“Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of.”
Elton’s rights, however, gradually revived. Though she did not feel
the first intelligence as she might have done the day before, or an
hour before, its interest soon increased; and before their first
conversation was over, she had talked herself into all the sensations
of curiosity, wonder and regret, pain and pleasure, as to this
fortunate Miss Hawkins, which could conduce to place the Martins under
proper subordination in her fancy.
Emma learned to be rather glad that there had been such a meeting. It
had been serviceable in deadening the first shock, without retaining
any influence to alarm. As Harriet now lived, the Martins could not get
at her, without seeking her, where hitherto they had wanted either the
courage or the condescension to seek her; for since her refusal of the
brother, the sisters never had been at Mrs. Goddard’s; and a
twelvemonth might pass without their being thrown together again, with
any necessity, or even any power of speech.
CHAPTER IV
Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting
situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of
being kindly spoken of.
A week had not passed since Miss Hawkins’s name was first mentioned in
Highbury, before she was, by some means or other, discovered to have
every recommendation of person and mind; to be handsome, elegant,
highly accomplished, and perfectly amiable: and when Mr. Elton himself
arrived to triumph in his happy prospects, and circulate the fame of
her merits, there was very little more for him to do, than to tell her
Christian name, and say whose music she principally played.
Mr. Elton returned, a very happy man. He had gone away rejected and
mortified—disappointed in a very sanguine hope, after a series of what
appeared to him strong encouragement; and not only losing the right
lady, but finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong one. He
had gone away deeply offended—he came back engaged to another—and to
another as superior, of course, to the first, as under such
circumstances what is gained always is to what is lost. He came back
gay and self-satisfied, eager and busy, caring nothing for Miss
Woodhouse, and defying Miss Smith.
“It is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are they the result of previous study?”
She is unfortunately of a sickly
constitution, which has prevented her making that progress in many
accomplishments which she could not otherwise have failed of, as I am
informed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still
resides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends
to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies.”
“Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at
court.”
“Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town;
and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine myself one day, has deprived
the British Court of its brightest ornament. Her Ladyship seemed pleased
with the idea; and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to
offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to
ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her
charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess; and that the most
elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by
her. These are the kind of little things which please her Ladyship, and
it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to
pay.”
“You judge very properly,” said Mr. Bennet; “and it is happy for you
that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask
whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the
moment, or are the result of previous study?”
“They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time; and though I
sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant
compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to
give them as unstudied an air as possible.”
Mr. Bennet’s expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd
as he had hoped; and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment,
maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance,
and, except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner
in his pleasure.
By tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad
to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and when tea was over,
glad to invite him
[Illustration:
“Protested
that he never read novels” H.T Feb 94
]
to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book
was produced; but on beholding it (for everything announced it to be
from a circulating library) he started back, and, begging pardon,
protested that he never read novels.
“I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle.”
”
“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
opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily
changed as that implies.”
“When I wrote that letter,” replied Darcy, “I believed myself perfectly
calm and cool; but I am since convinced that it was written in a
dreadful bitterness of spirit.”
“The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The
adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings
of the person who wrote and the person who received it are now so widely
different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance
attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my
philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you
pleasure.”
“I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. _Your_
retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment
arising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is much better, of
ignorance. But with _me_, it is not so. Painful recollections will
intrude, which cannot, which ought not to be repelled. I have been a
selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a
child I was taught what was _right_, but I was not taught to correct my
temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride
and conceit. Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only _child_),
I was spoiled by my parents, who, though good themselves, (my father
particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable,) allowed, encouraged,
almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyond
my own family circle, to think meanly of all the rest of the world, to
_wish_ at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with
my own. Such I was, from eight to eight-and-twenty; and such I might
still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not
owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most
advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a
doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my
pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.”
“Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?
“A person who can write a long letter with ease, cannot write ill.”
How odious I should think them!”
“It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours.”
“Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.”
“I have already told her so once, by your desire.”
“I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend
pens remarkably well.”
“Thank you--but I always mend my own.”
“How can you contrive to write so even?”
He was silent.
“Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp,
and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful
little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss
Grantley’s.”
“Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At
present I have not room to do them justice.”
“Oh, it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you
always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?”
“They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me
to determine.”
“It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter with
ease cannot write ill.”
“That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,” cried her
brother, “because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much
for words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?”
“My style of writing is very different from yours.”
“Oh,” cried Miss Bingley, “Charles writes in the most careless way
imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.”
“My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them; by which
means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.”
“Your humility, Mr. Bingley,” said Elizabeth, “must disarm reproof.”
“Nothing is more deceitful,” said Darcy, “than the appearance of
humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an
indirect boast.”
“And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?”
“The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in
writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of
thought and carelessness of execution, which, if not estimable, you
think at least highly interesting.
“To sit in the shade on a fine day and look upon verdure is the most perfect refreshment.”
“I am afraid you are very tired, Fanny,” said Edmund, observing her;
“why would not you speak sooner? This will be a bad day’s amusement for
you if you are to be knocked up. Every sort of exercise fatigues her so
soon, Miss Crawford, except riding.”
“How abominable in you, then, to let me engross her horse as I did all
last week! I am ashamed of you and of myself, but it shall never happen
again.”
“_Your_ attentiveness and consideration makes me more sensible of my
own neglect. Fanny’s interest seems in safer hands with you than with
me.”
“That she should be tired now, however, gives me no surprise; for there
is nothing in the course of one’s duties so fatiguing as what we have
been doing this morning: seeing a great house, dawdling from one room
to another, straining one’s eyes and one’s attention, hearing what one
does not understand, admiring what one does not care for. It is
generally allowed to be the greatest bore in the world, and Miss Price
has found it so, though she did not know it.”
“I shall soon be rested,” said Fanny; “to sit in the shade on a fine
day, and look upon verdure, is the most perfect refreshment.”
After sitting a little while Miss Crawford was up again. “I must move,”
said she; “resting fatigues me. I have looked across the ha-ha till I
am weary. I must go and look through that iron gate at the same view,
without being able to see it so well.”
Edmund left the seat likewise. “Now, Miss Crawford, if you will look up
the walk, you will convince yourself that it cannot be half a mile
long, or half half a mile.”
“It is an immense distance,” said she; “I see _that_ with a glance.”
He still reasoned with her, but in vain. She would not calculate, she
would not compare. She would only smile and assert. The greatest degree
of rational consistency could not have been more engaging, and they
talked with mutual satisfaction. At last it was agreed that they should
endeavour to determine the dimensions of the wood by walking a little
more about it. They would go to one end of it, in the line they were
then in—for there was a straight green walk along the bottom by the
side of the ha-ha—and perhaps turn a little way in some other
direction, if it seemed likely to assist them, and be back in a few
minutes.
“It sometimes happens that a woman is handsomer at twenty-nine than she was ten years before”
Mary had
acquired a little artificial importance, by becoming Mrs Charles
Musgrove; but Anne, with an elegance of mind and sweetness of
character, which must have placed her high with any people of real
understanding, was nobody with either father or sister; her word had no
weight, her convenience was always to give way—she was only Anne.
To Lady Russell, indeed, she was a most dear and highly valued
god-daughter, favourite, and friend. Lady Russell loved them all; but
it was only in Anne that she could fancy the mother to revive again.
A few years before, Anne Elliot had been a very pretty girl, but her
bloom had vanished early; and as even in its height, her father had
found little to admire in her, (so totally different were her delicate
features and mild dark eyes from his own), there could be nothing in
them, now that she was faded and thin, to excite his esteem. He had
never indulged much hope, he had now none, of ever reading her name in
any other page of his favourite work. All equality of alliance must
rest with Elizabeth, for Mary had merely connected herself with an old
country family of respectability and large fortune, and had therefore
_given_ all the honour and received none: Elizabeth would, one day or
other, marry suitably.
It sometimes happens that a woman is handsomer at twenty-nine than she
was ten years before; and, generally speaking, if there has been
neither ill health nor anxiety, it is a time of life at which scarcely
any charm is lost. It was so with Elizabeth, still the same handsome
Miss Elliot that she had begun to be thirteen years ago, and Sir Walter
might be excused, therefore, in forgetting her age, or, at least, be
deemed only half a fool, for thinking himself and Elizabeth as blooming
as ever, amidst the wreck of the good looks of everybody else; for he
could plainly see how old all the rest of his family and acquaintance
were growing. Anne haggard, Mary coarse, every face in the
neighbourhood worsting, and the rapid increase of the crow’s foot about
Lady Russell’s temples had long been a distress to him.
Elizabeth did not quite equal her father in personal contentment.
Thirteen years had seen her mistress of Kellynch Hall, presiding and
directing with a self-possession and decision which could never have
given the idea of her being younger than she was. For thirteen years
had she been doing the honours, and laying down the domestic law at
home, and leading the way to the chaise and four, and walking
immediately after Lady Russell out of all the drawing-rooms and
dining-rooms in the country.
“She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper.”
”
“They have none of them much to recommend them,” replied he: “they are
all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of
quickness than her sisters.”
“Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take
delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves.”
“You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They
are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration
these twenty years at least.”
“Ah, you do not know what I suffer.”
“But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four
thousand a year come into the neighbourhood.”
“It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you will not
visit them.”
“Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them
all.”
Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour,
reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had
been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind
was less difficult to develope. She was a woman of mean understanding,
little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented, she
fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her
daughters married: its solace was visiting and news.
[Illustration: M^{r.} & M^{rs.} Bennet
[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]
[Illustration:
“I hope Mr. Bingley will like it”
[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]
CHAPTER II.
[Illustration]
Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He
had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his
wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was
paid she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following
manner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he
suddenly addressed her with,--
“I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.”
“We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes,” said her mother,
resentfully, “since we are not to visit.”
“But you forget, mamma,” said Elizabeth, “that we shall meet him at the
assemblies, and that Mrs.
“What wild imaginations one forms where dear self is concerned! How sure to be mistaken!”
He was
determined, at least, not to mar it by an imprudent marriage; and I
know it was his belief (whether justly or not, of course I cannot
decide), that your father and sister, in their civilities and
invitations, were designing a match between the heir and the young
lady, and it was impossible that such a match should have answered his
ideas of wealth and independence. That was his motive for drawing back,
I can assure you. He told me the whole story. He had no concealments
with me. It was curious, that having just left you behind me in Bath,
my first and principal acquaintance on marrying should be your cousin;
and that, through him, I should be continually hearing of your father
and sister. He described one Miss Elliot, and I thought very
affectionately of the other.”
“Perhaps,” cried Anne, struck by a sudden idea, “you sometimes spoke of
me to Mr Elliot?”
“To be sure I did; very often. I used to boast of my own Anne Elliot,
and vouch for your being a very different creature from—”
She checked herself just in time.
“This accounts for something which Mr Elliot said last night,” cried
Anne. “This explains it. I found he had been used to hear of me. I
could not comprehend how. What wild imaginations one forms where dear
self is concerned! How sure to be mistaken! But I beg your pardon; I
have interrupted you. Mr Elliot married then completely for money? The
circumstances, probably, which first opened your eyes to his
character.”
Mrs Smith hesitated a little here. “Oh! those things are too common.
When one lives in the world, a man or woman’s marrying for money is too
common to strike one as it ought. I was very young, and associated only
with the young, and we were a thoughtless, gay set, without any strict
rules of conduct. We lived for enjoyment. I think differently now; time
and sickness and sorrow have given me other notions; but at that period
I must own I saw nothing reprehensible in what Mr Elliot was doing. ‘To
do the best for himself,’ passed as a duty.”
“But was not she a very low woman?”
“Yes; which I objected to, but he would not regard. Money, money, was
all that he wanted. Her father was a grazier, her grandfather had been
a butcher, but that was all nothing. She was a fine woman, had had a
decent education, was brought forward by some cousins, thrown by chance
into Mr Elliot’s company, and fell in love with him; and not a
difficulty or a scruple was there on his side, with respect to her
birth.
“Single women have a dreadful propensity to being poor”
If I were to labor at it all the
rest of my life, and live to the age of Methuselah, I could never
accomplish anything so long and so perfect; but I cannot let William go
without a few lines of acknowledgment and reply.
I have pretty well done with Mr. ----. By your description, he cannot be
in love with you, however he may try at it; and I could not wish the
match unless there were a great deal of love on his side. I do not know
what to do about Jemima Branfill. What does her dancing away with so
much spirit mean? That she does not care for him, or only wishes to
appear not to care for him? Who can understand a young lady?
Poor Mrs. C. Milles, that she should die on the wrong day at last, after
being about it so long! It was unlucky that the Goodnestone party could
not meet you; and I hope her friendly, obliging, social spirit, which
delighted in drawing people together, was not conscious of the division
and disappointment she was occasioning. I am sorry and surprised that
you speak of her as having little to leave, and must feel for Miss
Milles, though she is Molly, if a material loss of income is to attend
her other loss. Single women have a dreadful propensity for being poor,
which is one very strong argument in favor of matrimony; but I need not
dwell on such arguments with you, pretty dear.
To you I shall say, as I have often said before, Do not be in a hurry,
the right man will come at last; you will in the course of the next two
or three years meet with somebody more generally unexceptionable than
any one you have yet known, who will love you as warmly as possible, and
who will so completely attract you that you will feel you never really
loved before.
Do none of the A.'s ever come to balls now? You have never mentioned
them as being at any. And what do you hear of the Gripps, or of Fanny
and her husband?
Aunt Cassandra walked to Wyards yesterday with Mrs. Digweed. Anna has
had a bad cold, and looks pale. She has just weaned Julia.
I have also heard lately from your Aunt Harriot, and cannot understand
their plans in parting with Miss S., whom she seems very much to value
now that Harriot and Eleanor are both of an age for a governess to be so
useful to, especially as, when Caroline was sent to school some years,
Miss Bell was still retained, though the others even then were nursery
children.
“Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance.”
As yet she
cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard, nor of its
reasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four
dances with him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house,
and has since dined in company with him four times. This is not quite
enough to make her understand his character.”
“Not as you represent it. Had she merely _dined_ with him, she might
only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must
remember that four evenings have been also spent together--and four
evenings may do a great deal.”
“Yes: these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they both
like Vingt-un better than Commerce, but with respect to any other
leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has been unfolded.”
“Well,” said Charlotte, “I wish Jane success with all my heart; and if
she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a
chance of happiness as if she were to be studying his character for a
twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If
the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other, or
ever so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the
least. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to
have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as
possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your
life.”
“You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it is not
sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself.”
Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley’s attention to her sister, Elizabeth
was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some
interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely
allowed her to be pretty: he had looked at her without admiration at the
ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise. But no
sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she had
hardly a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered
uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes.
“Those who do not complain are never pitied”
“Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,” she added, in a melancholy tone;
“for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me; I am cruelly used,
nobody feels for my poor nerves.”
Charlotte’s reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth.
“Ay, there she comes,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “looking as unconcerned as
may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided she
can have her own way. But I tell you what, Miss Lizzy, if you take it
into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way,
you will never get a husband at all--and I am sure I do not know who is
to maintain you when your father is dead. _I_ shall not be able to keep
you--and so I warn you. I have done with you from this very day. I told
you in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you again,
and you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking
to undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in talking
to anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have
no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it
is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied.”
Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that any
attempt to reason with or soothe her would only increase the irritation.
She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of them till
they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered with an air more stately
than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to the girls,--
“Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and
let Mr. Collins and me have a little conversation together.”
Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but
Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte,
detained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after
herself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little
curiosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending
not to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet thus began the projected
conversation:--
“Oh, Mr. Collins!”
“My dear madam,” replied he, “let us be for ever silent on this point.
“Nothing is more deceitful than the appearance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast.”
”
“Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At
present I have not room to do them justice.”
“Oh, it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you
always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?”
“They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me
to determine.”
“It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter with
ease cannot write ill.”
“That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,” cried her
brother, “because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much
for words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?”
“My style of writing is very different from yours.”
“Oh,” cried Miss Bingley, “Charles writes in the most careless way
imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.”
“My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them; by which
means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.”
“Your humility, Mr. Bingley,” said Elizabeth, “must disarm reproof.”
“Nothing is more deceitful,” said Darcy, “than the appearance of
humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an
indirect boast.”
“And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?”
“The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in
writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of
thought and carelessness of execution, which, if not estimable, you
think at least highly interesting. The power of doing anything with
quickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any
attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs.
Bennet this morning, that if you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield
you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of
panegyric, of compliment to yourself; and yet what is there so very
laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business
undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or anyone else?”
“Nay,” cried Bingley, “this is too much, to remember at night all the
foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I
believed what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this
moment.
“She was determined, as she felt it to be her duty, to try to overcome all that was excessive.”
”
He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained to tranquillise herself as
she could. She was one of his two dearest—that must support her. But
the other: the first! She had never heard him speak so openly before,
and though it told her no more than what she had long perceived, it was
a stab, for it told of his own convictions and views. They were
decided. He would marry Miss Crawford. It was a stab, in spite of every
long-standing expectation; and she was obliged to repeat again and
again, that she was one of his two dearest, before the words gave her
any sensation. Could she believe Miss Crawford to deserve him, it would
be—oh, how different would it be—how far more tolerable! But he was
deceived in her: he gave her merits which she had not; her faults were
what they had ever been, but he saw them no longer. Till she had shed
many tears over this deception, Fanny could not subdue her agitation;
and the dejection which followed could only be relieved by the
influence of fervent prayers for his happiness.
It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty, to try to overcome
all that was excessive, all that bordered on selfishness, in her
affection for Edmund. To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment,
would be a presumption for which she had not words strong enough to
satisfy her own humility. To think of him as Miss Crawford might be
justified in thinking, would in her be insanity. To her he could be
nothing under any circumstances; nothing dearer than a friend. Why did
such an idea occur to her even enough to be reprobated and forbidden?
It ought not to have touched on the confines of her imagination. She
would endeavour to be rational, and to deserve the right of judging of
Miss Crawford’s character, and the privilege of true solicitude for him
by a sound intellect and an honest heart.
She had all the heroism of principle, and was determined to do her
duty; but having also many of the feelings of youth and nature, let her
not be much wondered at, if, after making all these good resolutions on
the side of self-government, she seized the scrap of paper on which
Edmund had begun writing to her, as a treasure beyond all her hopes,
and reading with the tenderest emotion these words, “My very dear
Fanny, you must do me the favour to accept” locked it up with the
chain, as the dearest part of the gift.
“In vain have I 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.”
She could not 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 intentions at all, and, agreeable as he was, she did not
mean to be unhappy about him.
While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the
door-bell; and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its
being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in
the evening, and might now come to inquire particularly after her. But
this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently
affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the
room. In a hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her
health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better.
She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and
then getting up walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but
said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her
in an agitated manner, and thus began:--
“In vain have I 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 expression. She stared, coloured,
doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement,
and the avowal of all that he felt and had long felt for her immediately
followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides those of the
heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the subject of
tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority, of its being a
degradation, of the family obstacles which judgment had always opposed
to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the
consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his
suit.
In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to
the compliment of such a man’s affection, and though her intentions did
not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to
receive; till roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost
all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to
answer him with patience, when he should have done.
“Silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way”
”
He did, on the condition of some promises on her side: such as that, if
she came home cold, she would be sure to warm herself thoroughly; if
hungry, that she would take something to eat; that her own maid should
sit up for her; and that Serle and the butler should see that every
thing were safe in the house, as usual.
CHAPTER VIII
Frank Churchill came back again; and if he kept his father’s dinner
waiting, it was not known at Hartfield; for Mrs. Weston was too anxious
for his being a favourite with Mr. Woodhouse, to betray any
imperfection which could be concealed.
He came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at himself with a very
good grace, but without seeming really at all ashamed of what he had
done. He had no reason to wish his hair longer, to conceal any
confusion of face; no reason to wish the money unspent, to improve his
spirits. He was quite as undaunted and as lively as ever; and, after
seeing him, Emma thus moralised to herself:—
“I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly silly things do
cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent
way. Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not always folly.—It
depends upon the character of those who handle it. Mr. Knightley, he is
_not_ a trifling, silly young man. If he were, he would have done this
differently. He would either have gloried in the achievement, or been
ashamed of it. There would have been either the ostentation of a
coxcomb, or the evasions of a mind too weak to defend its own
vanities.—No, I am perfectly sure that he is not trifling or silly.”
With Tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing him again, and for a
longer time than hitherto; of judging of his general manners, and by
inference, of the meaning of his manners towards herself; of guessing
how soon it might be necessary for her to throw coldness into her air;
and of fancying what the observations of all those might be, who were
now seeing them together for the first time.
She meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being laid at Mr.
Cole’s; and without being able to forget that among the failings of Mr.
“How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a book! -- When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.”
She had obtained private intelligence that Mr.
Darcy did not wish for cards, and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open
petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and the
silence of the whole party on the subject seemed to justify her. Mr.
Hurst had, therefore, nothing to do but to stretch himself on one of the
sofas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book. Miss Bingley did the same;
and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and
rings, joined now and then in her brother’s conversation with Miss
Bennet.
Miss Bingley’s attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr.
Darcy’s progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own; and she was
perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She
could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her
question and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be
amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the
second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, “How pleasant it
is to spend an evening in this way! I declare, after all, there is no
enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a
book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not
an excellent library.”
No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and
cast her eyes round the room in quest of some amusement; when, hearing
her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly
towards him and said,--
“By the bye Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at
Netherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult
the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not
some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a
pleasure.”
“If you mean Darcy,” cried her brother, “he may go to bed, if he
chooses, before it begins; but as for the ball, it is quite a settled
thing, and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send
round my cards.”
“I should like balls infinitely better,” she replied, “if they were
carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably
tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much
more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the
day.
“You give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are men to rocks and mountains? Oh! what hours of transport we shall spend! And when we do return, it shall not be like other travelers, without being able to give one accurate idea of any thing. We will know where we have gone we will recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains, and rivers shall not be jumbled together in our imaginations; nor when we attempt to describe any particular scene, will we begin quarrelling about its relative situation. Let our first effusions be less insupportable than those of the generality of travelers.”
I should be sorry, you know,
to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire.”
“Oh, if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in
Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not
much better. I am sick of them all. Thank heaven! I am going to-morrow
where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has
neither manners nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones
worth knowing, after all.”
“Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment.”
Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the
unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in
a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.
“We have not quite determined how far it shall carry us,” said Mrs.
Gardiner; “but perhaps, to the Lakes.”
No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her
acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. “My dear, dear
aunt,” she rapturously cried, “what delight! what felicity! You give me
fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are men
to rocks and mountains? Oh, what hours of transport we shall spend! And
when we _do_ return, it shall not be like other travellers, without
being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We _will_ know where
we have gone--we _will_ recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains,
and rivers, shall not be jumbled together in our imaginations; nor, when
we attempt to describe any particular scene, will we begin quarrelling
about its relative situation. Let _our_ first effusions be less
insupportable than those of the generality of travellers.”
[Illustration:
“At the door”
]
CHAPTER XXVIII.
[Illustration]
Every object in the next day’s journey was new and interesting to
Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state of enjoyment; for she had
seen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health,
and the prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight.
When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was in
search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view.
The paling of Rosings park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth
smiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants.
At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the
road, the house standing in it, the green pales and the laurel hedge,
everything declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte
appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate, which
led by a short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of
the whole party.
There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature.
how much I am obliged to you; and when you have
finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made
out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you.”
“Have you, indeed! how glad I am! what are they all?”
“I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook.
Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the
Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries.
Those will last us some time.”
“Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all
horrid?”
“Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a
sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every
one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with
her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I
think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for
not admiring her! i scold them all amazingly about it.”
“Scold them! do you scold them for not admiring her?”
“Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are
really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is
not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told
Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to
tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow
Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable
of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the
difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I
should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for _you_
are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men.”
“Oh, dear!” cried Catherine, colouring. “How can you say so?”
“I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly
what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something
amazingly insipid about her. Oh! i must tell you, that just after we
parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly—I am
sure he is in love with you.” Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again.
Isabella laughed. “It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it
is; you are indifferent to everybody’s admiration, except that of one
gentleman, who shall be nameless.
A ladys imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment.
”
“I should imagine not.”
“You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many
evenings in this manner,--in such society; and, indeed, I am quite of
your opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the
noise--the nothingness, and yet the self-importance, of all these
people! What would I give to hear your strictures on them!”
“Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more
agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure
which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.”
Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he
would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections.
Mr. Darcy replied, with great intrepidity,--
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” repeated Miss Bingley. “I am all astonishment.
How long has she been such a favourite? and pray when am I to wish you
joy?”
“That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady’s
imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love
to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy.”
“Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the matter as
absolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law, indeed, and
of course she will be always at Pemberley with you.”
He listened to her with perfect indifference, while she chose to
entertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced her
that all was safe, her wit flowed along.
[Illustration:
“A note for Miss Bennet”
[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]
CHAPTER VII.
[Illustration]
Mr. Bennet’s property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two
thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed,
in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother’s
fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply
the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and
had left her four thousand pounds.
She had a sister married to a Mr. Philips, who had been a clerk to their
father and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in
London in a respectable line of trade.
In vain have I 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.
She could not 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 intentions at all, and, agreeable as he was, she did not
mean to be unhappy about him.
While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the
door-bell; and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its
being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in
the evening, and might now come to inquire particularly after her. But
this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently
affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the
room. In a hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her
health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better.
She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and
then getting up walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but
said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her
in an agitated manner, and thus began:--
“In vain have I 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 expression. She stared, coloured,
doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement,
and the avowal of all that he felt and had long felt for her immediately
followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides those of the
heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the subject of
tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority, of its being a
degradation, of the family obstacles which judgment had always opposed
to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the
consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his
suit.
In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to
the compliment of such a man’s affection, and though her intentions did
not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to
receive; till roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost
all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to
answer him with patience, when he should have done.
