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.
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. To
this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had
detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry
in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and
pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those
of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness.
And to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.
The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no
otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen; but I am very
far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I
cannot boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen in the whole range of my
acquaintance that are really accomplished.”
“Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley.
“Then,” observed Elizabeth, “you must comprehend a great deal in your
idea of an accomplished woman.”
“Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it.”
“Oh, certainly,” cried his faithful assistant, “no one can be really
esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met
with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing,
dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and, besides all
this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of
walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word
will be but half deserved.”
“All this she must possess,” added Darcy; “and to all she must yet add
something more substantial in the improvement of her mind by extensive
reading.”
“I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women.
I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_.”
“Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility of all
this?”
“_I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity, and taste, and
application, and elegance, as you describe, united.”
Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her
implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who
answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with
bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all
conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the
room.
“Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, “is
one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other
sex by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I daresay, it
succeeds; but, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art.”
“Undoubtedly,” replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed,
“there is meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend
to employ for captivation.
The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.
Allen to support her, she felt no
dread of the event: but she would gladly be spared a contest, where
victory itself was painful, and was heartily rejoiced therefore at
neither seeing nor hearing anything of them. The Tilneys called for her
at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden
recollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to
disconcert their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to
fulfil her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself. They
determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose
beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object
from almost every opening in Bath.
“I never look at it,” said Catherine, as they walked along the side of
the river, “without thinking of the south of France.”
“You have been abroad then?” said Henry, a little surprised.
“Oh! no, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind
of the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The
Mysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?”
“Why not?”
“Because they are not clever enough for you—gentlemen read better
books.”
“The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good
novel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe’s
works, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho,
when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember
finishing it in two days—my hair standing on end the whole time.”
“Yes,” added Miss Tilney, “and I remember that you undertook to read it
aloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to
answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the
Hermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it.”
“Thank you, Eleanor—a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Morland,
the injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get
on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the
promise I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at
a most interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you
are to observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I
reflect on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion.
I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal.
I have sent the same extract of the sweets of Gambier to Charles, who,
poor fellow, though he sinks into nothing but an humble attendant on the
hero of the piece, will, I hope, be contented with the prospect held out
to him. By what the Admiral says, it appears as if he had been
designedly kept in the "Scorpion." But I will not torment myself with
conjectures and suppositions; facts shall satisfy me.
Frank had not heard from any of us for ten weeks when he wrote to me on
November 12 in consequence of Lord St. Vincent being removed to
Gibraltar. When his commission is sent, however, it will not be so long
on its road as our letters, because all the Government despatches are
forwarded by land to his lordship from Lisbon with great regularity.
I returned from Manydown this morning, and found my mother certainly in
no respect worse than when I left her. She does not like the cold
weather, but that we cannot help. I spent my time very quietly and very
pleasantly with Catherine. Miss Blackford is agreeable enough. I do not
want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking
them a great deal. I found only Catherine and her when I got to Manydown
on Thursday. We dined together, and went together to Worting to seek the
protection of Mrs. Clarke, with whom were Lady Mildmay, her eldest son,
and Mr. and Mrs. Hoare.
Our ball was very thin, but by no means unpleasant. There were
thirty-one people, and only eleven ladies out of the number, and but
five single women in the room. Of the gentlemen present you may have
some idea from the list of my partners,--Mr. Wood, G. Lefroy, Rice, a
Mr. Butcher (belonging to the Temples, a sailor and not of the 11th
Light Dragoons), Mr. Temple (not the horrid one of all), Mr. Wm. Orde
(cousin to the Kingsclere man), Mr. John Harwood, and Mr. Calland, who
appeared as usual with his hat in his hand, and stood every now and then
behind Catherine and me to be talked to and abused for not dancing. We
teased him, however, into it at last. I was very glad to see him again
after so long a separation, and he was altogether rather the genius and
flirt of the evening.
Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing after all.
If it were not allowable for him to gain _my_
affections, because I had no money, what occasion could there be for
making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally
poor?”
“But there seems indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her so
soon after this event.”
“A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant
decorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does not object to it,
why should _we_?”
“_Her_ not objecting does not justify _him_. It only shows her being
deficient in something herself--sense or feeling.”
“Well,” cried Elizabeth, “have it as you choose. _He_ shall be
mercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish.”
“No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. 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.
I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible.
Catherine, without hesitation, replied that she was
very sure Miss Thorpe did not mean to dance at all. The cruel reply was
passed on to the other, and he immediately walked away.
“Your brother will not mind it, I know,” said she, “because I heard him
say before that he hated dancing; but it was very good-natured in him
to think of it. I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down, and fancied she
might wish for a partner; but he is quite mistaken, for she would not
dance upon any account in the world.”
Henry smiled, and said, “How very little trouble it can give you to
understand the motive of other people’s actions.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“With you, it is not, How is such a one likely to be influenced, What
is the inducement most likely to act upon such a person’s feelings,
age, situation, and probable habits of life considered—but, How should
_I_ be influenced, What would be _my_ inducement in acting so and so?”
“I do not understand you.”
“Then we are on very unequal terms, for I understand you perfectly
well.”
“Me? Yes; I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible.”
“Bravo! an excellent satire on modern language.”
“But pray tell me what you mean.”
“Shall I indeed? Do you really desire it? But you are not aware of the
consequences; it will involve you in a very cruel embarrassment, and
certainly bring on a disagreement between us.”
“No, no; it shall not do either; I am not afraid.”
“Well, then, I only meant that your attributing my brother’s wish of
dancing with Miss Thorpe to good nature alone convinced me of your
being superior in good nature yourself to all the rest of the world.”
Catherine blushed and disclaimed, and the gentleman’s predictions were
verified. There was a something, however, in his words which repaid her
for the pain of confusion; and that something occupied her mind so much
that she drew back for some time, forgetting to speak or to listen, and
almost forgetting where she was; till, roused by the voice of Isabella,
she looked up and saw her with Captain Tilney preparing to give them
hands across.
Isabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only explanation of
this extraordinary change which could at that time be given; but as it
was not quite enough for Catherine’s comprehension, she spoke her
astonishment in very plain terms to her partner.
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.
Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride - where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.
And as to laughter, we will not expose
ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr.
Darcy may hug himself.”
“Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!” cried Elizabeth. “That is an
uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would
be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a
laugh.”
“Miss Bingley,” said he, “has given me credit for more than can be. The
wisest and best of men,--nay, the wisest and best of their actions,--may
be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a
joke.”
“Certainly,” replied Elizabeth, “there are such people, but I hope I am
not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies
and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, _do_ divert me, I own, and I
laugh at them whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are precisely what
you are without.”
“Perhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has been the study of
my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong
understanding to ridicule.”
“Such as vanity and pride.”
“Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real
superiority of mind--pride will be always under good regulation.”
Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.
“Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,” said Miss Bingley;
“and pray what is the result?”
“I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it
himself without disguise.”
“No,” said Darcy, “I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough,
but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch
for. It is, I believe, too little yielding; certainly too little for the
convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of
others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My
feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper
would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost is lost for
ever.”
“_That_ is a failing, indeed!” cried Elizabeth. “Implacable resentment
_is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I
really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me.”
“There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular
evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.
And pictures of perfection, as you know, make me sick and wicked.
Her poor father
will be quite worn out by his feelings for her; he cannot spare Cassy at
present, she is an occupation and a comfort to him.
LXXIV.
CHAWTON, Sunday (March 23).
I AM very much obliged to you, my dearest Fanny, for sending me Mr. W.'s
conversation; I had great amusement in reading it, and I hope I am not
affronted, and do not think the worse of him for having a brain so very
different from mine; but my strongest sensation of all is astonishment
at your being able to press him on the subject so perseveringly; and I
agree with your papa that it was not fair. When he knows the truth, he
will be uncomfortable.
You are the oddest creature! Nervous enough in some respects, but in
others perfectly without nerves! Quite unrepulsable, hardened, and
impudent. Do not oblige him to read any more. Have mercy on him, tell
him the truth, and make him an apology. He and I should not in the least
agree, of course, in our ideas of novels and heroines. Pictures of
perfection, as you know, make me sick and wicked; but there is some very
good sense in what he says, and I particularly respect him for wishing
to think well of all young ladies; it shows an amiable and a delicate
mind. And he deserves better treatment than to be obliged to read any
more of my works.
Do not be surprised at finding Uncle Henry acquainted with my having
another ready for publication. I could not say No when he asked me, but
he knows nothing more of it. You will not like it, so you need not be
impatient. You may perhaps like the heroine, as she is almost too good
for me.
Many thanks for your kind care for my health; I certainly have not been
well for many weeks, and about a week ago I was very poorly. I have had
a good deal of fever at times, and indifferent nights; but I am
considerably better now, and am recovering my looks a little, which have
been bad enough,--black and white, and every wrong color. I must not
depend upon being ever very blooming again. Sickness is a dangerous
indulgence at my time of life.
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 occasion for teasing and quarreling with you as often as may be...
”
“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.
There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always do if he chooses, and that is his duty; not by manoeuvring and finessing, but by vigour and resolution. - Mr. Knightley
”
“It is not to be conceived that a man of three or four-and-twenty
should not have liberty of mind or limb to that amount. He cannot want
money—he cannot want leisure. We know, on the contrary, that he has so
much of both, that he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest haunts
in the kingdom. We hear of him for ever at some watering-place or
other. A little while ago, he was at Weymouth. This proves that he can
leave the Churchills.”
“Yes, sometimes he can.”
“And those times are whenever he thinks it worth his while; whenever
there is any temptation of pleasure.”
“It is very unfair to judge of any body’s conduct, without an intimate
knowledge of their situation. Nobody, who has not been in the interior
of a family, can say what the difficulties of any individual of that
family may be. We ought to be acquainted with Enscombe, and with Mrs.
Churchill’s temper, before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew
can do. He may, at times, be able to do a great deal more than he can
at others.”
“There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always do, if he chuses, and
that is, his duty; not by manoeuvring and finessing, but by vigour and
resolution. It is Frank Churchill’s duty to pay this attention to his
father. He knows it to be so, by his promises and messages; but if he
wished to do it, it might be done. A man who felt rightly would say at
once, simply and resolutely, to Mrs. Churchill—‘Every sacrifice of mere
pleasure you will always find me ready to make to your convenience; but
I must go and see my father immediately. I know he would be hurt by my
failing in such a mark of respect to him on the present occasion. I
shall, therefore, set off to-morrow.’—If he would say so to her at
once, in the tone of decision becoming a man, there would be no
opposition made to his going.”
“No,” said Emma, laughing; “but perhaps there might be some made to his
coming back again. Such language for a young man entirely dependent, to
use!—Nobody but you, Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible. But you
have not an idea of what is requisite in situations directly opposite
to your own. Mr. Frank Churchill to be making such a speech as that to
the uncle and aunt, who have brought him up, and are to provide for
him!
Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised or a little mistaken.
She felt for
Harriet, with pain and with contrition; but no flight of generosity run
mad, opposing all that could be probable or reasonable, entered her
brain. She had led her friend astray, and it would be a reproach to her
for ever; but her judgment was as strong as her feelings, and as strong
as it had ever been before, in reprobating any such alliance for him,
as most unequal and degrading. Her way was clear, though not quite
smooth.—She spoke then, on being so entreated.—What did she say?—Just
what she ought, of course. A lady always does.—She said enough to shew
there need not be despair—and to invite him to say more himself. He
_had_ despaired at one period; he had received such an injunction to
caution and silence, as for the time crushed every hope;—she had begun
by refusing to hear him.—The change had perhaps been somewhat
sudden;—her proposal of taking another turn, her renewing the
conversation which she had just put an end to, might be a little
extraordinary!—She felt its inconsistency; but Mr. Knightley was so
obliging as to put up with it, and seek no farther explanation.
Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human
disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little
disguised, or a little mistaken; but where, as in this case, though the
conduct is mistaken, the feelings are not, it may not be very
material.—Mr. Knightley could not impute to Emma a more relenting heart
than she possessed, or a heart more disposed to accept of his.
He had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own influence. He had
followed her into the shrubbery with no idea of trying it. He had come,
in his anxiety to see how she bore Frank Churchill’s engagement, with
no selfish view, no view at all, but of endeavouring, if she allowed
him an opening, to soothe or to counsel her.—The rest had been the work
of the moment, the immediate effect of what he heard, on his feelings.
The delightful assurance of her total indifference towards Frank
Churchill, of her having a heart completely disengaged from him, had
given birth to the hope, that, in time, he might gain her affection
himself;—but it had been no present hope—he had only, in the momentary
conquest of eagerness over judgment, aspired to be told that she did
not forbid his attempt to attach her.
Every impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my opinion, exertion should always be in proportion to what is required.
Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note
aloud, “if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness--if she
should die--it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of
Mr. Bingley, and under your orders.”
“Oh, I am not at all afraid of her dying. People do not die of little
trifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays
there, it is all very well. I would go and see her if I could have the
carriage.”
Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, determined to go to her, though the
carriage was not to be had: and as she was no horsewoman, walking was
her only alternative. She declared her resolution.
“How can you be so silly,” cried her mother, “as to think of such a
thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get
there.”
“I shall be very fit to see Jane--which is all I want.”
“Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,” said her father, “to send for the
horses?”
“No, indeed. I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is nothing,
when one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back by dinner.”
“I admire the activity of your benevolence,” observed Mary, “but every
impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my opinion,
exertion should always be in proportion to what is required.”
“We will go as far as Meryton with you,” said Catherine and Lydia.
Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three young ladies set off
together.
“If we make haste,” said Lydia, as they walked along, “perhaps we may
see something of Captain Carter, before he goes.”
In Meryton they parted: the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one
of the officers’ wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing
field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing
over puddles, with impatient activity, and finding herself at last
within view of the house, with weary ancles, dirty stockings, and a face
glowing with the warmth of exercise.
She was shown into the breakfast parlour, where all but Jane were
assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of surprise.
That she should have walked three miles so early in the day in such
dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and
Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in contempt
for it.
It has sunk him, I cannot say how much it has sunk him in my opinion. So unlike what a man should be!-None of that upright integrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that distain of trick and littleness, which a man should display in every transaction of his life.
he tell what mischief he might be doing?—How could he tell that
he might not be making me in love with him?—very wrong, very wrong
indeed.”
“From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather imagine—”
“And how could _she_ bear such behaviour! Composure with a witness! to
look on, while repeated attentions were offering to another woman,
before her face, and not resent it.—That is a degree of placidity,
which I can neither comprehend nor respect.”
“There were misunderstandings between them, Emma; he said so expressly.
He had not time to enter into much explanation. He was here only a
quarter of an hour, and in a state of agitation which did not allow the
full use even of the time he could stay—but that there had been
misunderstandings he decidedly said. The present crisis, indeed, seemed
to be brought on by them; and those misunderstandings might very
possibly arise from the impropriety of his conduct.”
“Impropriety! Oh! Mrs. Weston—it is too calm a censure. Much, much
beyond impropriety!—It has sunk him, I cannot say how it has sunk him
in my opinion. So unlike what a man should be!—None of that upright
integrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that disdain
of trick and littleness, which a man should display in every
transaction of his life.”
“Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part; for though he has been wrong
in this instance, I have known him long enough to answer for his having
many, very many, good qualities; and—”
“Good God!” cried Emma, not attending to her.—“Mrs. Smallridge, too!
Jane actually on the point of going as governess! What could he mean by
such horrible indelicacy? To suffer her to engage herself—to suffer her
even to think of such a measure!”
“He knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I can fully acquit
him. It was a private resolution of hers, not communicated to him—or at
least not communicated in a way to carry conviction.—Till yesterday, I
know he said he was in the dark as to her plans. They burst on him, I
do not know how, but by some letter or message—and it was the discovery
of what she was doing, of this very project of hers, which determined
him to come forward at once, own it all to his uncle, throw himself on
his kindness, and, in short, put an end to the miserable state of
concealment that had been carrying on so long.
But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible.
Well, I was so
frightened I did not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away;
and if we were beyond the hour we could not be married all day. But,
luckily, he came back again in ten minutes’ time, and then we all set
out. However, I recollected afterwards, that if he _had_ been prevented
going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as
well.”
“Mr. Darcy!” repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.
“Oh, yes! he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But, gracious me!
I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised
them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!”
“If it was to be a secret,” said Jane, “say not another word on the
subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further.”
“Oh, certainly,” said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; “we will
ask you no questions.”
“Thank you,” said Lydia; “for if you did, I should certainly tell you
all, and then Wickham would be so angry.”
On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her
power, by running away.
But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least it
was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at her
sister’s wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people,
where he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go.
Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her
brain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as
placing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She
could not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper,
wrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what
Lydia had dropped, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been
intended.
“You may readily comprehend,” she added, “what my curiosity must be to
know how a person unconnected with any of us, and, comparatively
speaking, a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such
a time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it--unless it is,
for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to
think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with
ignorance.
My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?
”
“And I have not forgotten,” said Emma, “how sure you were that he might
have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely—but you
were perfectly right.”
“I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:—but yet, I think—had
_you_ not been in the case—I should still have distrusted him.”
When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it
aloud—all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the
head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as
the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady
reflection, thus—
“Very bad—though it might have been worse.—Playing a most dangerous
game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.—No judge of his
own manners by you.—Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and
regardless of little besides his own convenience.—Fancying you to have
fathomed his secret. Natural enough!—his own mind full of intrigue,
that he should suspect it in others.—Mystery; Finesse—how they pervert
the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more
and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with
each other?”
Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet’s
account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.
“You had better go on,” said she.
He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, “the pianoforte! Ah! That
was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider
whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the
pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!—I cannot comprehend a man’s wishing
to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather
dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the
instrument’s coming if she could.”
After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill’s
confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for
more than a word in passing.
“I perfectly agree with you, sir,”—was then his remark. “You did behave
very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line.” And having gone through
what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his
persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax’s sense of
right, he made a fuller pause to say, “This is very bad.
It does not come to me in quite so direct a line as that; it takes a bend or two, but nothing of consequence. The stream is as good as at first; the little rubbish it collects in the turnings is easily moved away.
She was obliged to recollect
that her seeing the letter was a violation of the laws of honour, that
no one ought to be judged or to be known by such testimonies, that no
private correspondence could bear the eye of others, before she could
recover calmness enough to return the letter which she had been
meditating over, and say—
“Thank you. This is full proof undoubtedly; proof of every thing you
were saying. But why be acquainted with us now?”
“I can explain this too,” cried Mrs Smith, smiling.
“Can you really?”
“Yes. I have shewn you Mr Elliot as he was a dozen years ago, and I
will shew him as he is now. I cannot produce written proof again, but I
can give as authentic oral testimony as you can desire, of what he is
now wanting, and what he is now doing. He is no hypocrite now. He truly
wants to marry you. His present attentions to your family are very
sincere: quite from the heart. I will give you my authority: his friend
Colonel Wallis.”
“Colonel Wallis! you are acquainted with him?”
“No. It does not come to me in quite so direct a line as that; it takes
a bend or two, but nothing of consequence. The stream is as good as at
first; the little rubbish it collects in the turnings is easily moved
away. Mr Elliot talks unreservedly to Colonel Wallis of his views on
you, which said Colonel Wallis, I imagine to be, in himself, a
sensible, careful, discerning sort of character; but Colonel Wallis has
a very pretty silly wife, to whom he tells things which he had better
not, and he repeats it all to her. She in the overflowing spirits of
her recovery, repeats it all to her nurse; and the nurse knowing my
acquaintance with you, very naturally brings it all to me. On Monday
evening, my good friend Mrs Rooke let me thus much into the secrets of
Marlborough Buildings. When I talked of a whole history, therefore, you
see I was not romancing so much as you supposed.”
“My dear Mrs Smith, your authority is deficient. This will not do. Mr
Elliot’s having any views on me will not in the least account for the
efforts he made towards a reconciliation with my father. That was all
prior to my coming to Bath. I found them on the most friendly terms
when I arrived.”
“I know you did; I know it all perfectly, but—”
“Indeed, Mrs Smith, we must not expect to get real information in such
a line.
Words were insufficient for the elevation of his [Mr Collins] feelings; and he was obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility and truth in a few short sentences.
She had
spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of being with
Charlotte, and the kind attention she had received, must make _her_ feel
the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified; and with a more smiling
solemnity replied,--
“It gives me the greatest pleasure to hear that you have passed your
time not disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most
fortunately having it in our power to introduce you to very superior
society, and from our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of
varying the humble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that
your Hunsford visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation
with regard to Lady Catherine’s family is, indeed, the sort of
extraordinary advantage and blessing which few can boast. You see on
what a footing we are. You see how continually we are engaged there. In
truth, I must acknowledge, that, with all the disadvantages of this
humble parsonage, I should not think anyone abiding in it an object of
compassion, while they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings.”
Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he was
obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility
and truth in a few short sentences.
“You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into
Hertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself, at least, that you will
be able to do so. Lady Catherine’s great attentions to Mrs. Collins you
have been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust it does not appear
that your friend has drawn an unfortunate--but on this point it will be
as well to be silent. Only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth,
that I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in
marriage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one mind and one way of
thinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of
character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each
other.”
Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where that was
the case, and with equal sincerity could add, that she firmly believed
and rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was not sorry, however, to
have the recital of them interrupted by the entrance of the lady from
whom they sprang.
Angry people are not always wise.
Louisa and I were agreeing that we
should not have known her again.”
However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented
himself with coolly replying, that he perceived no other alteration than
her being rather tanned,--no miraculous consequence of travelling in the
summer.
“For my own part,” she rejoined, “I must confess that I never could see
any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no
brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose wants
character; there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are
tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes, which
have sometimes been called so fine, I never could perceive anything
extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do not
like at all; and in her air altogether, there is a self-sufficiency
without fashion, which is intolerable.”
Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not
the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always
wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the
success she expected. He was resolutely silent, however; and, from a
determination of making him speak, she continued,--
“I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all
were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect
your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, ‘_She_
a beauty! I should as soon call her mother a wit.’ But afterwards she
seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at
one time.”
“Yes,” replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, “but _that_
was only when I first knew her; for it is many months since I have
considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.”
He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of
having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself.
Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred during their
visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested them
both.
…one half of her should not be always so much wiser than the other half…
much
thicker than Miss Anne’s; and, in short, her civility rendered her
quite as anxious to be left to walk with Mr Elliot as Anne could be,
and it was discussed between them with a generosity so polite and so
determined, that the others were obliged to settle it for them; Miss
Elliot maintaining that Mrs Clay had a little cold already, and Mr
Elliot deciding on appeal, that his cousin Anne’s boots were rather the
thickest.
It was fixed accordingly, that Mrs Clay should be of the party in the
carriage; and they had just reached this point, when Anne, as she sat
near the window, descried, most decidedly and distinctly, Captain
Wentworth walking down the street.
Her start was perceptible only to herself; but she instantly felt that
she was the greatest simpleton in the world, the most unaccountable and
absurd! For a few minutes she saw nothing before her; it was all
confusion. She was lost, and when she had scolded back her senses, she
found the others still waiting for the carriage, and Mr Elliot (always
obliging) just setting off for Union Street on a commission of Mrs
Clay’s.
She now felt a great inclination to go to the outer door; she wanted to
see if it rained. Why was she to suspect herself of another motive?
Captain Wentworth must be out of sight. She left her seat, she would
go; one half of her should not be always so much wiser than the other
half, or always suspecting the other of being worse than it was. She
would see if it rained. She was sent back, however, in a moment by the
entrance of Captain Wentworth himself, among a party of gentlemen and
ladies, evidently his acquaintance, and whom he must have joined a
little below Milsom Street. He was more obviously struck and confused
by the sight of her than she had ever observed before; he looked quite
red. For the first time, since their renewed acquaintance, she felt
that she was betraying the least sensibility of the two. She had the
advantage of him in the preparation of the last few moments. All the
overpowering, blinding, bewildering, first effects of strong surprise
were over with her. Still, however, she had enough to feel! It was
agitation, pain, pleasure, a something between delight and misery.
He spoke to her, and then turned away. The character of his manner was
embarrassment. She could not have called it either cold or friendly, or
anything so certainly as embarrassed.
