Chapter 25  fter 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 next 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. Philips,
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 very 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 on 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 not it 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 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 inconstancies 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 an 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 on 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 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 the 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 re-animated, 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 time, than as she hoped that, 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 staid a week at Longbourn; and what with the Philipses, 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 of him, 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 acquaintance in common; and, though Wickham had been little there since the death of Darcy’s father, five years before, 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 something 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, illnatured boy.
Chapter 26  rs. 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 honor; 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 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 down stairs together, Charlotte said,
“I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.”
“That you certainly shall.”
“And I have another favour to ask. 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 to come to me in March,” added Charlotte, “and I hope you will consent to be of the
party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as welcome to me as either of them.”
The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from the church door, and every body 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 enquired 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 soon see
them 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 judgment, at my expence, 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 mean time. 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 may 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, long ago. He knows of my being in
town, I am certain, from something she said herself; and yet
it should 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.
Your’s, &c.”
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 any 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 his 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 should certainly be a more interesting object
to all my acquaintance, 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  ith no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise diversi-fied 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. Every thing, 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 every body — 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 emptyheaded 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 subject was her sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to her minute enquiries, 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 was 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 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 shews 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 quite 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. “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 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 any thing. 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 quarrelling about its relative situation. Let our first effusions be less insupportable than those of the generality of travellers.”
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