Pride and Prejudice

by Jane Austen

  Your’s, very sincerely,

  “M. GARDINER.”

  The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits, in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the greatest share. The vague and unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had produced of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister’s match, which she had feared to encourage, as an exertion of goodness too great to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the pain of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true! He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on himself all the trouble and mortification attendant on such a research; in which supplication had been necessary to a woman whom he must abominate and despise, and where he was reduced to meet, frequently meet, reason with, persuade, and finally bribe, the man whom he always most wished to avoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had done all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her heart did whisper, that he had done it for her. But it was a hope shortly checked by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her vanity was insufficient, when required to depend on his affection for her, for a woman who had already refused him, as able to overcome a sentiment so natural as abhorrence against relationship with Wickham. Brother in law of Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from the connection. He had to be sure done much. She was ashamed to think how much. But he had given a reason for his interference, which asked no extraordinary stretch of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel he had been wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising it; and though she would not place herself as his principal inducement, she could, perhaps, believe, that remaining partiality for her, might assist his endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that they were under obligations to a person who could never receive a return. They owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, every thing to him. Oh! how heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation she had ever encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed towards him. For herself she was humbled; but she was proud of him. Proud that in a cause of compassion and honour, he had been able to get the better of himself. She read over her aunt’s commendation of him again and again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even sensible of some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how stedfastly both she and her uncle had been persuaded that affection and confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself.

  She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one’s approach; and before she could strike into another path, she was overtaken by Wickham.

  “I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?” said he, as he joined her.

  “You certainly do,” she replied with a smile; “but it does not follow that the interruption must be unwelcome.”

  “I should be sorry indeed, if it were. We were always good friends; and now we are better.”

  “True. Are the others coming out?”

  “I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our uncle and aunt, that you have actually seen Pemberley.”

  She replied in the affirmative.

  “I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of me. But of course she did not mention my name to you.”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had—not turned out well. At such a distance as that, you know, things are strangely misrepresented.”

  “Certainly,” he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had silenced him; but he soon afterwards said,

  “I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other several times. I wonder what he can be doing there.”

  “Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh,” said Elizabeth. “It must be something particular, to take him there at this time of year.”

  “Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I understood from the Gardiners that you had.”

  “Yes; he introduced us to his sister.”

  “And do you like her?”

  “Very much.”

  “I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year or two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad you liked her. I hope she will turn out well.”

  “I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age.”

  “Did you go by the village of Kympton?”

  “I do not recollect that we did.”

  “I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have had. A most delightful place! Excellent Parsonage House! It would have suited me in every respect.”

  “How should you have liked making sermons?”

  “Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty, and the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to repine;—but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The quiet, the retirement of such a life, would have answered all my ideas of happiness! But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the circumstance, when you were in Kent?”

  “I have heard from authority, which I thought as good, that it was left you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron.”

  “You have. Yes, there was something in that; I told you so from the first, you may remember.”

  “I did hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making was not so palateable to you, as it seems to be at present; that you actually declared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business had been compromised accordingly.”

  “You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember what I told you on that point, when first we talked of it.”

  They were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked fast to get rid of him; and unwilling, for her sister’s sake, to provoke him, she only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile,

  “Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let us quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of one mind.”

  She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry, though he hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house.

  CHAPTER XI

  Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation, that he never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth, by introducing the subject of it; and she was pleased to find that she had said enough to keep him quiet.

  The day of his and Lydia’s departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet was forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means entered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle, was likely to continue at least a twelvemonth.

  “Oh! my dear Lydia,” she cried, “when shall we meet again?”

  “Oh, lord! I don’t know. Not these two or three years perhaps.”

  “Write to me very often, my dear.”

  “As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for writing. My sisters may write to me. They will have nothing else to do.”

  Mr. Wickham’s adieus were much more affectionate than his wife’s. He smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.

  “He is as fine a fellow,” said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of the house, “as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to us all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas himself, to produce a more valuable son-in-law.”

  The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days.

  “I often think,” said she, “that there is nothing so bad as parting with one’s friends. One seems so forlorn without them.”

  “This is the consequence, you see, Madam, of marrying a daughter,” sa
id Elizabeth. “It must make you better satisfied that your other four are single.”

  “It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is married; but only because her husband’s regiment happens to be so far off. If that had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon.”

  But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into, was shortly relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope, by an article of news, which then began to be in circulation. The housekeeper at Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the arrival of her master, who was coming down in a day or two, to shoot there for several weeks. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and smiled, and shook her head by turns.

  “Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister,” (for Mrs. Phillips first brought her the news.) “Well, so much the better. Not that I care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am sure I never want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome to come to Netherfield, if he likes it. And who knows what may happen? But that is nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to mention a word about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?”

  “You may depend on it,” replied the other, “for Mrs. Nicholls was in Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was certain true. He comes down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was going to the butcher’s, she told me, on purpose to order in some more meat on Wednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks, just fit to be killed.”

  Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming, without changing colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said,