Chapter 58 nstead 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 your’s. 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 gentleman-like 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 shewed 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 shew 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 any thing 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 dif-fidence 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 y 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 any thing else, awakened a suspicion of the truth.
The evening passed quietly, unmarked by any thing 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 any thing 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 intreaty 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 farther 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.
Ҩ
“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.
ҨIN 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 any thing, 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 any one 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 tomorrow; 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 any thing 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
tomorrow.”
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 lizabeth’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 teazing 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 your’s. 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 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 eveness 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 chuse; give a loose 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. Your’s, &c.” 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.
Your’s sincerely, &c.” 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. Philips’s vulgarity was another, and perhaps a
greater, tax on his forbearance; and though Mrs. Philips,
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 appy 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 any
thing 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 farther 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.
Your’s, &c.” As it happened that Elizabeth had much rather not, she
endeavoured in her answer to put an end to every intreaty
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;
her’s 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 farther 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 farther 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. Finis

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