Pride and Prejudice
“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 be always laughing
at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty.”
“Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat
the matter as you do now.”
“Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I was very
uncomfortable--I may say unhappy. And with no one to speak to of what I
felt, no Jane to comfort me, and say that I had not been so very weak,
and vain, and nonsensical, as I knew I had! Oh, how I wanted you!”
“How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions
in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they _do_ appear wholly
undeserved.”
“Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most
natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There is
one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I
ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintance in general understand
Wickham’s character.”
Miss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, “Surely there can be no
occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your own opinion?”
“That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorized me to
make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular
relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to
myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his
conduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is
so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in
Meryton, to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal to
it. Wickham will soon be gone; and, therefore, it will not signify to
anybody here what he really is. Some time hence it will be all found
out, and then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before.
At present I will say nothing about it.”
“You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for
ever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and anxious to
re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate.”
The tumult of Elizabeth’s mind was allayed by this conversation. She
had got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a
fortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she
might wish to talk again of either. But there was still something
lurking behind, of which prudence forbade the disclosure. She dared not
relate the other half of Mr. Darcy’s letter, nor explain to her sister
how sincerely she had been valued by his friend. Here was knowledge in
which no one could partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than
a perfect understanding between the parties could justify her in
throwing off this last encumbrance of mystery. “And then,” said she, “if
that very improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be
able to tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner
himself. The liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost
all its value!”
She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real
state of her sister’s spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a
very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself in
love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and from
her age and disposition, greater steadiness than first attachments often
boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to
every other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the
feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those
regrets which must have been injurious to her own health and their
tranquillity.
“Well, Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet, one day, “what is your opinion _now_ of
this sad business of Jane’s? For my part, I am determined never to speak
of it again to anybody. I told my sister 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 is the least
chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his
coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have inquired of
everybody, too, who is likely to know.”
“I do not believe that he will ever live at Netherfield any more.”
“Oh, well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come; though I
shall always say that he used my daughter extremely ill; and, if I was
her, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure
Jane will die of a broken heart, and then he will be sorry for what he
has done.”
But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation she
made no answer.
“Well, Lizzy,” continued her mother, soon afterwards, “and so the
Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it
will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an
excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her mother,
she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in _their_
housekeeping, I dare say.”
“No, nothing at all.”
“A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes. _They_ will
take care not to outrun their income. _They_ will never be distressed
for money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often
talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it
quite as their own, I dare say, whenever that happens.”
“It was a subject which they could not mention before me.”
“No; it would have been strange if they had. But I make no doubt they
often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an
estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. _I_ should be
ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me.”
CHAPTER XLI.
The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was
the last of the regiment’s stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies in
the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost
universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink,
and sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very
frequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and
Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such
hard-heartedness in any of the family.
“Good Heaven! What is to become of us? What are we to do?” would they
often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. “How can you be smiling so,
Lizzy?”
Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what
she had herself endured on a similar occasion five-and-twenty years ago.
“I am sure,” said she, “I cried for two days together when Colonel
Miller’s regiment went away. I thought I should have broke my heart.”
“I am sure I shall break _mine_,” said Lydia.
“If one could but go to Brighton!” observed Mrs. Bennet.
“Oh yes!--if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so disagreeable.”
“A little sea-bathing would set me up for ever.”
“And my aunt Philips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of good,”
added Kitty.
Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through
Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense
of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy’s
objections; and never had she before been so much disposed to pardon his
interference in the views of his friend.
But the gloom of Lydia’s prospect was shortly cleared away; for she
received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the colonel of the
regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a
very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good-humour
and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of
their _three_ months’ acquaintance they had been intimate _two_.
The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster,
the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely
to be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister’s feelings, Lydia flew
about the house in restless ecstasy, calling for everyone’s
congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever;
whilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repining at her fate
in terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish.
“I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as Lydia,”
said she, “though I am _not_ her particular friend. I have just as much
right to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am two years older.”
In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make
her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from
exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she
considered it as the death-warrant of all possibility of common sense
for the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her, were it
known, she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her
go. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia’s general
behaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of
such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more
imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must
be greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said,--
“Lydia will never be easy till she has exposed herself in some public
place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so little
expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present
circumstances.”
“If you were aware,” said Elizabeth, “of the very great disadvantage to
us all, which must arise from the public notice of Lydia’s unguarded and
imprudent manner, nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you
would judge differently in the affair.”
“Already arisen!” repeated Mr. Bennet. “What! has she frightened away
some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such
squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity
are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of the pitiful fellows
who have been kept aloof by Lydia’s folly.”
“Indeed, you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not
of peculiar, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our
importance, our respectability in the world, must be affected by the
wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark
Lydia’s character. Excuse me,--for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear
father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and
of teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of
her life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character
will be fixed; and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt
that ever made herself and 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
is also comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain,
ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh, my dear father, can you
suppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever
they are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the
disgrace?”
Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject; and,
affectionately taking her hand, said, in reply,--