Pride and Prejudice Chapters 31-47
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s manners were very much admired at the parsonage, and all the ladies felt that he would considerably add to the pleasures of their evenings at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they received any invitation there. While there were other visitors in the house, they were not needed. It wasn't until Easter Sunday, almost a week after the gentlemen’s arrival, that they were honored with such an invitation, and even then, they were merely asked after church to come over 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, but they had only seen Mr. Darcy at church.
The invitation was, of course, accepted, and at a proper hour, they joined the party in Lady Catherine’s drawing-room. Her Ladyship received them politely, but it was clear that their company was by no means as welcome as when she couldn't get anyone else. She was, in fact, almost completely engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them, especially to Darcy, much more than to any other person in the room.
Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed genuinely glad to see them. Anything was a welcome relief to him at Rosings, and Mrs. Collins’s pretty friend had, moreover, caught his eye. He now sat down by her and talked so charmingly of Kent and Hertfordshire, of traveling and staying at home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so well entertained in that room before. They talked with so much energy and flow that they drew the attention of Lady Catherine herself, as well as Mr. Darcy. His eyes had been repeatedly turned toward them with a look of curiosity. And that Her Ladyship, after a while, shared the feeling was made very clear, for she did not hesitate to call out:
SCENE START
INT. ROSINGS DRAWING ROOM - NIGHT
LADY CATHERINE is seated with her nephews. ELIZABETH and COLONEL FITZWILLIAM are conversing nearby.
LADY CATHERINE
What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking about? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is!
COLONEL FITZWILLIAM
(No longer able to avoid a reply)
We are speaking of music, madam.
LADY CATHERINE
Of music! Then please speak aloud! It is my favorite subject of all! I must have my share in the conversation if you are speaking of music. There are few people in England, I suppose, who have a more true enjoyment of music than I do, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learned, I would have been a great master. And so would Anne, if her health had allowed her to practice. I am confident that she would have performed delightfully. How is Georgiana getting on, Darcy?
Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister’s skill.
LADY CATHERINE
I am very glad to hear such a good report of her. And please tell her from me that she cannot expect to excel if she does not practice a good deal.
MR. DARCY
I assure you, madam, that she does not need such advice. She practices very constantly.
LADY CATHERINE
So much the better! It cannot be done too much. And when I next write to her, I will order her not to neglect it on any account. I often tell young ladies that no excellence in music is to be achieved without constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times that she will never play really well unless she practices 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 piano 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 rude behavior and made no answer.
When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth that she had promised to play for him, and she sat down directly at the instrument. He drew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song and then talked, as before, to her other nephew, until the latter walked away from her and, with his usual deliberation, made his way toward the piano, positioning himself so he could have a full view of the lovely performer’s face.
Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first convenient pause, turned to him with a playful smile.
ELIZABETH
You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me? I will not be alarmed, even though your sister does play so well. There is a stubbornness about me that can never bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.
MR. DARCY
I will not say you are mistaken, because you could not really believe I have any intention 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:
ELIZABETH
Your cousin will give you a very pretty idea of me and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky to meet 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 of you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire—and, allow me to say, very unwise, too—for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such things may come out as will shock your relatives to hear.
MR. DARCY
(Smiling)
I am not afraid of you.
COLONEL FITZWILLIAM
Please let me hear what you have to accuse him of! I would like to know how he behaves among strangers.
ELIZABETH
You will hear then—but prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time I ever saw 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 need of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.
MR. DARCY
I did not at that time have the honor of knowing any lady at the party beyond my own group.
ELIZABETH
True. And nobody can ever be introduced in a ballroom. Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers await your orders.
MR. DARCY
Perhaps I would have judged better if I had sought an introduction. But I am ill-equipped to recommend myself to strangers.
ELIZABETH
(Still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam)
Shall we ask your cousin the reason for this? Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill-equipped to recommend himself to strangers?
COLONEL FITZWILLIAM
I can answer your question without asking him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.
MR. DARCY
I certainly do not have the talent which some people possess 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.
ELIZABETH
My fingers do not move over this instrument in the masterly way that I see so many women’s do. They do not have the same force or speed 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 practicing. It is not that I do not believe my fingers are as capable as any other woman’s of superior performance.
MR. DARCY
(Smiling)
You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think anything is lacking. Neither of us performs for strangers.
Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know what they were talking about. Elizabeth immediately began playing again. Lady Catherine approached and, after listening for a few minutes, said to Darcy:
LADY CATHERINE
Miss Bennet would not play at all badly if she practiced more and could have the advantage of a London tutor. 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 warmly he agreed with his cousin’s praise. But neither at that moment nor at any other could she see any symptom of love. And from the whole of his behavior to Miss de Bourgh, she drew this comfort for Miss Bingley: that he might have been just as likely to marry her, had she been his relative.
Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth’s performance, mixing them with many instructions on technique and taste. Elizabeth received them with all the patience of politeness and, at the request of the gentlemen, remained at the instrument until Her Ladyship’s carriage was ready to take them all home.
SCENE END
Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, writing to Jane. Mrs. Collins and Maria had gone on an errand into the village. Suddenly, she was startled by a ring at the door—the definite signal of a visitor. Since she hadn't heard a carriage, she thought it was probably Lady Catherine.
Under that assumption, she was putting away her half-finished letter to escape any nosy questions when the door opened and, to her very great surprise, Mr. Darcy—and Mr. Darcy alone—entered the room.
He seemed just as astonished to find her by herself and apologized for the intrusion, explaining that he had understood all the ladies were at home.
They sat down, and after she asked about the family at Rosings, they seemed in danger of falling into a complete and total silence. It was absolutely necessary, therefore, to think of something. In this emergency, remembering when she had last seen him in Hertfordshire and feeling curious to know what he would say about their hasty departure, she remarked:
ELIZABETH
How very suddenly you all left Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy! It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you all follow him so soon. If I remember correctly, he left only the day before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?
MR. DARCY
Perfectly so, I thank you.
She realized she was going to get no other answer. After a short pause, she added:
ELIZABETH
I believe I’ve understood that Mr. Bingley has no intention of ever returning to Netherfield?
MR. DARCY
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 social obligations are constantly increasing.
ELIZABETH
If he plans to be at Netherfield so little, it would be better for the neighborhood if he gave up the place entirely. Then we might possibly get a family there who intends to stay. But perhaps Mr. Bingley didn't rent the house for the convenience of the neighborhood, but for his own. And we must expect him to keep it or leave it based on the same principle.
MR. DARCY
I should not be surprised if he were to give it up as soon as a suitable property becomes available for purchase.
Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking any longer about his friend, and having nothing else to say, she was now determined to leave the trouble of finding a new topic to him.
He took the hint and soon began with:
MR. DARCY
This seems a very comfortable house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr. Collins first came to Hunsford.
ELIZABETH
I believe she did. And I am sure she could not have given her kindness to a more grateful person.
MR. DARCY
Mr. Collins appears to be very fortunate in his choice of a wife.
ELIZABETH
Yes, indeed. His friends may well be happy that he 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 I consider her marrying Mr. Collins to be the wisest thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and from a practical point of view, it is certainly a very good match for her.
MR. DARCY
It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within such an easy distance of her own family and friends.
ELIZABETH
An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles!
MR. DARCY
And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day’s journey. Yes, I call it a very easy distance.
ELIZABETH
I should never have considered the distance as one of the advantages of the match! I should never have said Mrs. Collins was settled near her family.
MR. DARCY
It is a testament to your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond the immediate neighborhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would seem far.
As he spoke, there was a sort of smile on his face that Elizabeth thought she understood. He must be assuming she was thinking of Jane and Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered:
ELIZABETH
I do not mean to say that a woman cannot be settled too near her family. "Far" and "near" must be relative and depend on many different circumstances. Where there is a fortune to make the expenses of travel unimportant, distance is no problem. But that is not the case here. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not one that will allow for frequent journeys. And I am certain my friend would not call herself "near" her family at less than half the present distance.
Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little closer to her and said:
MR. DARCY
You cannot have a right to such a very strong local attachment. You cannot have been always at Longbourn.
Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman seemed to experience some change of feeling. He drew his chair back, took a newspaper from the table, and glancing over it, said in a colder voice:
MR. DARCY
Are you pleased with Kent?
A short conversation on the subject of the countryside followed, calm and concise on both sides. It was soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte and her sister, who had just returned from their walk. The private meeting surprised them. Mr. Darcy explained the mistake that had led to him intruding on Miss Bennet and, after sitting for a few minutes longer without saying much to anyone, he left.
SCENE START
INT. HUNSFORD PARSONAGE - DAY
CHARLOTTE and ELIZABETH are together after Darcy's departure.
CHARLOTTE
(As soon as he was gone)
What can be the meaning of this? My dear Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he would never have called on us in this informal way!
But when Elizabeth told her about his long silences, it didn't seem very likely, even to Charlotte’s hopeful mind. After various guesses, they could only conclude that his visit was the result of the difficulty of finding anything else to do, which was more probable given the time of year. All the field sports were over. Indoors, there was Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard table. But gentlemen cannot always be indoors. 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 point on, to walk there 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 clear to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he enjoyed their company, a belief that, of course, made them like him even more. Elizabeth was reminded by her own satisfaction in being with him, as well as by his obvious admiration of her, of her former favorite, 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 more intelligent mind.
But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the parsonage, it was more difficult to understand. It couldn't be for the company, as he frequently sat there for ten minutes at a time without opening his lips. And when he did speak, it seemed to be the result of necessity rather than of choice—a sacrifice to propriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared truly animated. Mrs. Collins didn't know what to make of him. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s occasional teasing about his quietness proved that he was generally different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told her. And as she would have liked to believe this change was the effect of love, and the object of that love her friend Eliza, she set herself seriously to the task of finding 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 debatable. It was an earnest, steady gaze, but she often doubted whether there was much admiration in it, and sometimes it seemed to be nothing but a complete 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. Mrs. Collins did not think it was right to press the subject, from the danger of raising expectations that might only end in disappointment. For in her opinion, there was no doubt that all her friend’s dislike would vanish if she could believe him to be in her power.
In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned for her to marry Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was, beyond comparison, the more pleasant man. He certainly admired her, and his situation in life was most desirable. But, to balance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had considerable influence in the church, and his cousin could have none at all.
SCENE END
More than once during her walks in the park, Elizabeth unexpectedly ran into Mr. Darcy. She felt the complete unfairness of the bad luck that would bring him to a place where no one else ever went. To prevent it from happening again, she made sure to inform him, the first time it happened, that it was a favorite spot of hers. How it could happen a second time, therefore, was very odd! Yet, it did. And even a third. It seemed like a deliberate act of ill will, or a voluntary punishment, because on these occasions it wasn't just a few formal questions and an awkward pause before he went away. He actually thought it was necessary to turn back and walk with her.
He never said a great deal, nor did she bother herself with talking or listening much. But it struck her, during their third encounter, that he was asking some odd, disconnected questions—about her pleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins’s happiness. And when he spoke of Rosings and her not knowing the house perfectly, he seemed to expect that whenever she came to Kent again, she would be staying there as well. His words seemed to imply it. Could he be thinking of Colonel Fitzwilliam? She guessed that if he meant anything, he must be hinting at what might happen in that direction. It distressed her a little, and she was quite glad to find herself at the gate in the fence opposite the parsonage.
One day, as she walked, she was busy reading Jane’s last letter and dwelling on some passages that proved Jane had not been in good spirits. When she looked up, instead of being surprised by Mr. Darcy again, she saw Colonel Fitzwilliam walking toward her. Putting the letter away immediately and forcing a smile, she said:
SCENE START
EXT. ROSINGS PARK - DAY
ELIZABETH is walking alone. She sees COLONEL FITZWILLIAM approaching.
ELIZABETH
I didn’t know you ever walked this way.
COLONEL FITZWILLIAM
I have been making a tour of the park, as I generally do every year, and I plan to end it with a call at the parsonage. Are you going much farther?
ELIZABETH
No, I was about to turn back in a moment.
And so she did. They walked toward the parsonage together.
ELIZABETH
Do you definitely leave Kent on Saturday?
COLONEL FITZWILLIAM
Yes—if Darcy doesn’t put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He arranges the business just as he pleases.
ELIZABETH
And if he isn't able to please himself in the arrangement, he at least has the pleasure of having the great power of choice. I don’t know anyone who seems to enjoy the power of doing what he likes more than Mr. Darcy.
COLONEL FITZWILLIAM
He does like to have his own way. But so do we all. It’s only that he has better means of having it than many others because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak from experience. A younger son, you know, must get used to self-denial and dependence.
ELIZABETH
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 a lack of money from going wherever you chose, or from getting anything you fancied?
COLONEL FITZWILLIAM
These are very direct questions—and perhaps I cannot say that I have experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater importance, I may suffer from a lack of money. Younger sons cannot marry where they like.
ELIZABETH
Unless they like women of fortune, which I think they very often do.
COLONEL FITZWILLIAM
Our habits of spending make us too dependent. And there are too 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 blushed at the idea. But, recovering herself, she said in a lively tone:
ELIZABETH
And pray, what is the usual price of an earl’s younger son? Unless the elder brother is very sickly, I suppose you wouldn’t ask for more than fifty thousand pounds?
He answered her in the same style, and the subject was dropped. To interrupt a silence that might make him think she was affected by what had just been said, she soon added:
ELIZABETH
I imagine your cousin brought you down with him mainly for the sake of having someone at his disposal. I wonder why he doesn’t marry, to secure a lasting convenience of that kind. But perhaps his sister does just as well for the present, and since she is under his sole care, he may do what he likes with her.
COLONEL FITZWILLIAM
No, that is an advantage he must share with me. I am a joint guardian of Miss Darcy.
ELIZABETH
Are you indeed? And pray, what sort of guardians do you make? Does your ward 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 noticed him looking at her earnestly. The manner in which he immediately asked her why she thought Miss Darcy was likely to give them any trouble convinced her that she had somehow gotten pretty close to the truth. She replied directly:
ELIZABETH
You need not be frightened. I have never heard any harm of her, and I dare say she is one of the most manageable creatures in the world. She is a very great favorite with some ladies of my acquaintance—Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them.
COLONEL FITZWILLIAM
I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant, gentlemanly man—he is a great friend of Darcy’s.
ELIZABETH
(Dryly)
Oh, yes. Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr. Bingley and takes a tremendous amount of care of him.
COLONEL FITZWILLIAM
Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy does take care of him in those areas where he most needs care. From something he told me on our journey here, I have reason to think Bingley is very much in his debt. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to assume that Bingley was the person he meant. It was all just a guess.
ELIZABETH
What is it you mean?
COLONEL FITZWILLIAM
It is a circumstance that Darcy would not wish to be generally known, because if it were to get back to the lady’s family, it would be an unpleasant thing.
ELIZABeth
You may depend upon my not mentioning it.
COLONEL FITZWILLIAM
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 recently saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most unwise marriage, but without mentioning names or any other details. I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him to be the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from knowing that they had been together the whole of last summer.
ELIZABETH
Did Mr. Darcy give you reasons for this interference?
COLONEL FITZWILLIAM
I understood that there were some very strong objections against the lady.
ELIZABETH
And what tricks did he use to separate them?
COLONEL FITZWILLIAM
(Smiling)
He did not tell me of his own tricks. 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 for a little while, Fitzwilliam asked her why she was so thoughtful.
ELIZABETH
I am thinking of what you have been telling me. Your cousin’s conduct does not sit well with me. Why was he to be the judge?
COLONEL FITZWILLIAM
You are rather inclined to call his interference meddlesome?
ELIZABETH
I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the appropriateness of his friend’s feelings, or why, based on his own judgment alone, he was to determine and direct how his friend was to be happy. But...
(Recollecting herself)
...as we know none of the details, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed that there was much affection in the case.
COLONEL FITZWILLIAM
That is not an unnatural guess. But it does lessen the honor of my cousin’s triumph very sadly.
This was spoken jokingly, but it appeared to her so accurate a picture of Mr. Darcy that she wouldn't trust herself with an answer. Therefore, she abruptly changed the conversation and talked about unimportant matters until they reached the parsonage.
There, shut in her own room as soon as their visitor had left, 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 involved in the measures taken to separate Bingley and Jane, she had never doubted. But she had always attributed the main plan and arrangement of them to Miss Bingley. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him, he was the cause. His pride and his whim 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 lawyer, 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 is excellent, her mind is improved, and her manners are captivating! Neither could anything be said against my father, who, though with some peculiarities, has abilities Mr. Darcy himself need not look down on, and a 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 any significant weight with Mr. Darcy, whose pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from the lack of importance in his friend’s connections than from their lack 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 keeping Mr. Bingley for his sister.
The agitation and tears which the subject caused brought on a headache. It grew so much worse toward the evening that, added to her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it made her decide not to accompany her cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged for 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 fear that Lady Catherine would be rather displeased by her staying at home.
SCENE END
When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to work herself up as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her activity the re-reading of all the letters Jane had written to her since she’d been in Kent. They contained no actual complaints, nor was there any mention of past events or any sharing of present suffering. But in all of them, and in almost every line, there was a lack of the cheerfulness that had always characterized her style, and which, coming from the serenity of a mind at peace with itself and kindly disposed toward everyone, had hardly ever been clouded.
Elizabeth now noticed every sentence that hinted at unhappiness with an attention she had hardly given it on the first reading. Mr. Darcy’s shameful boast of the misery he had been able to inflict gave her a sharper sense of her sister’s sufferings. It was some comfort to think that his visit to Rosings was to end the day after next. And a still greater comfort that in less than two weeks, she would be with Jane again and able to help in the recovery of her spirits with all that her affection could do.
She couldn't 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 romantic intentions, and as agreeable as he was, she didn't plan to be unhappy about him.
While settling this point in her mind, she was suddenly startled by the sound of the doorbell. Her spirits fluttered a little at the idea of it being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in the evening and might now be coming to ask specifically about her. But this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were affected in a very different way when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room.
In a hurried manner, he immediately began to ask about her health, blaming his visit on a wish to hear that she was better. She answered him with a cold politeness. He sat down for a few moments and then, getting up, began to walk about the room. Elizabeth was surprised but said nothing. After a silence of several minutes, he came toward her in an agitated manner and began:
SCENE START
INT. HUNSFORD PARSONAGE PARLOR - NIGHT
ELIZABETH is alone. MR. DARCY enters unexpectedly.
MR. DARCY
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 words. She stared, blushed, doubted, and was silent. He took this as sufficient encouragement, and the confession of all that he felt, and had long felt for her, immediately followed.
He spoke well, but there were feelings other than those of the heart to be shared. And he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than he was on the subject of pride. His sense of her inferiority—of it being a degradation to him—of the family obstacles which had always fought against his inclination, were dwelled on with a passion that seemed due to the importance he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his proposal.
In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she couldn't be insensitive to the compliment of such a man’s affection. And though her intentions did not change for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was about to receive. But then, angered by his subsequent words, she lost all compassion in her resentment. She tried, however, to compose herself to answer him with patience when he had finished.
He concluded by describing to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite of all his efforts, 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 favorable answer. He spoke of apprehension and anxiety, but his face expressed real confidence. Such an attitude could only anger her further. And when he finished, the color rose in her cheeks.
ELIZABETH
In cases like this, it is, I believe, the established custom to express a sense of obligation for the feelings that have been declared, however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that an obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would thank you now. But I cannot. I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly given it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have caused pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope it will be of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented you from acknowledging 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 until he believed he had achieved it. The pause was, to Elizabeth’s feelings, dreadful. At length, with a voice of forced calmness, he said:
MR. DARCY
And this is all the reply which I am to have the honor of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little effort at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.
ELIZABETH
I might as well ask why, with so obvious a desire to offend and insult me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character! Was that not some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I have. Even if my feelings had not decided against you—if they had been indifferent, or even if they had been favorable—do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps forever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?
As she spoke these words, Mr. Darcy’s color changed, but the emotion was brief. He listened without attempting to interrupt her as she continued.
ELIZABETH
I have every reason in the world to think badly of you. No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you played 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 criticism of the world for being fickle and unstable, and the other to its ridicule for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in the most acute kind of misery.
She paused and saw with no small amount of indignation that he was listening with an air that proved him completely unmoved by any feeling of remorse. He even looked at her with a smile of feigned disbelief.
ELIZABETH
Can you deny that you have done it?
With a forced calmness, he then replied:
MR. DARCY
I have no wish to deny that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Toward him, I have been kinder than I have been toward myself.
Elizabeth disdained to even acknowledge this self-pitying remark, but its meaning did not escape her, nor was it likely to win her over.
ELIZABETH
But it is not merely this affair on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was decided. Your character was revealed to me in the story 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 defend yourself here? Or under what misrepresentation can you fool others?
MR. DARCY
(In a less calm tone, and with a heightened color)
You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns.
ELIZABETH
Who that knows what his misfortunes have been can help but feel an interest in him?
MR. DARCY
(Contemptuously)
His misfortunes! Yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed.
ELIZABETH
(With energy)
And of your infliction! You have reduced him to his present state of poverty—comparative poverty. You have withheld the advantages which you must know were intended for him. You have deprived the best years of his life of the independence which was no less his due than he deserved. You have done all this! And yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and ridicule!
MR. DARCY
(Walking with quick steps across the room)
And this is your opinion of me! This is the esteem in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps...
(Stopping and turning towards her)
...these offenses might have been overlooked had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the reservations that had long prevented me from forming any serious intentions. These bitter accusations might have been suppressed had I, with greater tact, concealed my struggles and flattered you into the belief that I was driven by unqualified, pure inclination—by reason, by reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I described. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relatives whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?
Elizabeth felt herself growing angrier with every moment. Yet she tried her utmost to speak with composure when she said:
ELIZABETH
You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the manner of your declaration affected me in any other way than as it spared me the concern I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanly way.
She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued.
ELIZABETH
You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.
Again, his astonishment was obvious. He looked at her with an expression of mingled disbelief and humiliation. She went on.
ELIZABETH
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 for the feelings of others, were such as to form the foundation of disapproval 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 persuaded to marry.
MR. DARCY
You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly understand 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. A moment later, Elizabeth heard him open the front door and leave the house.
The tumult in her mind was now painfully great. She didn't know how to support herself, and from actual weakness, she sat down and cried for half an hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, grew with 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 that had made him prevent his friend’s marrying her sister, and which must be at least equally strong in his own case—it was almost incredible! It was gratifying to have unconsciously inspired so strong an affection.
But his pride, his abominable pride—his shameless confession of what he had done with respect to Jane—his unpardonable confidence in acknowledging it, though he could not justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his cruelty toward whom he had not even attempted to deny, soon overcame the pity that the thought of his attachment had for a moment inspired.
She continued in very agitated thoughts until the sound of Lady Catherine’s carriage made her realize how unequal she was to face Charlotte’s observation, and she hurried away to her room.
SCENE END
Elizabeth woke up the next morning to the same thoughts and worries that had finally closed her eyes the night before. She still couldn't recover from the surprise of what had happened. It was impossible to think of anything else. Completely uninterested in any activity, she decided, soon after breakfast, to treat herself to some fresh air and exercise.
She was heading directly to her favorite walk when the memory of Mr. Darcy sometimes coming there stopped her. Instead of entering the park, she turned up the lane that led farther from the main road. The park fence was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed one of the gates into the grounds.
After walking back and forth along that part of the lane two or three times, she was tempted by the pleasantness of the morning to stop at the gates and look into the park. The five weeks she had now spent in Kent had made a great difference in the countryside, and every day was adding to the greenness of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the grove that bordered the park. He was moving in her direction, and afraid of it being Mr. Darcy, she immediately started to retreat. But the person who was approaching was now near enough to see her. Stepping forward with an eagerness, he said her name.
She had turned away, but on hearing herself called—though in a voice that proved it to be Mr. Darcy—she moved back toward the gate. He had, by that time, reached it as well. Holding out a letter, which she instinctively took, he said with a look of arrogant composure:
MR. DARCY
I have been walking in the grove for some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honor of reading that letter?
And then, with a slight bow, he turned back into the trees and was soon out of sight.
With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter. To her ever-increasing wonder, she found an envelope containing two sheets of letter paper, written completely through in a very small, dense hand. The envelope itself was also full. Continuing her way along the lane, she began to read it. It was dated from Rosings, at eight o’clock in the morning, and it read as follows:
“Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the fear of it containing any repetition of those feelings or renewal of those offers which were so disgusting to you last night. 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. The effort which the writing and the reading of this letter must cause 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 give it unwillingly, but I demand it of your sense of justice.
“Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of equal importance, you laid to my charge last night. The first was that, regardless of the feelings of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister. The other was that I had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honor and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity and destroyed the prospects of Mr. Wickham. To have willfully and cruelly thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favorite of my father, a young man who had almost no other support than our patronage and who had been brought up to expect it, would be a depravity to which the separation of two young people, whose affection could have been the growth of only a few weeks, could bear no comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was so liberally given last night, respecting each circumstance, I will 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 a further apology would be absurd.
“I had not been in Hertfordshire for long before I saw, as did others, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any other young woman in the country. But it was not until the evening of the dance at Netherfield that I had any fear of his feeling a serious attachment. I had often seen him in love before. At that ball, while I had the honor of dancing with you, I was first made aware, 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 only the time could be undecided. From that moment, I observed my friend’s behavior attentively, and I could then see that his preference 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 sign of particular regard. I remained convinced from the evening’s observation that though she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by sharing his feelings. 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 is so, if I have been misled by such an error to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I will not hesitate to assert that the serenity of your sister’s face and air was such that it might have given the most perceptive observer a conviction that, however charming her personality, 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 had to put aside with the utmost force of passion in my own case; the lack of connections could not be so great an evil to my friend as it would be to me. But there were other causes of dislike—causes which, though still existing, and existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself tried 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 the total lack 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 description of them, let it give you consolation to consider that to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the same criticism is a praise no less generally given to you and your elder sister than it is honorable to the sense and disposition of both. I will only say further that from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every incentive was heightened which could have led me before to preserve my friend from what I considered a most unhappy connection. He left Netherfield for London on the following day, as you, I am certain, remember, with the intention of soon returning.
“The part which I played is now to be explained. His sisters’ uneasiness had been equally aroused as my own; our shared feeling was soon discovered, and, equally aware that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly decided on joining him directly in London. We accordingly went—and there I readily took on the task of pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a choice. I described and emphasized them earnestly. But, however this argument might have staggered or delayed his decision, I do not suppose that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been supported by the assurance that I did not hesitate 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 judgment than on his own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself was no very difficult task. To persuade him against returning to Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done this 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 stooped to adopt the measures of trickery 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 to be extinguished enough 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 learned 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 truthfulness.
“Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man who had, for many years, the management of all the Pemberley estates. His 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 given. My father supported him at school and afterward 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 also had 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 tendencies—the lack of principle—which he was careful to hide from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly the same age as himself, 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 the feelings which Mr. Wickham has created, a suspicion of their nature will not prevent me from revealing his real character—it adds even another motive.
“My excellent father died about five years ago, and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was so steady to the last 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, he desired that a valuable family church 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 of these events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally decided against taking orders, he hoped I would not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate financial advantage in place of the church position, 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 for that. I rather wished than believed him to be sincere, but at any rate, I was perfectly ready to agree 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, should it be 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 badly of him to invite him to Pemberley or to admit his society in town. In town, I believe he chiefly lived, but his studying the law was a mere pretense, 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 death of the incumbent of the living which had been intended for him, he applied to me again by letter for the position. 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 request or for resisting every repetition of 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 do not know. But last summer, he was again most painfully forced upon 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 reveal to any human being. Having said this 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 was formed for her in London. And last summer, she went with the lady who presided over it to Ramsgate. And there 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 toward Mr. Wickham. I do not know in what manner, under what form of falsehood, he has 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 to 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 endeavor 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”
If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, didn't expect it to contain a renewal of his proposal, she had formed no expectation at all of its contents. But whatever they were, you can well imagine how eagerly she read through them, and what a whirlwind of conflicting emotions they stirred up.
Her feelings as she read were almost impossible to define. With astonishment, she first realized that he believed any sort of apology was in his power. And she was firmly convinced that he could have no explanation to give that a proper sense of shame wouldn't force him to hide. With a strong prejudice against everything he might say, she began his account of what had happened at Netherfield.
She read with an eagerness that left her little ability to comprehend, and from her impatience to know what the next sentence might bring, she was incapable of focusing on the meaning of the one right in front of her. His belief that her sister was indifferent, she instantly decided, was false. And his account of the real, the worst objections to the match made her too angry to have any wish of being fair to him. He expressed no regret for what he had done that satisfied her. His style was not sorry, but arrogant. It was all pride and insolence.
But when this subject was followed by his account of Mr. Wickham—when she read with a somewhat clearer attention a story of events which, if true, must destroy every cherished opinion of his worth, and which bore such an alarming resemblance to his own history of himself—her feelings were even more acutely painful and more difficult to define. Astonishment, fear, and even horror overwhelmed her. She wanted to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, "This must be false! This cannot be! This must be the most outrageous lie!" And when she had gone through the whole letter, though barely knowing anything of the last page or two, she put it hastily away, declaring that she would not pay it any mind, that she would never look at it again.
In this disturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing, she walked on. But it wouldn't do. In half a minute, the letter was unfolded again. Collecting herself as well as she could, she began the humiliating task of re-reading all that related to Wickham, and forced herself to examine the meaning of every sentence.
The account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what he had told her himself. And the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though she had not before known its extent, agreed perfectly well with his own words. So far, each story confirmed the other. But when she came to the will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the church living was fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was impossible not to feel that there was a gross lie on one side or the other. And for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes were not wrong.
But when she read and re-read with the closest attention the details immediately following—of Wickham’s resigning all claims to the living, of his receiving in its place so considerable a sum as three thousand pounds—she was again forced to hesitate. She put down the letter, weighed every circumstance with what she intended to be impartiality, and 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 for any trickery to represent in a way that would make Mr. Darcy’s conduct anything less than infamous, was capable of a twist that would make him entirely blameless throughout the whole thing.
The extravagance and general immorality that he did not hesitate to lay at Mr. Wickham’s door shocked her exceedingly—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 enlisted at the persuasion of the young man who, on meeting him accidentally in London, had renewed a slight acquaintance there. Of his former way of life, nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told them himself. As to his real character, had the information been in her power, she had never felt a wish to inquire. His face, his voice, and his manner had established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to recall some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity or kindness that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr. Darcy, or at least, by the dominance of virtue, make up for those casual errors under which she would try to classify what Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many years. But no such memory came to her aid. She could see him instantly before her, in every charm of his air and his address, but she could remember no more substantial good than the general approval of the neighborhood and the regard which his social skills had gained him among the other officers.
After pausing on this point for a considerable while, she once more continued to read. But alas! The story that 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 detail to Colonel Fitzwilliam himself—from whom she had previously received the information of his close involvement in all his cousin’s affairs, and whose character she had no reason to question. At one time, she had almost resolved to ask 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 risked 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. Philips’s. Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was now struck with the impropriety of such conversations with a stranger and wondered how it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his words 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 would stand his ground. Yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball the very next week. She remembered also that, until the Netherfield family had left the country, he had told his story to no one but herself, but that after their departure, 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 in which he was concerned now appear! 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 behavior 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 favor grew fainter and fainter.
And in further 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 his manners were, 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 suggested 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 a 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 open-mindedness of my sister and gratified my vanity in useless or blameworthy 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, from the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prejudice and ignorance and driven reason away wherever either of them was concerned. Until 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 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 humiliating, yet deserved, 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 disapproval, 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 her, 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. She entered the house with the wish of appearing as 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 say goodbye—but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them for at least an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her until 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.
The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning. Mr. Collins, having been waiting near the gates to give them his parting bow, was able to bring home the pleasing news that they appeared to be in very good health and in as good spirits as could be expected after the sad scene of their departure from Rosings. He then hurried over to Rosings himself to console Lady Catherine and her daughter. On his return, he brought back, with great satisfaction, a message from Her Ladyship, stating that she felt so dull that she was very desirous of having them all to dinner.
Elizabeth couldn't look at Lady Catherine without remembering 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 outrage would have been. “What would she have said? How would she have behaved?” were questions with which she amused herself.
Their first topic of conversation at dinner was the shrinking of the Rosings party.
LADY CATHERINE
I assure you, I feel it exceedingly. I believe no one feels the loss of friends as much as I do. But I am particularly attached to these young men, and I know them to be so much attached to me! They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The dear Colonel kept his spirits up tolerably well until just at the end, 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 a flattering hint to throw in here, which were kindly smiled upon by the mother and daughter.
After dinner, Lady Catherine observed that Miss Bennet seemed to be in low spirits. Immediately explaining it to herself by guessing that she didn't want to go home again so soon, she added:
SCENE START
INT. ROSINGS DINING ROOM - NIGHT
The party is seated after dinner.
LADY CATHERINE
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.
ELIZABETH
I am much obliged to Your Ladyship for your kind invitation, but it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in the city next Saturday.
LADY CATHERINE
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 reason for you to go so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly spare you for another two weeks.
ELIZABETH
But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return.
LADY CATHERINE
Oh! Your father, of course, can spare you if your mother can. Daughters are never of so much consequence to a father. And if you will stay another full month, 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 doesn't object to sitting on the driver's box, there will be very good room for one of you—and indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I would not object to taking you both, as neither of you is very large.
ELIZABETH
You are all kindness, madam, but I believe we must stick to our original plan.
Lady Catherine seemed resigned.
LADY CATHERINE
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 traveling by public coach by themselves. It is highly improper. You must arrange to send someone. I have the greatest dislike in the world for that sort of thing. Young women should always be properly guarded and attended, according to their station in life. When my niece Georgiana went to Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her having two male 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 a discredit to you to let them go alone.
ELIZABETH
My uncle is to send a servant for us.
LADY CATHERINE
Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a male servant, does he? I am very glad you have someone who thinks of these things. Where will you change horses? Oh! Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at the Bell inn, you will be well attended to.
Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask about their journey. And as she didn't answer them all herself, attention was necessary, which Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her. Otherwise, with a mind so occupied, she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection had to 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 could indulge in all the delight of unpleasant memories.
Mr. Darcy’s letter, she was well on her way to knowing by heart. She studied every sentence, and her feelings toward its writer were, at times, widely different. When she remembered the style of his proposal, she was still full of indignation. But when she considered how unjustly she had condemned and scolded him, her anger was turned against herself, and his disappointed feelings became the object of her compassion. His attachment inspired gratitude, his general character, respect. But she could not approve of him, nor could she, for a moment, regret her refusal or feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past behavior, there was a constant source of vexation and regret, and in the unhappy flaws of her family, a subject of even heavier sorrow.
They were hopeless of any remedy. Her father, content with laughing at them, would never make an effort to restrain the wild giddiness of his youngest daughters. And her mother, with manners so far from proper herself, was entirely unaware of the problem. Elizabeth had frequently joined with Jane in an attempt to curb the recklessness 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 influence, had always been offended by their advice. And Lydia, self-willed and careless, would barely 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 be attached to his implicit trust in his friend. How grievous, then, was the thought that of a situation so desirable in every respect, so full of advantages, so promising for happiness, Jane had been deprived by the folly and bad manners of her own family!
When to these reflections was added the revelation of Wickham’s character, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had seldom been down 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 in minute detail into the particulars of their journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing, and was so insistent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right way, that Maria felt herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the work of the morning and pack her trunk all over again.
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 curtsy and hold out her hand to both of them.
SCENE END
On Saturday morning, Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few minutes before the others appeared. He took the opportunity to pay the parting pleasantries which he considered absolutely necessary.
MR. COLLINS
I do not know, Miss Elizabeth, whether Mrs. Collins has yet expressed her appreciation for your kindness in visiting us. But I am very certain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for it. The favor of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We know how little there is to tempt anyone to our humble home. Our plain manner of living, our small rooms and few servants, and the little we see of the world must make Hunsford extremely dull for a young lady like yourself. But I hope you will believe we are grateful for your condescension and that we have done everything in our power to prevent your time here from being unpleasant.
Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and her 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 one who was obliged. Mr. Collins was pleased and, with a more smiling seriousness, replied:
MR. COLLINS
It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have passed your time in an agreeable way. 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 tiresome. 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 living in it an object of compassion while they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings.
Words were not enough to express the height of his feelings, and he was forced to walk about the room while Elizabeth tried to combine politeness and truth in a few short sentences.
MR. COLLINS
You may, in fact, carry a very favorable 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 happiness 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 was happy for 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 sad to leave her to such company! But she had chosen it with her eyes open. And though she was clearly sad that her visitors were leaving, she did not seem to be asking for pity. Her home and her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and all their related concerns had not yet lost their charms.
At last, the carriage arrived. The trunks were fastened on, the parcels were placed inside, and it was announced to be ready. After an affectionate parting between the friends, Elizabeth was escorted to the carriage by Mr. Collins. 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 he did not know them.
He then handed her in, Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed when he suddenly reminded them, with some alarm, that they had so far forgotten to leave any message for the ladies at Rosings.
MR. COLLINS
But 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.
MARIA
(After a few minutes of silence)
Good gracious! It seems but a day or two since we first came! And yet how many things have happened!
ELIZABETH
(With a sigh)
A great many indeed.
MARIA
We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides having tea there twice! How much I will have to tell!
Elizabeth added privately, “And how much I will have to conceal!”
Their journey was completed without much conversation or any alarm. And within four hours of their leaving Hunsford, they reached Mr. Gardiner’s house, where they were to stay for a few days.
Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity to study her spirits amidst the various social events that the kindness of her aunt had planned for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at Longbourn, there would be plenty of time 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 proposal. 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 that nothing could have conquered it but the state of indecision in which she remained as to how much she should share, and her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried into repeating something about Bingley that might only grieve her sister further.
It was the second week in May when the three young ladies finally set out from Gracechurch Street, heading for home in Hertfordshire. As they pulled up to the inn where their father's carriage was waiting, they saw the proof of their coachman's punctuality: Kitty and Lydia, leaning out of an upstairs window.
These two had been there for over an hour, keeping themselves happily busy by visiting a hat shop across the street, watching the soldier on guard, and preparing a salad of cucumber.
After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly showed off a table set with the kind of cold cuts and meats an inn pantry usually offers.
KITTY & LYDIA
(In unison)
Isn't this nice? Isn't this a great surprise?
LYDIA
And we’re treating you all! But, you’ll have to lend us the money. We just spent all of ours at the shop over there.
(She showed off her purchases)
Look here, I bought this bonnet. I don’t think it’s very pretty, but I figured I might as well buy it. I’ll probably take it apart as soon as I get home and see if I can make it into something better.
And when her sisters criticized it as ugly, she added with perfect nonchalance:
LYDIA
Oh, but there were two or three in the shop that were much uglier! And once I’ve bought some prettier satin to re-trim it, I think it will be quite tolerable. Besides, it won’t much matter what anyone wears this summer, not after the regiment has left Meryton. They’re leaving in two weeks, you know.
ELIZABETH
(With great satisfaction)
Are they really!
LYDIA
They’re going to be encamped near Brighton for the summer! I desperately want Papa to take us all there! It would be such a delicious plan, and I’m sure it would hardly cost anything at all. Mamma would love to go, too! Just think what a miserable summer we’ll have otherwise!
“Yes,” thought Elizabeth, “that would be a delightful plan indeed, and would completely ruin us at once. Good heavens! Brighton, and a whole camp full of soldiers, for a family that’s already been turned upside down by one poor militia regiment and the monthly dances at Meryton!”
LYDIA
Now I have some news for you!
(She said, as they all sat down at the table)
What do you think? It’s excellent news—capital news—and about a certain person we all like!
Jane and Elizabeth glanced at each other, and the waiter was told he could leave. Lydia laughed.
LYDIA
Yes, that’s just like your formality and discretion! You thought the waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I’m sure he hears much worse things than what I’m about to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I’m glad he’s gone. I’ve never seen such a long chin in my life. Well, now for my news! It’s about dear Wickham—definitely too good for the waiter’s ears, isn’t it? There’s no danger of him marrying Mary King! So there! She’s gone off to her uncle’s in Liverpool to stay. Wickham is safe!
ELIZABETH
And Mary King is safe! Safe from a connection that would have been so unwise for her fortune.
LYDIA
She’s a great fool for going away, if she liked him.
JANE
But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side.
LYDIA
I’m sure there isn’t on his side. I’ll vouch 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 she was of such crude language, the crude sentiment was very similar to what she herself had harbored and considered to be liberal-minded.
As soon as they had all eaten and the elder sisters had paid, the carriage was ordered. After some maneuvering, the whole party, with all their boxes, sewing bags, parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty’s and Lydia’s new purchases, was squeezed inside.
LYDIA
How nicely we’re all crammed in! I’m so glad I bought my bonnet, if only for the fun of having another hatbox to squeeze in here! Well, now let’s get comfortable and cozy, and talk and laugh all the way home. First of all, let’s hear what has happened to you all since you’ve been away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any flirtations? I was in great hopes that one of you would have gotten a husband before you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare! She’s almost twenty-three! Lord, how ashamed I would be if I weren't married before twenty-three! My aunt Philips wants you to get husbands so badly, you can’t imagine. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr. Collins, but I don’t think there would have been any fun in it. Lord! How I should love to be married before any of you! And then I would chaperone you about to all the balls. Oh my! We had such a good bit of fun the other day at Colonel Forster’s! Kitty and I were spending the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the evening—by the way, Mrs. Forster and I are such good friends!—and so she asked the two Harrington sisters to come, but Harriet was ill, so Pen was forced to come by herself. And then, what do you think we did? We dressed up Chamberlayne in women’s clothes to pass him off as a lady—it was hilarious! Nobody knew about it except the Forsters, Kitty, and me... oh, and my aunt, because we had to borrow one of her gowns. You cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny, and Wickham, and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in, they didn’t know him in the least! Lord, how I laughed! And so did Mrs. Forster. I thought I would have died! And that made the men suspect something, and then they soon found out what was the matter.
With these kinds of stories about their parties and their practical jokes, Lydia, with the help of Kitty’s hints and additions, tried 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 was overjoyed to see Jane’s beauty undiminished. And more than once during dinner, Mr. Bennet said, without being prompted, to Elizabeth:
MR. BENNET
I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.
Their party in the dining room was large, for almost all the Lucases came to see Maria and hear the news. Various subjects occupied them: Lady Lucas was asking Maria about the welfare and the poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet was doubly busy, on one hand gathering a report of the latest fashions from Jane, and on the other, relaying them all to the younger Lucases. And Lydia, in a voice rather louder than anyone else’s, was listing the various pleasures of her morning to anybody who would listen.
LYDIA
Oh, Mary, I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun! As we went along, Kitty and I pulled up the window blinds and pretended there was nobody in the coach! I would have gone the whole way like that, if Kitty hadn’t felt sick. And when we got to the George Inn, I do think we behaved very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest cold luncheon in the world, and if you had gone, we would have treated you too! And then when we came away, it was such fun! I thought we would never get 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 anyone could have heard us ten miles off!
To this, Mary very gravely replied:
MARY
Far be it from me, my dear sister, to belittle such pleasures. They would no doubt appeal to the average female mind. But I confess, they would have no charms for me. I would infinitely prefer a book.
But Lydia heard not a word of this answer. She seldom listened to anybody for more than half a minute and never paid any attention to Mary at all.
In the afternoon, Lydia was insistent that the rest of the girls walk to Meryton to see how everyone was getting on, but Elizabeth steadily opposed the idea. It should not be said that the Miss Bennets could not be at home for half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was another reason for her opposition, too. She dreaded seeing Mr. Wickham again and was resolved to avoid it for as long as possible. The comfort to her of the regiment’s approaching departure was, indeed, beyond expression. In two weeks they were to go—and once gone, she hoped there could be nothing more to trouble 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 a frequent topic of discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her father had not the smallest intention of giving in, but his answers were, at the same time, so vague and noncommittal that her mother, though often discouraged, had not yet despaired of finally succeeding.
Elizabeth's impatience to tell Jane what had happened could no longer be contained. At last, resolving to leave out every detail in which her sister was directly involved, and preparing her to be surprised, she related to her the next morning the main points of the scene between Mr. Darcy and herself.
Miss Bennet’s astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly affection that made any admiration of Elizabeth seem perfectly natural. And all her surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was sorry that Mr. Darcy had expressed his feelings in a way so unlikely to recommend them. But she was even more grieved for the unhappiness her sister’s refusal must have given him.
JANE
His being so sure of succeeding was wrong, and he certainly shouldn't have shown it. But consider how much it must have increased his disappointment!
ELIZABETH
Indeed, I am heartily sorry for him. But he has other feelings which will probably soon drive away any regard for me. You don't blame me, however, for refusing him?
JANE
Blame you! Oh, no.
ELIZABETH
But you blame me for having spoken so harshly of Wickham?
JANE
No—I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.
ELIZABETH
But you will know it when I tell you what happened the very next day.
She then told her about the letter, repeating all of its contents as far as they concerned George Wickham. What a blow this was for poor Jane! She would have willingly gone through the world without believing that so much wickedness existed in the entire human race as was collected here in one individual. Nor was Darcy’s defense of himself, though a relief to her feelings, enough to console her for such a discovery. She tried earnestly to prove the probability of an error and to clear one man's name without involving the other.
ELIZABETH
This will not do. You will never be able to make both of them out to be good. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied with only one. There is only so much merit between them—just enough to make one good sort of man. And lately, it has been shifting about quite a bit. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all belongs to Darcy, but you shall do as you choose.
It was some time, however, before a smile could be forced from Jane.
JANE
I do not know when I have been more shocked. Wickham, so very bad! It is almost beyond belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! Dear Lizzy, just consider what he must have suffered! Such a disappointment! And with the knowledge of your poor opinion of him, too! And having to reveal such a thing about his own sister! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it so.
ELIZABETH
Oh! No, my regret and compassion are all gone, seeing you so full of both. I know you will do him such ample justice that I am growing more unconcerned and indifferent with every moment. Your generosity makes me saving, and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will be as light as a feather.
JANE
Poor Wickham! There is such an expression of goodness in his face! Such an openness and gentleness in his manner!
ELIZABETH
There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those two young men. One has gotten all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it.
JANE
I never thought Mr. Darcy so lacking in the appearance of it as you used to.
ELIZABETH
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 upon something witty.
JANE
Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not have treated the matter as you do now.
ELIZABETH
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!
JANE
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.
ELIZABETH
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 true character.
Miss Bennet paused a little and then replied:
JANE
Surely there can be no need for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your opinion?
ELIZABETH
That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorized me to make his letter public. On the contrary, every detail relating to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to myself. And if I try to undeceive people as to the rest of his conduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so strong that it would be the death of half the good people in Meryton to try to place him in a favorable light. I am not equal to it. Wickham will soon be gone, and therefore it will not matter to anyone here what he really is. Sometime in the future, it will all be found out, and then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. For now, I will say nothing about it.
JANE
You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him forever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done and is anxious to re-establish his character. We must not make him desperate.
The turmoil in Elizabeth’s mind was calmed by this conversation. She had gotten rid of two of the secrets that had weighed on her for two weeks 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 his friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could share. And she was aware that nothing less than a perfect understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off this last burden of mystery. "And then," she said to herself, "if that very improbable event should ever take place, I will merely be able to tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The liberty of communication cannot be mine until 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 a first attachment and, from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than most first attachments often boast. And so fervently did she value his memory and prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense and all her attention to the feelings of her friends were required to check the indulgence of those regrets which must have been injurious to her own health and their peace of mind.
SCENE START
INT. LONGBOURN DRAWING ROOM - DAY
MRS. BENNET and ELIZABETH are talking.
MRS. BENNET
Well, Lizzy, 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 Philips 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 asked everybody, too, who is likely to know.
ELIZABETH
I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any more.
MRS. BENNET
Oh, well! It is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. Though I will always say he treated my daughter extremely badly, and if I were 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.
MRS. BENNET
(Continuing soon after)
And so the Collinses live very comfortably, 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.
ELIZABETH
No, nothing at all.
MRS. BENNET
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.
ELIZABETH
It was a subject which they could not mention before me.
MRS. BENNET
No, it would have been strange if they had. But I have 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 would be ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me.
SCENE END
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 neighborhood were drooping with sadness. The dejection was almost universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink, sleep, and go about their usual activities. They were very frequently scolded for this lack of feeling by Kitty and Lydia, whose own misery was extreme and who could not understand such hard-heartedness in any of their own family.
KITTY & LYDIA
(Often exclaiming in the bitterness of their sorrow)
Good Heaven! What is to become of us? What are we to do? How can you be smiling so, Lizzy?
Their affectionate mother shared all their grief. She remembered what she herself had endured on a similar occasion, twenty-five years ago.
MRS. BENNET
I am sure I cried for two days straight when Colonel Miller’s regiment went away. I thought I would have broken my heart.
LYDIA
I am sure I will break mine!
MRS. BENNET
If one could but go to Brighton!
LYDIA
Oh, yes!—if one could but go to Brighton! But Papa is so disagreeable.
MRS. BENNET
A little sea-bathing would set me up forever.
KITTY
And my aunt Phillips is sure it would do me a great deal of good.
Such were the kind of laments that echoed perpetually through Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be amused 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 inclined to pardon his interference in his friend’s romantic pursuits.
But the gloom of Lydia’s future 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 recently married. A similarity in good humor and high spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of their three months’ acquaintance, they had been intimate for two.
The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster, the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the humiliation of Kitty are scarcely to be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister’s feelings, Lydia flew about the house in restless ecstasy, demanding everyone’s congratulations and laughing and talking with more energy than ever. Meanwhile, the unlucky Kitty remained in the parlor, complaining about her fate in terms as unreasonable as her tone was whiny.
KITTY
I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask me as well as Lydia! 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 try to make her be reasonable, and Jane to make her be 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 the death warrant of all possibility of common sense for the latter. And as detestable as such a step would make her if it were known, she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her go. She explained to him all the improprieties of Lydia’s general behavior, the little advantage she could gain from the friendship of such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being even more reckless with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations would be greater than at home. He heard her attentively and then said:
SCENE START
INT. MR. BENNET'S LIBRARY - DAY
ELIZABETH is speaking earnestly to her father.
MR. BENNET
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.
ELIZABETH
If you were aware of the very great disadvantage to us all which must arise from the public notice of Lydia’s unguarded and reckless manner—nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you would judge differently in this affair.
MR. BENNET
Already arisen? What, has she frightened away some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be downcast. 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 away by Lydia’s folly.
ELIZABETH
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 arrogance, and the 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 included. 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:
MR. BENNET
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 any less advantage for having a couple of—or I may say, three—very silly sisters. We will 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 authorizing us to lock her up for the rest of her life.
With this answer, Elizabeth was forced to be content. But her own opinion remained 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 to magnify 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 combined chattering. 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 beautiful, uniform 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 interruption, to the very day of Lydia’s leaving home.
Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been frequently in his company since her return, her agitation was pretty well over—the agitations of a formal partiality entirely so. She had even learned to detect, in the very gentleness that had first delighted her, an affectation and a sameness that began to disgust and weary her. In his present behavior to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure, for the inclination he soon showed 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 rejected it, she 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 humor that on his making some inquiry as to how 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, he replied that he had formerly seen him often. And after observing that he was a very gentlemanly man, he asked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favor. With an air of indifference, he soon afterward added:
WICKHAM
How long did you say he was at Rosings?
ELIZABETH
Nearly three weeks.
WICKHAM
And you saw him frequently?
ELIZABETH
Yes, almost every day.
WICKHAM
His manners are very different from his cousin’s.
ELIZABETH
Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves upon acquaintance.
WICKHAM
(With a look that did not escape her)
Indeed! And pray, may I ask—?
(Checking himself, he added in a gayer tone)
Is it in his address that he improves? Has he deigned to add any civility to his ordinary style?—for I dare not hope…
(He continued in a lower and more serious tone)
...that he is improved in what is essential.
ELIZABETH
Oh, no! In essentials, I believe, he is very much what he ever was.
While she spoke, Wickham looked as if he hardly knew whether to rejoice over her words or to distrust their meaning. There was something in her face which made him listen with an apprehensive and anxious attention while she added:
ELIZABETH
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 an agitated look. For a few minutes, he was silent, until, shaking off his embarrassment, he turned to her again and said in the gentlest of accents:
WICKHAM
You, who so well know my feelings toward Mr. Darcy, will readily understand 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 caution to which you, I imagine, have been alluding is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgment he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I know, when they were together. And a good deal is to be attributed to his wish of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I am certain he has very much at heart.
Elizabeth could not suppress 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 humor to indulge him. The rest of the evening passed with the appearance, on his side, of his usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to single out 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 more noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the only one who shed tears, but she wept from vexation and envy. Mrs. Bennet was effusive in her good wishes for the happiness of her daughter and emphatic in her instructions 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 goodbyes of her sisters were uttered without being heard.
SCENE END
If Elizabeth's opinion of marriage had been formed solely from her own family, she would not have had a very pleasant view of wedded bliss or domestic comfort. Her father, captivated by youth and beauty and the appearance of good humor that they generally give, had married a woman whose weak understanding and narrow mind had, very early in their marriage, put an end to all real affection for her. Respect, esteem, and confidence had vanished forever, and all his hopes of domestic happiness were destroyed.
But Mr. Bennet was not the type of person to seek comfort for the disappointment that his own foolishness had brought on, in any of those pleasures that too often console the unfortunate for their follies or their vices. He was fond of the country and of books, and from these tastes had come his main enjoyments. To his wife, he was indebted for very little, other than how her ignorance and foolishness had contributed to his amusement. This is not the sort of happiness a man would generally wish to owe to his wife, but where other sources of entertainment are lacking, the true philosopher will find benefit from whatever is given.
Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the inappropriateness of her father’s behavior as a husband. She had always seen it with pain. But respecting his intelligence and grateful for his affectionate treatment of her, she tried to forget what she could not overlook and to banish from her thoughts the continual breach of marital duty and decency which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own children, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so strongly as she did now the disadvantages that must fall upon the children of so unsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils that came from such an ill-judged use of his talents—talents which, if used correctly, might at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters, even if they were incapable of broadening the mind of his wife.
After Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham’s departure, she found little other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their social gatherings were less varied than before, and at home, she had a mother and sister whose constant complaints about the dullness of everything around them cast 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 personality greater evil might be feared, was likely to be hardened in all her folly and arrogance by a situation of such double danger as a seaside resort and a military camp.
Upon the whole, therefore, she found what has sometimes been found before: that an event to which she had been looking forward with impatient desire did not, in happening, bring all the satisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to name some other period for the start of actual happiness—to have some other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, to 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 unhappiness of her mother and Kitty made inevitable. And if she could have included Jane in the plan, every part of it would have been perfect.
“But it is fortunate,” she thought, “that I have something to wish for. If the whole arrangement were 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 fulfilled. A plan of which every part promises delight can never be successful, and general disappointment is only avoided by the defense of some small, particular vexation.”
When Lydia went away, she promised to write very often and in great detail to her mother and Kitty. But her letters were always long in coming 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 accompanied them, and where she had seen such beautiful trinkets as made her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which she would have described more fully, but was forced to leave off in a great hurry as Mrs. Forster was calling her, and they were going off to the camp. And from her correspondence with her sister, there was still less to be learned—for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were much too full of underlined words to be made public.
After the first two or three weeks of her absence, health, good humor, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn. Everything wore a happier look. The families who had been in the city for the winter came back again, and summer finery and summer social events arose. Mrs. Bennet was restored to her usual complaining 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 more than 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 only two weeks were left of it when a letter arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its start and shortened its length. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from setting out until two weeks later in July and had to be in London again within a month. As that left too short a period for them to go so far and see so much as they had planned, or at least to see it with the leisure and comfort they had counted on, they were forced to give up the Lakes and substitute a more limited tour. And according to the present plan, they were to go no farther north than Derbyshire. In that county, there was enough to be seen to occupy the majority of their three weeks, and for Mrs. Gardiner, it had a particularly strong attraction. The town where she had formerly spent 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 extremely disappointed. She had set her heart on seeing the Lakes and still thought there might have been enough time. But it was her duty to be satisfied—and certainly her nature 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,” she said to herself, “I may enter his county without consequence and rob it of a few petrified stones without him noticing me.”
The period of waiting was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass 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 favorite, and whose steady sense and sweetness of temper perfectly suited 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 the suitability of their companions, a suitability which included the health and temper to bear inconveniences, the cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure, and the affection and intelligence that might supply it among themselves if there were disappointments on their travels.
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 lay. Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, Birmingham, etc., are sufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all that concerns us at present. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner’s former residence, and where she had recently learned some acquaintances still remained, they bent their steps after having seen all the principal wonders of the country. And within five miles of Lambton, Elizabeth found out from her aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not on their direct road, but not more than a mile or two out of it. In talking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed a desire to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his willingness, and Elizabeth was asked for her approval.
SCENE START
INT. LAMBTON INN - NIGHT
ELIZABETH, MR. GARDINER, and MRS. GARDINER are planning the next day's travel.
MRS. GARDINER
My love, wouldn't you like to see a place of which you have heard so much? A place, too, with which so many of your acquaintances are connected. Wickham spent all his youth there, you know.
Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at Pemberley and was forced to pretend a disinterest in seeing it.
ELIZABETH
I must own that I am tired of seeing great houses. After going over so many, I really have no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.
Mrs. Gardiner called her out on her foolishness.
MRS. GARDINER
If it were merely a fine house richly furnished, I wouldn't 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 agree. The possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy while touring the place instantly occurred to her. 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 decided that it would be the last resort if her private inquiries about the absence of the family were unfavorably answered.
Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid whether Pemberley was not a very fine place, what the name of its owner was, and, with no little alarm, whether the family was down for the summer. A most welcome "no" 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 brought up again the next morning, and she was again asked, she could readily answer, and with a proper air of indifference, that she had no real dislike of the plan. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.
SCENE END
As they drove along, Elizabeth watched for the first sight of Pemberley Woods with a little anxiety. And when they finally turned in at the gatehouse, her spirits were in a high state of excitement.
The park was very large and contained a great variety of landscapes. They entered it at one of its lowest points and drove for some time through a beautiful wood that stretched over a wide area.
Elizabeth’s mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired every remarkable spot and viewpoint. They gradually climbed for half a mile and then found themselves at the top of a considerable hill where the wood ended. The eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which the road wound with some abruptness. It was a large, handsome stone building, standing proudly on rising ground and backed by a ridge of high, woody hills. In front, a stream of some natural importance was widened into something greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal nor falsely decorated.
Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little ruined by an awkward taste. They were all warm in their admiration, and at that moment, she felt that to be the mistress of Pemberley might be something special!
They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door. And while examining the house up close, all her fear of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded that the chambermaid had been mistaken. Upon asking to see the place, they were admitted into the hall. And as they waited for the housekeeper, Elizabeth had a moment to wonder at her being where she was.
The housekeeper came—a respectable-looking elderly woman, much less fancy and more polite than she had expected to find her. They followed her into the dining parlor. It was a large, well-proportioned room, handsomely furnished. Elizabeth, after a quick survey, went to a window to enjoy the view. The hill, crowned with wood, which they had come down, looked even steeper from a distance and was a beautiful sight. Every arrangement 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 took on different positions, but from every window, there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture was suitable for the fortune of its owner. But Elizabeth saw, with admiration for his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; it had less splendor and more real elegance than the furniture at Rosings.
“And of this place,” she thought, “I might have been the mistress! With these rooms, I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of seeing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own and welcomed my uncle and aunt to them as visitors. But no,” she reminded herself, “that could never be. My uncle and aunt would have been lost to me. I would not have been allowed to invite them.”
This was a lucky realization—it saved her from something very much like regret.
She longed to ask the housekeeper whether her master was really away, but she didn't have 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 tomorrow, with a large party of friends.” How relieved Elizabeth was that their own journey had not been delayed by a single day!
Her aunt now called her over to look at a picture. She approached and saw a likeness of Mr. Wickham, hanging among several other miniatures over the mantelpiece. Her aunt asked her, smiling, 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 in 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 it looks very much like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other—about eight years ago.”
MRS. GARDINER
I have heard much of your master’s handsome person. It is a handsome face. But Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is a good likeness or not.
Mrs. Reynolds’s respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase at this hint that she knew her master.
MRS. REYNOLDS
Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?
Elizabeth blushed and said, “A little.”
MRS. REYNOLDS
And do you not think him a very handsome gentleman, ma’am?
ELIZABETH
Yes, very handsome.
MRS. REYNOLDS
I am sure I know no one so handsome. But in the gallery upstairs, you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master’s favorite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them.
This explained to Elizabeth why Mr. Wickham’s picture was among them.
Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old.
MRS. GARDINER
And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?
MRS. REYNOLDS
Oh! Yes—the most handsome young lady that was ever seen, and so accomplished! She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a new instrument that just came down for her—a present from my master. She is coming here tomorrow with him.
Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant, encouraged her talkativeness with his questions and remarks. Mrs. Reynolds, either out of pride or affection, clearly had great pleasure in talking about her master and his sister.
MR. GARDINER
Is your master at Pemberley much during the year?
MRS. REYNOLDS
Not as 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.”
MR. GARDINER
If your master would marry, you might see more of him.
MRS. REYNOLDS
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:
ELIZABETH
It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so.
MRS. REYNOLDS
I say no more than the truth, and everybody who knows him will say the same.
Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far. And she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added:
MRS. REYNOLDS
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 the most extraordinary, the most opposite to her own 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:
MR. GARDINER
There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in having such a master.
MRS. REYNOLDS
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 those who are good-natured when they are 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?” she thought.
MRS. GARDINER
His father was an excellent man.
MRS. REYNOLDS
Yes, ma’am, that he was indeed. And his son will be just like him—just as kind 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 praise of her master, soon led the conversation back to the subject. And she dwelled with energy on his many merits as they went up the great staircase together.
MRS. REYNOLDS
He is the best landlord and the best master 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 who will not give him a good name. Some people call him proud, but I am sure I have never seen anything of it. To my mind, it is only because he does not chatter away like other young men.
“In what a favorable light this places him!” thought Elizabeth.
“This fine account of him,” whispered her aunt as they walked, “is not quite consistent with his behavior to our poor friend.”
“Perhaps we were deceived.”
“That is not very likely. Our source was too good.”
On reaching the spacious lobby above, they were shown into a very pretty sitting room, recently fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than the rooms below. They were informed that it had just been done to give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room when she was last at Pemberley.
“He is certainly a good brother,” said Elizabeth as she walked toward 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 main bedrooms were all that remained to be shown. In the former were many good paintings, but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art. And from those that had been already visible below, she had willingly turned to look at some of Miss Darcy’s drawings in crayon, whose subjects were usually more interesting and also more understandable.
In the gallery, there were many family portraits, but they could have little to hold the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked in search of the only face whose features would be known to her. At last, it caught her eye—and she saw a striking resemblance to Mr. Darcy, with such a smile on the face as she remembered having sometimes seen when he looked at her. She stood for several minutes before the picture in earnest contemplation and returned to it again before they left the gallery. Mrs. Reynolds informed them that it had been painted in his father’s lifetime.
There was certainly, at this moment, in Elizabeth’s mind a more gentle sensation toward the original than she had ever felt at the height of their acquaintance. The praise bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds was of no small importance. 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 was in his care! How much pleasure or pain it was in his power to give! How much good or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought forward by the housekeeper was favorable to his character. And as she stood before the canvas on which he was represented and fixed her eyes on it, she thought of his regard for her with a deeper sentiment of gratitude than it had ever raised before. She remembered its warmth and softened the impropriety of its 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 handed over to the gardener, who met them at the hall door.
As they walked across the hall toward the river, Elizabeth turned back to look again. Her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while the former was guessing at the date of the building, the owner of it himself suddenly came forward from the road that 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 covered with the deepest blush. He absolutely started and for a moment seemed frozen with surprise. But shortly recovering himself, he advanced toward the party and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility.
She had instinctively turned away, but stopping on his approach, she received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to 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 seeing his master must have immediately told them. They stood a little apart while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused, scarcely dared to lift her eyes to his face and did not know what answer she returned to his polite inquiries after her family. Amazed at the change in his manner since they last parted, every sentence 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 calmness, 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 such a hurried way that it plainly spoke the distraction of his thoughts.
At length, every idea seemed to fail him. And after standing for a few moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself and took his leave.
The others then joined her and expressed their 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 would have been beyond the reach of his notice, for it was plain that he had that moment arrived—that moment gotten off his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and again over the perverseness of the meeting. And his behavior—so strikingly altered—what could it mean? That he should even speak to her was amazing! But to speak with such civility, to ask 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 it offered to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put his letter into her hand! She did not know 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 view of the woods to which they were approaching. But it was some time before Elizabeth was aware 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 that 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 pain or 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 roused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself.
They entered the woods and, bidding goodbye to the river for a while, ascended some of the higher grounds. When, in spots where the opening of the trees gave the eye the power to wander, there were many charming views of the valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods covering many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish to go around the whole park but feared it might be beyond a walk. With a triumphant smile, they were told that it was ten miles around. That 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 saw 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, forced to submit, and they took their way toward 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. While 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 here being 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 gotten beyond the words “delightful” and “charming” when some unlucky recollections came to mind, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from her might be mischievously interpreted. Her color 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 honor 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 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,” she thought, “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 running away as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions. That he was surprised by the connection was evident. He endured 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 relatives for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to all that passed between them and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners.
The conversation soon turned upon fishing, and she heard Mr. Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he chose while he continued in the neighborhood, offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle and pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually the 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 she was repeating to herself, “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 a better inspection of some curious water-plant, there happened to be a little alteration. It originated with 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 spoke first. 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 until tomorrow; 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 caused him to come forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been traveling. “They will join me early tomorrow,” 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 a request was great indeed; it was too great for her to know in what manner she agreed 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 further, 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 to introduce 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 traveling, 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 private conversation 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 the utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the ladies into the carriage, and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking slowly toward 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 behavior 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 slight.”
“To be sure, Lizzy,” said her aunt, “he is not as handsome as Wickham—or rather, he has not Wickham’s face, 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 face that would not give one an unfavorable 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 includes every virtue.”
Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in defense of his behavior 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 financial 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 surroundings 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 acquaintances, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of a friendship renewed after many years’ discontinuance.
The events of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth much attention for any of these new friends, and she could do nothing but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy’s civility, and above all, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister.
Elizabeth had decided that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit her the very day after her arrival at Pemberley. Consequently, she was resolved not to leave the inn for the entire morning. But her conclusion was wrong, for on the very morning after their arrival at Lambton, these visitors came.
They had been walking about the town with some of their new friends and were just returning to the inn to get ready for dinner with the same family when the sound of a carriage drew them to a window. They saw a gentleman and a lady in a stylish two-wheeled carriage driving up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognized the servant's uniform, guessed what it meant, and shared no small amount of her surprise with her relatives by telling them of the honor she expected.
Her uncle and aunt were all amazement. And the embarrassment in her manner as she spoke, combined with the circumstance itself and many of the events of the previous day, opened up a new idea for them on the business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they felt that there was no other way to explain such attentions from such a person than by assuming a partiality for their niece. While these newly-born notions were passing through their heads, the turmoil of Elizabeth’s feelings was increasing with every moment. She was quite amazed at her own lack of composure. But among other causes of her unease, she dreaded that the brother’s partiality might have said too much in her favor. And, more than usually anxious to please, she naturally suspected that every power of pleasing would fail her.
She retreated from the window, afraid of being seen. And as she walked up and down the room, trying to compose herself, she saw such looks of inquiring surprise from her uncle and aunt that it made everything worse.
Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction took place. With astonishment, Elizabeth saw that her new acquaintance was at least as embarrassed as she was. Since 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 get even a single word from her beyond a monosyllable.
Miss Darcy was tall and on a larger scale than Elizabeth. And though she was little more than sixteen, her figure was developed, and her appearance was womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother, but there was sense and good humor in her face, and her manners were perfectly unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her as sharp and unembarrassed an observer as Mr. Darcy had ever been, was much relieved to see such different feelings.
They had not been together for long before Mr. Darcy told her that Bingley was also coming to call on her. She had barely had 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 of Elizabeth’s anger against him had been long gone. But if she had still felt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected warmth with which he expressed himself on seeing her again. He asked in a friendly, though general, way after her family and looked and spoke with the same good-humored ease that he had always done.
To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, he was scarcely a less interesting person than he was to her. 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 toward 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 feelings, 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 tried to give pleasure were already predisposed in her favor. Bingley was ready, Georgiana was eager, and Darcy was 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 similar way. 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 behavior toward Miss Darcy, who had been set up as a rival to Jane. No look appeared on either side that spoke of 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 before they parted which, in her anxious interpretation, suggested a recollection of Jane not untinged by tenderness and a wish to say 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 that 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 afterward took the opportunity to ask her, when no one else was listening, 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 pleasantness. And in all that he said, she heard an accent so removed from arrogance or disdain of his companions that it convinced her that the improvement of manners she had witnessed the day before, however temporary it might prove to be, had at least outlived one day. When she saw him thus seeking the acquaintance and courting the good opinion of people with whom any interaction a few months ago would have been a disgrace—when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself but to the very relatives whom he had openly disdained, and remembered 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-importance or unbending reserve, as now, when no importance could result from the success of his efforts, and when even the acquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed would draw down the ridicule and censure of the ladies of both Netherfield and Rosings.
Their visitors stayed with them for over half an hour. And when they got up to leave, 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 shyness that showed she was not in the habit of giving invitations, readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, wanting to know how she, whom the invitation most concerned, felt about accepting it, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Assuming, however, that this studied avoidance spoke more of 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 agree to her attendance, and the day after the next was decided 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, interpreting all this as a wish to hear her speak of her sister, was pleased. And on this account, as well as some others, she found herself, when their visitors left, capable of considering the last half-hour with some satisfaction, though while it was happening, the enjoyment of it had been little. Eager to be alone and fearful of inquiries or hints from her uncle and aunt, she stayed with them only long enough to hear their favorable opinion of Bingley and then hurried away to dress.
But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s curiosity; it was not their wish to force her to share anything. It was evident that she was much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had previously had any idea of; it was evident that he was very much in love with her. They saw much to interest them, but nothing to justify an 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 if they had 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 as Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest, however, in believing the housekeeper. And they soon became aware 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 information from 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 attributed to him 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 travelers soon found that he was not held in much esteem there. For though the main points of his concerns with the son of his patron were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well-known fact that on his leaving Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind him, which Mr. Darcy afterward paid.
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 toward one in that mansion. And she lay awake for two whole hours trying 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 feelings. And it was now heightened into something of a friendlier nature by the testimony so highly in his favor, 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 their acquaintance. And without any indelicate display of regard or any peculiarity of manner where their two selves only were concerned, he 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 excited 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 him, she esteemed him, 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 in time for a late breakfast—ought to be imitated, though it could not be equaled, by some exertion of politeness on their side. And consequently, that it would be highly appropriate to call 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 plan had been renewed the day before, and a positive engagement had been made for him to meet some of the gentlemen at Pemberley before noon.
Elizabeth was now convinced that Miss Bingley’s dislike of her had started from jealousy. Because of this, she couldn't help but feel how unwelcome her appearance at Pemberley must be to her and was curious to see with how much politeness that lady would now renew their acquaintance.
On reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the saloon, whose northern exposure made it delightful for summer. Its windows, which opened to the ground, admitted a most refreshing view of the high, woody hills behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts that were scattered over the lawn in between.
In this room, they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting there with Mrs. Hurst, Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived in London. Georgiana’s reception of them was very polite, but it was accompanied by all the embarrassment which, though coming from shyness and the fear of doing something wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves to be of a lower social standing the belief that she was 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 with a curtsy. And on their being seated, a pause, as awkward as such pauses must always be, followed for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a genteel, agreeable-looking woman whose attempt to start some kind of conversation 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 enough courage to join in, and sometimes she did venture a short sentence when there was the least danger of it being heard.
Elizabeth soon saw that she herself was being closely watched by Miss Bingley and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without catching 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 occupying her. She expected every moment that some of the gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, and she feared, that the master of the house might be among them. And whether she wished it or feared it most, she could hardly decide. After sitting in this manner for a quarter of an hour without hearing Miss Bingley’s voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold inquiry after the health of her family. She answered with equal indifference and brevity, and the others said no more.
The next variation their visit offered 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 happen until after many a significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been given to remind her of her duty as hostess. 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 around 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 be stronger, she began to regret that he came.
He had been for some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three other gentlemen from the house, was busy by the river. He had left them only on learning that the ladies of the family intended to visit Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear than Elizabeth wisely resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed—a resolution all 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 behavior when he first came into the room. In no face was attentive curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley’s, in spite of the smiles which covered 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 encouraged as much as possible every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss Bingley saw all this as well, and in the recklessness of her anger, took the first opportunity of saying, with a sneering civility:
SCENE START
INT. PEMBERLEY SALOON - DAY
The party is gathered, eating fruit. MR. DARCY has just entered.
MISS BINGLEY
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 understood that he was uppermost in her thoughts. And the various recollections connected with him gave her a moment’s distress. But, forcing 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 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 up the idea of a man to whom she believed her partial, to make her betray a sensitivity that 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 was connected with that corps. Not a word had ever reached her of Miss Darcy’s planned elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where secrecy was possible, except to Elizabeth. And from all of Bingley’s connections, her brother was particularly anxious to conceal it, from the very wish which Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of them becoming his own hereafter. He had certainly formed such a plan, and without meaning that it should affect his endeavor to separate him from Miss Bennet, it is probable that it might have added something to his lively concern for the welfare of his friend.
Elizabeth’s collected behavior, however, soon quieted his emotion. And as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach any nearer to the subject of 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 remembered 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 escorting them to their carriage, Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms of Elizabeth’s person, behavior, and dress. But Georgiana would not join her. Her brother’s recommendation was enough to ensure her favor; his judgment could not be wrong. And he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana with no 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.
MISS BINGLEY
How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy! I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she is since the winter. She has 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 a comment, he contented himself with coolly replying that he perceived no other alteration than her being rather tanned, no miraculous consequence of traveling in the summer.
MISS BINGLEY
For my own part, 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 lacks 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 to make him speak, she continued:
MISS BINGLEY
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 you saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, ‘She a beauty!—I should as soon call her mother a wit.’ But afterward, she seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at one time.
MR. DARCY
(Unable to contain himself any longer)
Yes. But that was only when I first saw her, for it has been many months since I have considered her as one of the most handsome 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 for what had particularly interested them both. The look and behavior of everybody they had seen were discussed, except for 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.
SCENE END
Elizabeth had been very disappointed not to find a letter from Jane on their first arrival at Lambton. This disappointment had been renewed each of the mornings they had spent there. But on the third, her complaining was over, and her sister was justified by the arrival of two letters from her at once, one of which was marked that it had been sent to the wrong address. Elizabeth was not surprised, as Jane had written the address remarkably badly.
They had just been preparing to go for a walk when the letters came in. Her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by themselves. The one that was misaddressed had to be attended to first; it had been written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their little parties and social events, with such news as the countryside offered. But the latter half, which was dated a day later and written in clear agitation, gave more important news. 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 messenger came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she has gone off to Scotland with one of his officers—to tell you the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry. So unwise a match on both sides! But I am willing to hope for 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 selfless, at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father is bearing it better. How thankful I am 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 guessed, but were not missed until 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. Opening it with the utmost impatience, she 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 understandable, but though not short on time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot promise to be coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I want to write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed. Unwise 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. Forster gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that Wickham never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all. This was repeated to Colonel Forster, who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from Brighton, intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham, but no further, for on entering that place, they moved into a public coach and dismissed the carriage that brought them from Epsom. All that is known after this is that they were seen to continue on the London road. I do not know what to think. After making every possible inquiry on that side of London, Colonel Forster 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 fears to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. Forster, 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 badly of him. Many circumstances might make it more desirable for them to be married privately in the city 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 Forster is not inclined to depend upon their marriage. He shook his head when I expressed my hopes and said he feared Wickham was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother is really ill and keeps to her room. If she could exert herself, it would be better, but this is not to be expected. And as to my father, I have never in my life seen him so affected. Poor Kitty is angry 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 some of these distressing scenes, but now, as the first shock is over, shall I admit that I long for your return? I am not so selfish, however, as to press for it if it is 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 do not know, but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any course of action in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again tomorrow evening. In such an emergency, my uncle’s advice and assistance would be everything in the world. He will immediately understand what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.”
SCENE START
INT. LAMBTON INN - DAY
ELIZABETH finishes the letter, her face pale with shock.
ELIZABETH
(Crying out)
Oh! Where, where is my uncle?
She darts from her seat, eager to follow him without losing a moment of precious time. But as she reaches the door, it is opened by a servant, and MR. DARCY appears. Her pale face and frantic manner make him start. Before he can recover himself to speak, she, in whose mind every thought is now consumed by Lydia’s situation, hastily exclaims:
ELIZABETH
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!
MR. DARCY
(With more feeling than politeness)
Good God! What is the matter?
(Recollecting himself)
I will not detain you for 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 hesitates, but her knees are trembling under her, and she feels how little would be gained by her trying to pursue them. Calling back the servant, therefore, she commissions him, though in so breathless a voice that it makes her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and mistress home instantly.
On his leaving the room, she sits down, unable to support herself, and looking so miserably ill that it is impossible for Darcy to leave her or to stop himself from saying, in a tone of gentleness and sympathy:
MR. DARCY
Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you some immediate relief? A glass of wine—shall I get you one? You are very ill.
ELIZABETH
(Trying to recover herself)
No, I thank you. 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 bursts into tears as she alludes to it and for a few minutes cannot speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, can only say something indistinctly of his concern and observe her in compassionate silence. At length, she speaks again.
ELIZABETH
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! She has thrown herself into the power of—of Mr. Wickham! They have 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 forever!
Darcy is frozen in astonishment.
ELIZABETH
(In a yet more agitated voice)
When I consider 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 learned—to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not have happened! But it is all—all too late now!
MR. DARCY
I am grieved indeed. Grieved—shocked. But is it certain—absolutely certain?
ELIZABETH
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.
MR. DARCY
And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?
ELIZABETH
My father has gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle’s immediate assistance. And we will 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 found? I have not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!
Darcy shakes his head in silent agreement.
ELIZABETH
When my eyes were opened to his real character—Oh! Had I known what I ought, what I dared to do! But I did not know—I was afraid of doing too much! Wretched, wretched mistake!
Darcy makes no answer. He seems scarcely to hear her and is walking up and down the room in earnest thought, his brow furrowed, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon notices and instantly understands it. Her power is sinking; everything must sink under such a proof of family weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She can neither wonder nor condemn, but the belief of his self-conquest brings nothing to console her, offers no relief to her distress. It is, on the contrary, perfectly calculated to make her understand her own wishes. And never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved him as now, when all love must be in vain.
But self, though it would intrude, could not consume her. Lydia—the humiliation, the misery she is bringing on them all—soon swallows up every private care. And covering her face with her handkerchief, Elizabeth is soon lost to everything else. After a pause of several minutes, she is only recalled to a sense of her situation by the voice of her companion, who, in a manner which, though it speaks compassion, speaks also restraint, says:
MR. DARCY
I am afraid you have been long wishing for my absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse for my stay but real, though unhelpful, 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 purposefully to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister’s having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley today.
ELIZABETH
Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologize for us to Miss Darcy. Say that urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as long as it is possible—I know it cannot be long.
He readily assures her of his secrecy, again expresses his sorrow for her distress, wishes it a happier conclusion than there is at present reason to hope for, and leaving his compliments for her relations, with only one serious, parting look, he leaves.
As he quits the room, Elizabeth feels how improbable it is that they should ever see each other again on such terms of friendliness as had marked their several meetings in Derbyshire. And as she throws a retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of contradictions and varieties, she sighs 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 for 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 to what is so often described as arising on a first interview with its object, and even before two words have been exchanged—nothing can be said in her defense, except that she had given somewhat of a trial to the latter method in her partiality for Wickham, and that its ill success might, perhaps, authorize her to seek the other, less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go with regret. And in this early example of what Lydia’s infamy must produce, she finds additional anguish as she reflects 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 is the least of her feelings on this development. While the contents of the first letter remain in her mind, she is all surprise—all astonishment that Wickham should marry a girl whom it is impossible he could marry for money, and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared incomprehensible. But now it is all too natural. For such an attachment as this, she might have sufficient charms. And though she does not suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement without the intention of marriage, she has no difficulty in believing that neither her virtue nor her understanding will preserve her from falling an easy prey.
She had never noticed, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that Lydia had any particular preference for him. But she is convinced that Lydia only needed encouragement to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one officer, sometimes another, had been her favorite, as their attentions raised them in her opinion. Her affections had been constantly fluctuating, but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and mistaken indulgence towards such a girl—oh! How acutely she now feels it!
She is wild to be at home—to hear, to see, to be on the spot, to share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her in a family so disordered—a father absent, a mother incapable of action and requiring constant attendance. And though almost persuaded that nothing could be done for Lydia, her uncle’s intervention seems of the utmost importance. And until he enters the room, her impatience is severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner have hurried back in alarm, assuming from the servant’s account that their niece had been taken suddenly ill. But after satisfying them instantly on that head, she eagerly communicates the reason for their summons, reading the two letters aloud and dwelling on the postscript of the last with a trembling energy. Though Lydia had never been a favorite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner cannot help but be deeply afflicted. Not only Lydia, but all of them are concerned in it. And after the first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner promises every assistance in his power. Elizabeth, though expecting no less, thanks him with tears of gratitude. And all three being driven by one spirit, everything relating to their journey is quickly settled. They are to be off as soon as possible.
MRS. GARDINER
But what is to be done about Pemberley? John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for us. Was it so?
ELIZABETH
Yes, and I told him we would not be able to keep our engagement. That is all settled.
MRS. GARDINER
(As she runs into her room to prepare)
What is all settled? And are they on such terms that she would disclose the real truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!
But wishes are in vain, or at least can 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 activity was impossible for one so wretched as herself. But she has her share of tasks as well as her aunt, and among the rest, there are notes to be written to all their friends at Lambton with false excuses for their sudden departure. An hour, however, sees the whole completed. And Mr. Gardiner, meanwhile, having settled his account at the inn, nothing remains to be done but to go. And Elizabeth, after all the misery of the morning, finds herself, in a shorter space of time than she could have supposed, seated in the carriage and on the road to Longbourn.
SCENE END
SCENE START
INT. CARRIAGE - DAY
MR. and MRS. GARDINER are traveling with ELIZABETH.
MR. GARDINER
I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth, 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 would form such a plan against a girl who is by no means unprotected or friendless, and who was actually staying with his colonel’s family, that I am strongly inclined to hope for 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 insult to Colonel Forster? The temptation is not equal to the risk!
ELIZABETH
(Brightening up for a moment)
Do you really think so?
MRS. GARDINER
Upon my word, I am beginning to be of your uncle’s opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honor, and self-interest for him to be guilty of. I cannot think so very badly of Wickham. Can you yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him up as to believe him capable of it?
ELIZABETH
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 would they not go on to Scotland if that had been the case?
MR. GARDINER
In the first place, there is no absolute proof that they are not gone to Scotland.
ELIZABETH
Oh! But their switching from the carriage into a public coach is such a strong indication! And besides, no traces of them were to be found on the Barnet road.
MR. GARDINER
Well, then—supposing them to be in London. They may be there, though for the purpose of concealment, for no more sinister purpose. It is not likely that money is very abundant on either side, and it might have occurred to them that they could be more economically, though less quickly, married in London than in Scotland.
ELIZABETH
But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of being found? Why must their marriage be private? Oh, no, no—this is not likely. His most particular friend, you see by Jane’s account, was convinced he never intended to marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some money. He cannot afford it. And what does Lydia have to offer—what attraction has she beyond youth, health, and good humor, that could make him, for her sake, give up every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what restraint the fear of disgrace in the regiment might have on a dishonorable 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 true. Lydia has no brothers to step forward, and he might have imagined from my father’s behavior—from his laziness and the little attention he has ever seemed to give to what was going on in his family—that he would do as little and think as little about it as any father could in such a matter.
MRS. GARDINER
But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but her love for him as to consent to live with him on any terms other than marriage?
ELIZABETH
(With tears in her eyes)
It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed, that a sister’s sense of decency and virtue in such a point should be in doubt. But really, I do not know 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, no, for a whole year—she has been given up to nothing but amusement and vanity. She has been allowed to spend her time in the most idle and frivolous manner and to adopt any opinions that came her way. Since the —-shire regiment was first stationed 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.
MRS. GARDINER
But you see that Jane does not think so very badly of Wickham as to believe him capable of the attempt.
ELIZABETH
Of whom does Jane ever think badly? And who is there, whatever their former conduct might be, that she would think capable of such an attempt until it were proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what Wickham really is. We both know that he has been reckless in every sense of the word, that he has neither integrity nor honor, that he is as false and deceitful as he is charming.
MRS. GARDINER
(Her curiosity all alive)
And do you really know all this?
ELIZABETH
(Blushing)
I do indeed. I told you, the other day, of his infamous behavior to Mr. Darcy. And you yourself, when you were last at Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man who had behaved with such forbearance and generosity toward him. And there are other circumstances which I am not at liberty—which it is not worthwhile 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 the contrary himself. He must have known that she was as amiable and unpretentious as we have found her.
MRS. GARDINER
But does Lydia know nothing of this? Can she be ignorant of what you and Jane seem to understand so well?
ELIZABETH
Oh, yes!—that, that is the worst of all. Until I was in Kent and saw so much of both Mr. Darcy and his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was ignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home, the —-shire was to leave Meryton in a week or two. 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 anyone that the good opinion which all the neighborhood 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 follow, you may easily believe, was far enough from my thoughts.
MRS. GARDINER
When they all moved to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I suppose, to believe them fond of each other?
ELIZABETH
Not the slightest. I can remember no sign of affection on either side. And if anything of the kind had been noticeable, you must be aware that ours is not a family on which it could be wasted. When he first entered the regiment, she was ready enough to admire him, but so were we all. Every girl in or near Meryton was out of her senses about him for the first two months. But he never singled her out with 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 favorites.
It may be easily believed that, however little novelty could be added to their fears, hopes, and guesses on this interesting subject by its repeated discussion, no other could keep them from it for 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 traveled as quickly as possible and, sleeping one night on the road, reached Longbourn by dinnertime the next day. It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied by long hours of anxious waiting.
The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a carriage, 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 lit up their faces and displayed itself over their whole bodies in a variety of capers and frisks was the first pleasing sign of their welcome.
Elizabeth jumped out and, after giving each of them a hasty kiss, hurried into the hallway, where Jane, who came running down from her mother’s apartment, immediately met her.
Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, while tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether anything had been heard of the fugitives.
JANE
Not yet. But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope everything will be well.
ELIZABETH
Is my father in town?
JANE
Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote to you.
ELIZABETH
And have you heard from him often?
JANE
We have heard only twice. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday to say that he had arrived safely and to give me his instructions, which I had particularly begged him to do. He merely added that he would not write again until he had something of importance to mention.
ELIZABETH
And my mother—how is she? How are you all?
JANE
My mother is tolerably well, I trust, though her spirits are greatly shaken. She is upstairs and will have great satisfaction in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing room. Mary and Kitty are, thank Heaven, quite well.
ELIZABETH
But you—how are you? You look pale. How much you must have gone through!
Her sister, however, assured her that she was perfectly well. Their conversation, which had been happening while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were busy with their children, was now put to an end by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt and welcomed and thanked them both, with alternating 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 news to give. The optimistic hope of a good outcome, however, which the kindness 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 actions and perhaps announce their marriage.
Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all went after a few minutes of conversation, received them exactly as might be expected: with tears and laments of regret, insults against the villainous conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill-treatment, blaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judged indulgence the errors of her daughter must principally be owed.
MRS. BENNET
If I had been able 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 terrifying ideas. And Mr. Gardiner, after general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her that he intended to be in London the very next day and would assist Mr. Bennet in every effort to recover Lydia.
MR. GARDINER
Do not give way to useless alarm. Though it is right to be prepared for the worst, there is no reason to look on it as certain. It has not been quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more, we may gain some news of them. And until we know that they are not married and have no intention of marrying, let us not give the matter over as lost. As soon as I get to town, I will 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.
MRS. BENNET
Oh! My dear brother, 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 will have as much money as she chooses to buy them after they are married. And above all, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting! Tell him what a dreadful state I am in, that I am frightened out of my wits—and have such tremblings, such flutterings all over me—such spasms in my side and pains in my head, and such beatings at my heart that I can get no rest by night or by day! And tell my dear Lydia not to give any directions about her clothes until she has seen me, for she does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother, how kind you are! I know you will arrange it all!
But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest efforts in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, in both her hopes and her fears. And after talking with her in this manner until 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 reason for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to oppose it, for they knew that she did not have enough prudence to hold her tongue before the servants while they waited at the table. And they judged it better that one only of the household, and the one whom they could most trust, should understand all her fears and worries on the subject.
In the dining room, they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been too busily engaged in their separate rooms 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 favorite sister, or the anger which she had herself incurred in this business, had given more of a fretfulness than usual to Kitty's voice. As for Mary, she was mistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a face of grave reflection, soon after they were seated at the table:
MARY
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, seeing no inclination in Elizabeth to reply, she added)
Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful lesson: that the 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 behavior toward 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 these kinds of moral extractions from the evil before them.
In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be by themselves for half an hour, and Elizabeth instantly took advantage of the opportunity to make some inquiries, which Jane was equally eager to satisfy. After joining in general laments over the dreadful outcome 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:
ELIZABETH
But tell me all and everything about it which I have not already heard. Give me further details. What did Colonel Forster say? Did they have no suspicion of anything before the elopement took place? They must have seen them together constantly!
JANE
Colonel Forster did admit 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 behavior was attentive and kind to the utmost. He was coming to us to assure us of his concern before he had any idea of their not being gone to Scotland. When that fear first got out, it hastened his journey.
ELIZABETH
And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?
JANE
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 conviction that they were not marrying—and from that, I am inclined to hope he might have been misunderstood before.
ELIZABETH
And until Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?
JANE
How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I felt a little uneasy—a little fearful for 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 unwise a match it must be. Kitty then admitted, with a very natural triumph at 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 for many weeks.
ELIZABETH
But not before they went to Brighton?
JANE
No, I believe not.
ELIZABETH
And did Colonel Forster appear to think well of Wickham himself? Does he know his real character?
JANE
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.
ELIZABETH
Oh, Jane, had we been less secret! Had we told what we knew of him, this could not have happened!
JANE
Perhaps it would have been better. But to expose the former faults of any person without knowing what their present feelings were seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions.
ELIZABETH
Could Colonel Forster repeat the details of Lydia’s note to his wife?
JANE
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 tomorrow morning, as soon as I am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who, I will 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 I 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 all 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 tonight. 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 will 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. Goodbye. Give my love to Colonel Forster. I hope you will drink to our good journey.
Your affectionate friend,
LYDIA BENNET.”
ELIZABETH
(When she had finished it)
Oh! Thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia! What a letter this is, 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 have afterward persuaded her to, it was not, on her side, a plan of infamy. My poor father! How he must have felt it!
JANE
I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for a full ten minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house was in such confusion!
ELIZABETH
Oh! Jane, was there a servant belonging to the house who did not know the whole story before the end of the day?
JANE
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 tried to give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do as much as I might have done! But the horror of what might possibly happen almost took away my faculties.
ELIZABETH
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.
JANE
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 rest 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 until 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 console us and offered her services, or any of her daughters’, if they should be of use to us.
ELIZABETH
She had better have stayed at home! Perhaps she meant well, but under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see too little of one’s neighbors. Assistance is impossible; condolences are insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance and be satisfied.
She then went on to inquire into the measures her father had intended to pursue while in town for the recovery of his daughter.
JANE
He meant, I believe, to go to Epsom, the place where they last changed horses, to see the postilions and try if anything could be made out from them. His main object must be to discover the number of the public 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 moving from one carriage into another might be remembered, he meant to make inquiries at Clapham. If he could somehow discover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he was 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 plans that he had formed, but he was in such a hurry to be gone, and his spirits were so greatly distressed, that I had difficulty in finding out even so much as this.
SCENE END