Pride and Prejudice
of which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter
Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after
her eldest sister has resigned it; and the chosen partner of her fate
may be reasonably looked up to as one of the most illustrious personages
in this land.’ Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this?
‘This young gentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with everything the
heart of mortal can most desire,--splendid property, noble kindred, and
extensive patronage. Yet, in spite of all these temptations, let me warn
my cousin Elizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur by a
precipitate closure with this gentleman’s proposals, which, of course,
you will be inclined to take immediate advantage of.’ Have you any idea,
Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out. ‘My motive for
cautioning you is as follows:--We have reason to imagine that his aunt,
Lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with a friendly
eye.’ _Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_
surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man, within
the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie more
effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any
woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at _you_ in
his life! It is admirable!”
Elizabeth tried to join in her father’s pleasantry, but could only force
one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so
little agreeable to her.
“Are you not diverted?”
“Oh, yes. Pray read on.”
“‘After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her Ladyship last
night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she
felt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that, on the score of
some family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give
her consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my
duty to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she
and her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run
hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned.’ Mr.
Collins, moreover, adds, ‘I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia’s sad
business has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their
living together before the marriage took place should be so generally
known. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain
from declaring my amazement, at hearing that you received the young
couple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an
encouragement of vice; and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should
very strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them as
a Christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their
names to be mentioned in your hearing.’ _That_ is his notion of
Christian forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his dear
Charlotte’s situation, and his expectation of a young olive-branch. But,
Lizzy, you look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be
_missish_, I hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For
what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them
in our turn?”
“Oh,” cried Elizabeth, “I am exceedingly diverted. But it is so
strange!”
“Yes, _that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man
it would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference and _your_
pointed dislike make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate
writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins’s correspondence for any
consideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving
him the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and
hypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine
about this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?”
To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as it had
been asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by his
repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her
feelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh when she
would rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her by
what he said of Mr. Darcy’s indifference; and she could do nothing but
wonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that, perhaps, instead of
his seeing too _little_, she might have fancied too _much_.
CHAPTER LVIII.
Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, as
Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy
with him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine’s
visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time to
tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in
momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed
their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the
habit of walking, Mary could never spare time, but the remaining five
set off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to
outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy
were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty was
too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a
desperate resolution; and, perhaps, he might be doing the same.
They walked towards the Lucases’, because Kitty wished to call upon
Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern,
when Kitty left them she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the
moment for her resolution to be executed; and while her courage was
high, she immediately said,--
“Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature, and for the sake of giving
relief to my own feelings care not how much I may be wounding yours. I
can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor
sister. Ever since I have known it I have been most anxious to
acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest
of my family I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.”
“I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,” replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise
and emotion, “that you have ever been informed of what may, in a
mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardiner
was so little to be trusted.”
“You must not blame my aunt. Lydia’s thoughtlessness first betrayed to
me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could
not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again,
in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced
you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the
sake of discovering them.”
“If you _will_ thank me,” he replied, “let it be for yourself alone.
That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other
inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your
_family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought
only of _you_.”
Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause,
her companion added, “You are too generous to trifle with me. If your
feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. _My_
affections and wishes are unchanged; but one word from you will silence
me on this subject for ever.”
Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of
his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not
very fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone
so material a change since the period to which he alluded, as to make
her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The
happiness which this reply produced was such as he had probably never
felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as
warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth
been able to encounter his eyes, she might have seen how well the
expression of heartfelt delight diffused over his face became him: but
though she could not look she could listen; and he told her of feelings
which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his affection
every moment more valuable.
They walked on without knowing in what direction. There was too much to
be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She
soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding
to the efforts of his aunt, who _did_ call on him in her return through
London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the
substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on
every expression of the latter, which, in her Ladyship’s apprehension,
peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance, in the belief that
such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise from
her nephew which _she_ had refused to give. But, unluckily for her
Ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.
“It taught me to hope,” said he, “as I had scarcely ever allowed myself
to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain, that
had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have
acknowledged it to Lady Catherine frankly and openly.”
Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, “Yes, you know enough of
my _frankness_ to believe me capable of _that_. After abusing you so
abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all
your relations.”
“What did you say of me that I did not deserve? For though your
accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour
to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was
unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.”
“We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that
evening,” said Elizabeth. “The conduct of neither, if strictly
examined, will be irreproachable; but since then we have both, I hope,
improved in civility.”
“I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I
then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of
it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your
reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: ‘Had you behaved in a
more gentlemanlike manner.’ Those were your words. You know not, you can
scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me; though it was some time, I
confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.”
“I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an
impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such
a way.”
“I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper
feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never
forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible
way that would induce you to accept me.”
“Oh, do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at
all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it.”
Darcy mentioned his letter. “Did it,” said he,--“did it _soon_ make you
think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its
contents?”
She explained what its effects on her had been, and how gradually all
her former prejudices had been removed.
“I knew,” said he, “that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was
necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part,
especially the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power
of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly
make you hate me.”
“The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the
preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my