Their man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business; and
when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his
mistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary
communication--

"I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is married."

Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her
turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics.  Mrs. Dashwood,
whose eyes, as she answered the servant's inquiry, had intuitively
taken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by Elinor's
countenance how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards,
alike distressed by Marianne's situation, knew not on which child to
bestow her principal attention.

The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense
enough to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood's assistance,
supported her into the other room.  By that time, Marianne was rather
better, and her mother leaving her to the care of Margaret and the
maid, returned to Elinor, who, though still much disordered, had so far
recovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just beginning an
inquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his intelligence.  Mrs. Dashwood
immediately took all that trouble on herself; and Elinor had the
benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it.

"Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas?"

"I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma'am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady
too, Miss Steele as was.  They was stopping in a chaise at the door of
the New London Inn, as I went there with a message from Sally at the
Park to her brother, who is one of the post-boys. I happened to look up
as I went by the chaise, and so I see directly it was the youngest Miss
Steele; so I took off my hat, and she knew me and called to me, and
inquired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies, especially Miss
Marianne, and bid me I should give her compliments and Mr. Ferrars's,
their best compliments and service, and how sorry they was they had not
time to come on and see you, but they was in a great hurry to go
forwards, for they was going further down for a little while, but
howsever, when they come back, they'd make sure to come and see you."

"But did she tell you she was married, Thomas?"

"Yes, ma'am. She smiled, and said how she had changed her name since
she was in these parts.  She was always a very affable and free-spoken
young lady, and very civil behaved.  So, I made free to wish her joy."

"Was Mr. Ferrars in the carriage with her?"

"Yes, ma'am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look
up;--he never was a gentleman much for talking."

Elinor's heart could easily account for his not putting himself
forward; and Mrs. Dashwood probably found the same explanation.

"Was there no one else in the carriage?"

"No, ma'am, only they two."

"Do you know where they came from?"

"They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy--Mrs. Ferrars told me."

"And are they going farther westward?"

"Yes, ma'am--but not to bide long.  They will soon be back again, and
then they'd be sure and call here."

Mrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but Elinor knew better than
to expect them.  She recognised the whole of Lucy in the message, and
was very confident that Edward would never come near them.  She
observed in a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably going
down to Mr. Pratt's, near Plymouth.

Thomas's intelligence seemed over.  Elinor looked as if she wished to
hear more.

"Did you see them off, before you came away?"

"No, ma'am--the horses were just coming out, but I could not bide any
longer; I was afraid of being late."

"Did Mrs. Ferrars look well?"

"Yes, ma'am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was
always a very handsome young lady--and she seemed vastly contented."

Mrs. Dashwood could think of no other question, and Thomas and the
tablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed.
Marianne had already sent to say, that she should eat nothing more.
Mrs. Dashwood's and Elinor's appetites were equally lost, and Margaret
might think herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness as both
her sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had often
had to be careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to go
without her dinner before.

When the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and
Elinor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a
similarity of thoughtfulness and silence.  Mrs. Dashwood feared to
hazard any remark, and ventured not to offer consolation.  She now
found that she had erred in relying on Elinor's representation of
herself; and justly concluded that every thing had been expressly
softened at the time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness,
suffering as she then had suffered for Marianne.  She found that she
had been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her
daughter, to think the attachment, which once she had so well
understood, much slighter in reality, than she had been wont to
believe, or than it was now proved to be.  She feared that under this
persuasion she had been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to her
Elinor;--that Marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged, more
immediately before her, had too much engrossed her tenderness, and led
her away to forget that in Elinor she might have a daughter suffering
almost as much, certainly with less self-provocation, and greater
fortitude.



CHAPTER 48


Elinor now found the difference between the expectation of an
unpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it,
and certainty itself.  She now found, that in spite of herself, she had
always admitted a hope, while Edward remained single, that something
would occur to prevent his marrying Lucy; that some resolution of his
own, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of
establishment for the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of all.
But he was now married; and she condemned her heart for the lurking
flattery, which so much heightened the pain of the intelligence.

That he should be married soon, before (as she imagined) he could be in
orders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the
living, surprised her a little at first.  But she soon saw how likely
it was that Lucy, in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure
him, should overlook every thing but the risk of delay.  They were
married, married in town, and now hastening down to her uncle's.  What
had Edward felt on being within four miles from Barton, on seeing her
mother's servant, on hearing Lucy's message!

They would soon, she supposed, be settled at Delaford.--Delaford,--that
place in which so much conspired to give her an interest; which she
wished to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid.  She saw them
in an instant in their parsonage-house; saw in Lucy, the active,
contriving manager, uniting at once a desire of smart appearance with
the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of half her
economical practices;--pursuing her own interest in every thought,
courting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs. Jennings, and of every
wealthy friend.  In Edward--she knew not what she saw, nor what she
wished to see;--happy or unhappy,--nothing pleased her; she turned away
her head from every sketch of him.

Elinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in London
would write to them to announce the event, and give farther
particulars,--but day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no
tidings.  Though uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault
with every absent friend.  They were all thoughtless or indolent.

"When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma'am?" was an inquiry which
sprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on.

"I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see, than to
hear from him again.  I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should
not be surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day."

This was gaining something, something to look forward to.  Colonel
Brandon must have some information to give.

Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on
horseback drew her eyes to the window.  He stopt at their gate.  It was
a gentleman, it was Colonel Brandon himself.  Now she could hear more;
and she trembled in expectation of it.  But--it was NOT Colonel
Brandon--neither his air--nor his height.  Were it possible, she must
say it must be Edward.  She looked again.  He had just dismounted;--she
could not be mistaken,--it WAS Edward.  She moved away and sat down.
"He comes from Mr. Pratt's purposely to see us.  I WILL be calm; I WILL
be mistress of myself."

In a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the
mistake.  She saw her mother and Marianne change colour; saw them look
at herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other.  She would have
given the world to be able to speak--and to make them understand that
she hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to
him;--but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their
own discretion.

Not a syllable passed aloud.  They all waited in silence for the
appearance of their visitor.  His footsteps were heard along the gravel
path; in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before
them.

His countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for
Elinor.  His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if
fearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one.
Mrs. Dashwood, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of
that daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be
guided in every thing, met with a look of forced complacency, gave him
her hand, and wished him joy.

He coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply.  Elinor's lips
had moved with her mother's, and, when the moment of action was over,
she wished that she had shaken hands with him too.  But it was then too
late, and with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again and
talked of the weather.

Marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal her
distress; and Margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole of
the case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and therefore
took a seat as far from him as she could, and maintained a strict
silence.

When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very
awful pause took place.  It was put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who
felt obliged to hope that he had left Mrs. Ferrars very well.  In a
hurried manner, he replied in the affirmative.

Another pause.

Elinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own
voice, now said,

"Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple?"

"At Longstaple!" he replied, with an air of surprise.-- "No, my mother
is in town."

"I meant," said Elinor, taking up some work from the table, "to inquire
for Mrs. EDWARD Ferrars."

She dared not look up;--but her mother and Marianne both turned their
eyes on him.  He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and,
after some hesitation, said,--

"Perhaps you mean--my brother--you mean Mrs.--Mrs. ROBERT Ferrars."

"Mrs. Robert Ferrars!"--was repeated by Marianne and her mother in an
accent of the utmost amazement;--and though Elinor could not speak,
even HER eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder.  He
rose from his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not
knowing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and
while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to
pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice,

"Perhaps you do not know--you may not have heard that my brother is
lately married to--to the youngest--to Miss Lucy Steele."

His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but Elinor,
who sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of such
agitation as made her hardly know where she was.

"Yes," said he, "they were married last week, and are now at Dawlish."

Elinor could sit it no longer.  She almost ran out of the room, and as
soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first
she thought would never cease.  Edward, who had till then looked any
where, rather than at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw--or even
heard, her emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie,
which no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of Mrs.
Dashwood could penetrate, and at last, without saying a word, quitted
the room, and walked out towards the village--leaving the others in the
greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his situation, so
wonderful and so sudden;--a perplexity which they had no means of
lessening but by their own conjectures.



CHAPTER 49


Unaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might
appear to the whole family, it was certain that Edward was free; and to
what purpose that freedom would be employed was easily pre-determined
by all;--for after experiencing the blessings of ONE imprudent
engagement, contracted without his mother's consent, as he had already
done for more than four years, nothing less could be expected of him in
the failure of THAT, than the immediate contraction of another.

His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one.  It was only to ask
Elinor to marry him;--and considering that he was not altogether
inexperienced in such a question, it might be strange that he should
feel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much in
need of encouragement and fresh air.

How soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however, how
soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he
expressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly
told.  This only need be said;--that when they all sat down to table at
four o'clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his
lady, engaged her mother's consent, and was not only in the rapturous
profession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason and truth, one
of the happiest of men.  His situation indeed was more than commonly
joyful.  He had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to
swell his heart, and raise his spirits.  He was released without any
reproach to himself, from an entanglement which had long formed his
misery, from a woman whom he had long ceased to love;--and elevated at
once to that security with another, which he must have thought of
almost with despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with
desire.  He was brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to
happiness;--and the change was openly spoken in such a genuine,
flowing, grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in
him before.

His heart was now open to Elinor, all its weaknesses, all its errors
confessed, and his first boyish attachment to Lucy treated with all the
philosophic dignity of twenty-four.

"It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side," said he, "the
consequence of ignorance of the world--and want of employment.  Had my
mother given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen
from the care of Mr. Pratt, I think--nay, I am sure, it would never
have happened; for though I left Longstaple with what I thought, at the
time, a most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had I then had
any pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at a distance
from her for a few months, I should very soon have outgrown the fancied
attachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as in such case I
must have done.  But instead of having any thing to do, instead of
having any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to chuse any
myself, I returned home to be completely idle; and for the first
twelvemonth afterwards I had not even the nominal employment, which
belonging to the university would have given me; for I was not entered
at Oxford till I was nineteen.  I had therefore nothing in the world to
do, but to fancy myself in love; and as my mother did not make my home
in every respect comfortable, as I had no friend, no companion in my
brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to
be very often at Longstaple, where I always felt myself at home, and
was always sure of a welcome; and accordingly I spent the greatest part
of my time there from eighteen to nineteen: Lucy appeared everything
that was amiable and obliging.  She was pretty too--at least I thought
so THEN; and I had seen so little of other women, that I could make no
comparisons, and see no defects.  Considering everything, therefore, I
hope, foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in every
way been proved, it was not at the time an unnatural or an inexcusable
piece of folly."

The change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the happiness
of the Dashwoods, was such--so great--as promised them all, the
satisfaction of a sleepless night.  Mrs. Dashwood, too happy to be
comfortable, knew not how to love Edward, nor praise Elinor enough, how
to be enough thankful for his release without wounding his delicacy,
nor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained conversation
together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and society of both.

Marianne could speak HER happiness only by tears.  Comparisons would
occur--regrets would arise;--and her joy, though sincere as her love
for her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language.

But Elinor--how are HER feelings to be described?--From the moment of
learning that Lucy was married to another, that Edward was free, to the
moment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she
was every thing by turns but tranquil.  But when the second moment had
passed, when she found every doubt, every solicitude removed, compared
her situation with what so lately it had been,--saw him honourably
released from his former engagement, saw him instantly profiting by the
release, to address herself and declare an affection as tender, as
constant as she had ever supposed it to be,--she was oppressed, she was
overcome by her own felicity;--and happily disposed as is the human
mind to be easily familiarized with any change for the better, it
required several hours to give sedateness to her spirits, or any degree
of tranquillity to her heart.

Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week;--for whatever
other claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a
week should be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor's company, or
suffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and
the future;--for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of
incessant talking will despatch more subjects than can really be in
common between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it is
different.  Between THEM no subject is finished, no communication is
even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over.

Lucy's marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all,
formed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers;--and
Elinor's particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her in
every view, as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable
circumstances she had ever heard.  How they could be thrown together,
and by what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of
whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any admiration,--a
girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose account that
brother had been thrown off by his family--it was beyond her
comprehension to make out.  To her own heart it was a delightful
affair, to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her
reason, her judgment, it was completely a puzzle.

Edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that, perhaps,
at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked
on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the rest.
Elinor remembered what Robert had told her in Harley Street, of his
opinion of what his own mediation in his brother's affairs might have
done, if applied to in time.  She repeated it to Edward.

"THAT was exactly like Robert,"--was his immediate observation.--"And
THAT," he presently added, "might perhaps be in HIS head when the
acquaintance between them first began.  And Lucy perhaps at first might
think only of procuring his good offices in my favour.  Other designs
might afterward arise."

How long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally
at a loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had
remained for choice ever since his quitting London, he had had no means
of hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very last
were neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual.  Not the
smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him for
what followed;--and when at last it burst on him in a letter from Lucy
herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified between
the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance.  He put the
letter into Elinor's hands.

     "DEAR SIR,

     "Being very sure I have long lost your affections,
     I have thought myself at liberty to bestow my own
     on another, and have no doubt of being as happy with
     him as I once used to think I might be with you;
     but I scorn to accept a hand while the heart was
     another's.  Sincerely wish you happy in your choice,
     and it shall not be my fault if we are not always
     good friends, as our near relationship now makes
     proper.  I can safely say I owe you no ill-will,
     and am sure you will be too generous to do us any
     ill offices.  Your brother has gained my affections
     entirely, and as we could not live without one
     another, we are just returned from the altar, and
     are now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks, which
     place your dear brother has great curiosity to see,
     but thought I would first trouble you with these
     few lines, and shall always remain,

     "Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister,
                                        "LUCY FERRARS.

     "I have burnt all your letters, and will return
     your picture the first opportunity.  Please to destroy
     my scrawls--but the ring with my hair you are very
     welcome to keep."

Elinor read and returned it without any comment.

"I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition," said
Edward.--"For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by YOU
in former days.--In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife!--how I
have blushed over the pages of her writing!--and I believe I may say
that since the first half year of our foolish--business--this is the
only letter I ever received from her, of which the substance made me
any amends for the defect of the style."

"However it may have come about," said Elinor, after a pause,--"they
are certainly married.  And your mother has brought on herself a most
appropriate punishment.  The independence she settled on Robert,
through resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own
choice; and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand
a-year, to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for
intending to do.  She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert's
marrying Lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her."

"She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite.--She
will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him
much sooner."

In what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew
not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted
by him.  He had quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours after
Lucy's letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest
road to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct, with
which that road did not hold the most intimate connection.  He could do
nothing till he were assured of his fate with Miss Dashwood; and by his
rapidity in seeking THAT fate, it is to be supposed, in spite of the
jealousy with which he had once thought of Colonel Brandon, in spite of
the modesty with which he rated his own deserts, and the politeness
with which he talked of his doubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect
a very cruel reception.  It was his business, however, to say that he
DID, and he said it very prettily.  What he might say on the subject a
twelvemonth after, must be referred to the imagination of husbands and
wives.

That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of
malice against him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to
Elinor; and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her
character, had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost
meanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his eyes had been long opened,
even before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her ignorance and a
want of liberality in some of her opinions--they had been equally
imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter
reached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed,
good-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself.  Nothing but
such a persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an
engagement, which, long before the discovery of it laid him open to his
mother's anger, had been a continual source of disquiet and regret to
him.

"I thought it my duty," said he, "independent of my feelings, to give
her the option of continuing the engagement or not, when I was
renounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend in
the world to assist me.  In such a situation as that, where there
seemed nothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living
creature, how could I suppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly
insisted on sharing my fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but
the most disinterested affection was her inducement?  And even now, I
cannot comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage
it could be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the
smallest regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world.
She could not foresee that Colonel Brandon would give me a living."

"No; but she might suppose that something would occur in your favour;
that your own family might in time relent.  And at any rate, she lost
nothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it
fettered neither her inclination nor her actions.  The connection was
certainly a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration
among her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred, it would
be better for her to marry YOU than be single."

Edward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have
been more natural than Lucy's conduct, nor more self-evident than the
motive of it.

Elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence which
compliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them at
Norland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy.

"Your behaviour was certainly very wrong," said she; "because--to say
nothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to
fancy and expect WHAT, as you were THEN situated, could never be."

He could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken
confidence in the force of his engagement.

"I was simple enough to think, that because my FAITH was plighted to
another, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that the
consciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred
as my honour.  I felt that I admired you, but I told myself it was only
friendship; and till I began to make comparisons between yourself and
Lucy, I did not know how far I was got.  After that, I suppose, I WAS
wrong in remaining so much in Sussex, and the arguments with which I
reconciled myself to the expediency of it, were no better than
these:--The danger is my own; I am doing no injury to anybody but
myself."

Elinor smiled, and shook her head.

Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon's being expected at the
Cottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted with him,
but to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer resented
his giving him the living of Delaford--"Which, at present," said he,
"after thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occasion,
he must think I have never forgiven him for offering."

NOW he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the place.
But so little interest had he taken in the matter, that he owed all his
knowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the parish,
condition of the land, and rate of the tithes, to Elinor herself, who
had heard so much of it from Colonel Brandon, and heard it with so much
attention, as to be entirely mistress of the subject.

One question after this only remained undecided, between them, one
difficulty only was to be overcome.  They were brought together by
mutual affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends;
their intimate knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness
certain--and they only wanted something to live upon.  Edward had two
thousand pounds, and Elinor one, which, with Delaford living, was all
that they could call their own; for it was impossible that Mrs.
Dashwood should advance anything; and they were neither of them quite
enough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a-year
would supply them with the comforts of life.

Edward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in his
mother towards him; and on THAT he rested for the residue of their
income.  But Elinor had no such dependence; for since Edward would
still be unable to marry Miss Morton, and his chusing herself had been
spoken of in Mrs. Ferrars's flattering language as only a lesser evil
than his chusing Lucy Steele, she feared that Robert's offence would
serve no other purpose than to enrich Fanny.

About four days after Edward's arrival Colonel Brandon appeared, to
complete Mrs. Dashwood's satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of
having, for the first time since her living at Barton, more company
with her than her house would hold.  Edward was allowed to retain the
privilege of first comer, and Colonel Brandon therefore walked every
night to his old quarters at the Park; from whence he usually returned
in the morning, early enough to interrupt the lovers' first tete-a-tete
before breakfast.

A three weeks' residence at Delaford, where, in his evening hours at
least, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between
thirty-six and seventeen, brought him to Barton in a temper of mind
which needed all the improvement in Marianne's looks, all the kindness
of her welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother's language, to
make it cheerful.  Among such friends, however, and such flattery, he
did revive.  No rumour of Lucy's marriage had yet reached him:--he knew
nothing of what had passed; and the first hours of his visit were
consequently spent in hearing and in wondering.  Every thing was
explained to him by Mrs. Dashwood, and he found fresh reason to rejoice
in what he had done for Mr. Ferrars, since eventually it promoted the
interest of Elinor.

It would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the good
opinion of each other, as they advanced in each other's acquaintance,
for it could not be otherwise.  Their resemblance in good principles
and good sense, in disposition and manner of thinking, would probably
have been sufficient to unite them in friendship, without any other
attraction; but their being in love with two sisters, and two sisters
fond of each other, made that mutual regard inevitable and immediate,
which might otherwise have waited the effect of time and judgment.

The letters from town, which a few days before would have made every
nerve in Elinor's body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read
with less emotion than mirth.  Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the
wonderful tale, to vent her honest indignation against the jilting
girl, and pour forth her compassion towards poor Mr. Edward, who, she
was sure, had quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by all
accounts, almost broken-hearted, at Oxford.-- "I do think," she
continued, "nothing was ever carried on so sly; for it was but two days
before Lucy called and sat a couple of hours with me.  Not a soul
suspected anything of the matter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul!  came
crying to me the day after, in a great fright for fear of Mrs. Ferrars,
as well as not knowing how to get to Plymouth; for Lucy it seems
borrowed all her money before she went off to be married, on purpose we
suppose to make a show with, and poor Nancy had not seven shillings in
the world;--so I was very glad to give her five guineas to take her
down to Exeter, where she thinks of staying three or four weeks with
Mrs. Burgess, in hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with the Doctor
again.  And I must say that Lucy's crossness not to take them along
with them in the chaise is worse than all.  Poor Mr. Edward! I cannot
get him out of my head, but you must send for him to Barton, and Miss
Marianne must try to comfort him."

Mr. Dashwood's strains were more solemn.  Mrs. Ferrars was the most
unfortunate of women--poor Fanny had suffered agonies of
sensibility--and he considered the existence of each, under such a
blow, with grateful wonder.  Robert's offence was unpardonable, but
Lucy's was infinitely worse.  Neither of them were ever again to be
mentioned to Mrs. Ferrars; and even, if she might hereafter be induced
to forgive her son, his wife should never be acknowledged as her
daughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence.  The secrecy with
which everything had been carried on between them, was rationally
treated as enormously heightening the crime, because, had any suspicion
of it occurred to the others, proper measures would have been taken to
prevent the marriage; and he called on Elinor to join with him in
regretting that Lucy's engagement with Edward had not rather been
fulfilled, than that she should thus be the means of spreading misery
farther in the family.-- He thus continued:

"Mrs. Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward's name, which does not
surprise us; but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been
received from him on the occasion.  Perhaps, however, he is kept silent
by his fear of offending, and I shall, therefore, give him a hint, by a
line to Oxford, that his sister and I both think a letter of proper
submission from him, addressed perhaps to Fanny, and by her shewn to
her mother, might not be taken amiss; for we all know the tenderness of
Mrs. Ferrars's heart, and that she wishes for nothing so much as to be
on good terms with her children."

This paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct of
Edward.  It determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not
exactly in the manner pointed out by their brother and sister.

"A letter of proper submission!" repeated he; "would they have me beg
my mother's pardon for Robert's ingratitude to HER, and breach of
honour to ME?--I can make no submission--I am grown neither humble nor
penitent by what has passed.--I am grown very happy; but that would not
interest.--I know of no submission that IS proper for me to make."

"You may certainly ask to be forgiven," said Elinor, "because you have
offended;--and I should think you might NOW venture so far as to
profess some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew
on you your mother's anger."

He agreed that he might.

"And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be
convenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as imprudent
in HER eyes as the first."

He had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the idea of a
letter of proper submission; and therefore, to make it easier to him,
as he declared a much greater willingness to make mean concessions by
word of mouth than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing
to Fanny, he should go to London, and personally intreat her good
offices in his favour.-- "And if they really DO interest themselves,"
said Marianne, in her new character of candour, "in bringing about a
reconciliation, I shall think that even John and Fanny are not entirely
without merit."

After a visit on Colonel Brandon's side of only three or four days, the
two gentlemen quitted Barton together.-- They were to go immediately to
Delaford, that Edward might have some personal knowledge of his future
home, and assist his patron and friend in deciding on what improvements
were needed to it; and from thence, after staying there a couple of
nights, he was to proceed on his journey to town.



CHAPTER 50


After a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferrars, just so violent
and so steady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always
seemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, Edward
was admitted to her presence, and pronounced to be again her son.

Her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating.  For many years of
her life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of Edward
a few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the similar annihilation of
Robert had left her for a fortnight without any; and now, by the
resuscitation of Edward, she had one again.

In spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did not
feel the continuance of his existence secure, till he had revealed his
present engagement; for the publication of that circumstance, he
feared, might give a sudden turn to his constitution, and carry him off
as rapidly as before.  With apprehensive caution therefore it was
revealed, and he was listened to with unexpected calmness.  Mrs.
Ferrars at first reasonably endeavoured to dissuade him from marrying
Miss Dashwood, by every argument in her power;--told him, that in Miss
Morton he would have a woman of higher rank and larger fortune;--and
enforced the assertion, by observing that Miss Morton was the daughter
of a nobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while Miss Dashwood was only
the daughter of a private gentleman with no more than THREE; but when
she found that, though perfectly admitting the truth of her
representation, he was by no means inclined to be guided by it, she
judged it wisest, from the experience of the past, to submit--and
therefore, after such an ungracious delay as she owed to her own
dignity, and as served to prevent every suspicion of good-will, she
issued her decree of consent to the marriage of Edward and Elinor.

What she would engage to do towards augmenting their income was next to
be considered; and here it plainly appeared, that though Edward was now
her only son, he was by no means her eldest; for while Robert was
inevitably endowed with a thousand pounds a-year, not the smallest
objection was made against Edward's taking orders for the sake of two
hundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was anything promised either for
the present or in future, beyond the ten thousand pounds, which had
been given with Fanny.

It was as much, however, as was desired, and more than was expected, by
Edward and Elinor; and Mrs. Ferrars herself, by her shuffling excuses,
seemed the only person surprised at her not giving more.

With an income quite sufficient to their wants thus secured to them,
they had nothing to wait for after Edward was in possession of the
living, but the readiness of the house, to which Colonel Brandon, with
an eager desire for the accommodation of Elinor, was making
considerable improvements; and after waiting some time for their
completion, after experiencing, as usual, a thousand disappointments
and delays from the unaccountable dilatoriness of the workmen, Elinor,
as usual, broke through the first positive resolution of not marrying
till every thing was ready, and the ceremony took place in Barton
church early in the autumn.

The first month after their marriage was spent with their friend at the
Mansion-house; from whence they could superintend the progress of the
Parsonage, and direct every thing as they liked on the spot;--could
chuse papers, project shrubberies, and invent a sweep.  Mrs. Jennings's
prophecies, though rather jumbled together, were chiefly fulfilled; for
she was able to visit Edward and his wife in their Parsonage by
Michaelmas, and she found in Elinor and her husband, as she really
believed, one of the happiest couples in the world.  They had in fact
nothing to wish for, but the marriage of Colonel Brandon and Marianne,
and rather better pasturage for their cows.

They were visited on their first settling by almost all their relations
and friends.  Mrs. Ferrars came to inspect the happiness which she was
almost ashamed of having authorised; and even the Dashwoods were at the
expense of a journey from Sussex to do them honour.

"I will not say that I am disappointed, my dear sister," said John, as
they were walking together one morning before the gates of Delaford
House, "THAT would be saying too much, for certainly you have been one
of the most fortunate young women in the world, as it is.  But, I
confess, it would give me great pleasure to call Colonel Brandon
brother.  His property here, his place, his house, every thing is in
such respectable and excellent condition!--and his woods!--I have not
seen such timber any where in Dorsetshire, as there is now standing in
Delaford Hanger!--And though, perhaps, Marianne may not seem exactly
the person to attract him--yet I think it would altogether be advisable
for you to have them now frequently staying with you, for as Colonel
Brandon seems a great deal at home, nobody can tell what may
happen--for, when people are much thrown together, and see little of
anybody else--and it will always be in your power to set her off to
advantage, and so forth;--in short, you may as well give her a
chance--You understand me."--

But though Mrs. Ferrars DID come to see them, and always treated them
with the make-believe of decent affection, they were never insulted by
her real favour and preference.  THAT was due to the folly of Robert,
and the cunning of his wife; and it was earned by them before many
months had passed away.  The selfish sagacity of the latter, which had
at first drawn Robert into the scrape, was the principal instrument of
his deliverance from it; for her respectful humility, assiduous
attentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as the smallest opening was
given for their exercise, reconciled Mrs. Ferrars to his choice, and
re-established him completely in her favour.

The whole of Lucy's behaviour in the affair, and the prosperity which
crowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a most encouraging instance
of what an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest, however
its progress may be apparently obstructed, will do in securing every
advantage of fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time and
conscience.  When Robert first sought her acquaintance, and privately
visited her in Bartlett's Buildings, it was only with the view imputed
to him by his brother.  He merely meant to persuade her to give up the
engagement; and as there could be nothing to overcome but the affection
of both, he naturally expected that one or two interviews would settle
the matter.  In that point, however, and that only, he erred;--for
though Lucy soon gave him hopes that his eloquence would convince her
in TIME, another visit, another conversation, was always wanted to
produce this conviction.  Some doubts always lingered in her mind when
they parted, which could only be removed by another half hour's
discourse with himself.  His attendance was by this means secured, and
the rest followed in course.  Instead of talking of Edward, they came
gradually to talk only of Robert,--a subject on which he had always
more to say than on any other, and in which she soon betrayed an
interest even equal to his own; and in short, it became speedily
evident to both, that he had entirely supplanted his brother.  He was
proud of his conquest, proud of tricking Edward, and very proud of
marrying privately without his mother's consent.  What immediately
followed is known.  They passed some months in great happiness at
Dawlish; for she had many relations and old acquaintances to cut--and
he drew several plans for magnificent cottages;--and from thence
returning to town, procured the forgiveness of Mrs. Ferrars, by the
simple expedient of asking it, which, at Lucy's instigation, was
adopted.  The forgiveness, at first, indeed, as was reasonable,
comprehended only Robert; and Lucy, who had owed his mother no duty and
therefore could have transgressed none, still remained some weeks
longer unpardoned.  But perseverance in humility of conduct and
messages, in self-condemnation for Robert's offence, and gratitude for
the unkindness she was treated with, procured her in time the haughty
notice which overcame her by its graciousness, and led soon afterwards,
by rapid degrees, to the highest state of affection and influence.
Lucy became as necessary to Mrs. Ferrars, as either Robert or Fanny;
and while Edward was never cordially forgiven for having once intended
to marry her, and Elinor, though superior to her in fortune and birth,
was spoken of as an intruder, SHE was in every thing considered, and
always openly acknowledged, to be a favourite child.  They settled in
town, received very liberal assistance from Mrs. Ferrars, were on the
best terms imaginable with the Dashwoods; and setting aside the
jealousies and ill-will continually subsisting between Fanny and Lucy,
in which their husbands of course took a part, as well as the frequent
domestic disagreements between Robert and Lucy themselves, nothing
could exceed the harmony in which they all lived together.

What Edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, might have
puzzled many people to find out; and what Robert had done to succeed to
it, might have puzzled them still more.  It was an arrangement,
however, justified in its effects, if not in its cause; for nothing
ever appeared in Robert's style of living or of talking to give a
suspicion of his regretting the extent of his income, as either leaving
his brother too little, or bringing himself too much;--and if Edward
might be judged from the ready discharge of his duties in every
particular, from an increasing attachment to his wife and his home, and
from the regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be supposed no
less contented with his lot, no less free from every wish of an
exchange.

Elinor's marriage divided her as little from her family as could well
be contrived, without rendering the cottage at Barton entirely useless,
for her mother and sisters spent much more than half their time with
her.  Mrs. Dashwood was acting on motives of policy as well as pleasure
in the frequency of her visits at Delaford; for her wish of bringing
Marianne and Colonel Brandon together was hardly less earnest, though
rather more liberal than what John had expressed.  It was now her
darling object.  Precious as was the company of her daughter to her,
she desired nothing so much as to give up its constant enjoyment to her
valued friend; and to see Marianne settled at the mansion-house was
equally the wish of Edward and Elinor.  They each felt his sorrows, and
their own obligations, and Marianne, by general consent, was to be the
reward of all.

With such a confederacy against her--with a knowledge so intimate of
his goodness--with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself,
which at last, though long after it was observable to everybody
else--burst on her--what could she do?

Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate.  She was born to
discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her
conduct, her most favourite maxims.  She was born to overcome an
affection formed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no sentiment
superior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily to give
her hand to another!--and THAT other, a man who had suffered no less
than herself under the event of a former attachment, whom, two years
before, she had considered too old to be married,--and who still sought
the constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat!

But so it was.  Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible
passion, as once she had fondly flattered herself with expecting,--instead
of remaining even for ever with her mother, and finding her only
pleasures in retirement and study, as afterwards in her more calm and
sober judgment she had determined on,--she found herself at nineteen,
submitting to new attachments, entering on new duties, placed in a new
home, a wife, the mistress of a family, and the patroness of a village.

Colonel Brandon was now as happy, as all those who best loved him,
believed he deserved to be;--in Marianne he was consoled for every past
affliction;--her regard and her society restored his mind to animation,
and his spirits to cheerfulness; and that Marianne found her own
happiness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and delight of
each observing friend.  Marianne could never love by halves; and her
whole heart became, in time, as much devoted to her husband, as it had
once been to Willoughby.

Willoughby could not hear of her marriage without a pang; and his
punishment was soon afterwards complete in the voluntary forgiveness of
Mrs. Smith, who, by stating his marriage with a woman of character, as
the source of her clemency, gave him reason for believing that had he
behaved with honour towards Marianne, he might at once have been happy
and rich.  That his repentance of misconduct, which thus brought its
own punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted;--nor that he long
thought of Colonel Brandon with envy, and of Marianne with regret.  But
that he was for ever inconsolable, that he fled from society, or
contracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died of a broken heart, must
not be depended on--for he did neither.  He lived to exert, and
frequently to enjoy himself.  His wife was not always out of humour,
nor his home always uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses and dogs,
and in sporting of every kind, he found no inconsiderable degree of
domestic felicity.

For Marianne, however--in spite of his incivility in surviving her
loss--he always retained that decided regard which interested him in
every thing that befell her, and made her his secret standard of
perfection in woman;--and many a rising beauty would be slighted by him
in after-days as bearing no comparison with Mrs. Brandon.

Mrs. Dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the cottage, without
attempting a removal to Delaford; and fortunately for Sir John and Mrs.
Jennings, when Marianne was taken from them, Margaret had reached an
age highly suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible for being
supposed to have a lover.

Between Barton and Delaford, there was that constant communication
which strong family affection would naturally dictate;--and among the
merits and the happiness of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked
as the least considerable, that though sisters, and living almost
within sight of each other, they could live without disagreement
between themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands.