Pride and Prejudice
to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has
never seen the view.”
“It may do very well for the others,” replied Mr. Bingley; “but I am
sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won’t it, Kitty?”
Kitty owned that she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great
curiosity to see the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently
consented. As she went upstairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her,
saying,--
“I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that
disagreeable man all to yourself; but I hope you will not mind it. It is
all for Jane’s sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking to
him except just now and then; so do not put yourself to inconvenience.”
During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet’s consent should be
asked in the course of the evening: Elizabeth reserved to herself the
application for her mother’s. She could not determine how her mother
would take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur
would be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man; but whether she
were violently set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it
was certain that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit to
her sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear the
first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her
disapprobation.
In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library, she saw
Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on seeing it was
extreme. She did not fear her father’s opposition, but he was going to
be made unhappy, and that it should be through her means; that _she_,
his favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be
filling him with fears and regrets in disposing of her, was a wretched
reflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when,
looking at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes
he approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while
pretending to admire her work, said in a whisper, “Go to your father; he
wants you in the library.” She was gone directly.
Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious.
“Lizzy,” said he, “what are you doing? Are you out of your senses to be
accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?”
How earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been more
reasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have spared her from
explanations and professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give;
but they were now necessary, and she assured him, with some confusion,
of her attachment to Mr. Darcy.
“Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich, to be
sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than Jane.
But will they make you happy?”
“Have you any other objection,” said Elizabeth, “than your belief of my
indifference?”
“None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but
this would be nothing if you really liked him.”
“I do, I do like him,” she replied, with tears in her eyes; “I love him.
Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not
know what he really is; then pray do not pain me by speaking of him in
such terms.”
“Lizzy,” said her father, “I have given him my consent. He is the kind
of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse anything, which he
condescended to ask. I now give it to _you_, if you are resolved on
having him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know your
disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor
respectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband, unless you looked
up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the
greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape
discredit and misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing
_you_ unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are
about.”
Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply;
and, at length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was really the
object of her choice, by explaining the gradual change which her
estimation of him had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that
his affection was not the work of a day, but had stood the test of many
months’ suspense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities,
she did conquer her father’s incredulity, and reconcile him to the
match.
“Well, my dear,” said he, when she ceased speaking, “I have no more to
say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have parted with
you, my Lizzy, to anyone less worthy.”
To complete the favourable impression, she then told him what Mr. Darcy
had voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with astonishment.
“This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did everything;
made up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow’s debts, and got him
his commission! So much the better. It will save me a world of trouble
and economy. Had it been your uncle’s doing, I must and _would_ have
paid him; but these violent young lovers carry everything their own
way. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow, he will rant and storm about
his love for you, and there will be an end of the matter.”
He then recollected her embarrassment a few days before on his reading
Mr. Collins’s letter; and after laughing at her some time, allowed her
at last to go, saying, as she quitted the room, “If any young men come
for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am quite at leisure.”
Elizabeth’s mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and, after
half an hour’s quiet reflection in her own room, she was able to join
the others with tolerable composure. Everything was too recent for
gaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away; there was no longer
anything material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity
would come in time.
When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she followed her,
and made the important communication. Its effect was most extraordinary;
for, on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and unable to
utter a syllable. Nor was it under many, many minutes, that she could
comprehend what she heard, though not in general backward to credit what
was for the advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a
lover to any of them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in
her chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless herself.
“Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy! Who would
have thought it? And is it really true? Oh, my sweetest Lizzy! how rich
and how great you will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages
you will have! Jane’s is nothing to it--nothing at all. I am so
pleased--so happy. Such a charming man! so handsome! so tall! Oh, my
dear Lizzy! pray apologize for my having disliked him so much before. I
hope he will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Everything
that is charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh,
Lord! what will become of me? I shall go distracted.”
This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be doubted; and
Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard only by herself,
soon went away. But before she had been three minutes in her own room,
her mother followed her.
“My dearest child,” she cried, “I can think of nothing else. Ten
thousand a year, and very likely more! ’Tis as good as a lord! And a
special licence--you must and shall be married by a special licence.
But, my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond
of, that I may have it to-morrow.”
This was a sad omen of what her mother’s behaviour to the gentleman
himself might be; and Elizabeth found that, though in the certain
possession of his warmest affection, and secure of her relations’
consent, there was still something to be wished for. But the morrow
passed off much better than she expected; for Mrs. Bennet luckily stood
in such awe of her intended son-in-law, that she ventured not to speak
to him, unless it was in her power to offer him any attention, or mark
her deference for his opinion.
Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains to get
acquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that he was rising
every hour in his esteem.
“I admire all my three sons-in-law highly,” said he. “Wickham, perhaps,
is my favourite; but I think I shall like _your_ husband quite as well
as Jane’s.”
CHAPTER LX.
Elizabeth’s spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr.
Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. “How could
you begin?” said she. “I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when
you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first
place?”
“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which
laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I
knew that I _had_ begun.”
“My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners--my behaviour
to _you_ was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke
to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now, be
sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?”
“For the liveliness of your mind I did.”
“You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little less.
The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious
attention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking,
and looking, and thinking for _your_ approbation alone. I roused and
interested you, because I was so unlike _them_. Had you not been really
amiable you would have hated me for it: but in spite of the pains you
took to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and
in your heart you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously
courted you. There--I have saved you the trouble of accounting for it;
and really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly
reasonable. To be sure you know no actual good of me--but nobody thinks
of _that_ when they fall in love.”
“Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane, while she was
ill at Netherfield?”
“Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it
by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are
to exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me
to find occasions for teasing and quarrelling with you as often as may
be; and I shall begin directly, by asking you what made you so unwilling
to come to the point at last? What made you so shy of me, when you
first called, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you
called, did you look as if you did not care about me?”
“Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement.”
“But I was embarrassed.”
“And so was I.”
“You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner.”
“A man who had felt less might.”
“How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that
I should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how long you
_would_ have gone on, if you had been left to yourself. I wonder when
you _would_ have spoken if I had not asked you! My resolution of
thanking you for your kindness to Lydia had certainly great effect. _Too
much_, I am afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if our comfort
springs from a breach of promise, for I ought not to have mentioned the
subject? This will never do.”
“You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly fair. Lady
Catherine’s unjustifiable endeavours to separate us were the means of
removing all my doubts. I am not indebted for my present happiness to