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Chapter 20
After a restless and tearful night Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations which had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the magnitude of what had happened; it was impossible to think of any thing else. Totally indisposed for employment or company, she resolved soon after breakfast to indulge herself in air and exercise in what would, no doubt, prove a vain attempt to bring herself to an acceptance of having rejected the only man she had ever loved; and possibly to find a little comfort in the knowledge that though she would regret her decision, she could not repent it.
There had been so many moments as she had lain awake in bed that night, where she had almost convinced herself, that had she said yes, all would have been well, that love could , even should, be enough... but at the same time as she tried to justify these thoughts, deep down she could feel their naivety. If here, at the very beginnings of passion, he felt all the indignity of her families inferiority, how could she, in any honesty, believe he would not come to feel such inequity more strongly once the first flames of loved had burned? If he now felt enough humiliation at his feelings to have wished them kept secret from his Aunt, and even cousins, how could she assume that he would feel it less amongst his friends and associates in London and Derbyshire?
Without thinking, she had allowed her feet to lead her directly to her favourite walk, but the recollection of Mr. Darcy's often finding her there stopped her, and instead of entering the park, she turned up the lane which led her farther from the turnpike road. The park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed one of the gates into the ground.
She sighed as reality and sorrow threatened to again bring tears, and in an attempt to lessen her sense of loss, she brought afresh to her mind of the effects such a match must have on her relationships with her own family. Had she accepted, she would ever have her husband's opinion of them before her, would have felt the tension, the humiliation of knowing his disdain... the hurt of knowing he would wish to distance himself from their company. How could she have born such a separation from her father... from her Uncle and Aunt? A momentary pang made her question the justice of imputing such an opinion to Mr Darcy, but a remembrance of his silences at Longbourn, and of how expediently he had removed Georgiana from their company, made her give it more credit.
No... despite her feelings of love, such a marriage would be all wrong. She was right to desire a marriage in which she could be held as an equal, where she would not have to feel that it had been all to her advantage, where she would not have fear a husband's regret... Her own parents' situation was too much a constant warning of such an unequal relationship.
After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and look into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent had made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk, when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which edged the park; he was moving that way; and fearful of its being Mr. Darcy, whom she was not yet prepared to meet, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now near enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced her name.
She had turned away, but on hearing herself called, though in a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the gate, trying to hold tight to her reason, lest her resolve melt.
He had by that time reached it also, and holding out a letter. He gave her a look of such tenderness as she glanced up at him, that her heart almost threatened to break. It appeared as though he had slept as little as she, and she could see a mirroring of her own torment in his eyes.
``I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you," he said softly. "Will you do me the honour of reading this letter?'' He placed the note in her hand, folded her trembling fingers around it and, as if unable to fight the impulse, brought the hand to his lips for a soft kiss before, with a slight bow, he turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight.
Fearing that this might simply bring an increase in pain Elizabeth opened the letter, only guessing what might likely be within, but her conjecture was proved wrong upon her reading of the opening line.
``Be not alarmed, Elizabeth, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were last night so distressing to you. I write without any intention of paining you through questioning your decision, or of humbling myself by dwelling on wishes which, given your feelings, cannot be realised. The effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written and read, and had I not believed my behaviour demanded an explanation, alongside an apology. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I ask your attention; and beg of you your justice and your understanding.May I begin in trying to explain the journey which led to my confession of last night.
I had not been long in Hertfordshire when you began to draw my attention. Your liveliness and spirits first caught me, and with a surprising alacrity established a foundation on which was built such an attraction and admiration that I had never felt before. However, given the of the disparity in our situations, I felt that pursuance would be inappropriate, and not being of the nature to engage in the vanities of empty flirtation, I endevoured to protect myself, and also to behave rightly toward yourself, through remaining aloof.
I have never felt in such danger as I did during your stay at Netherfield during Jane's illness. It was as if my desire and my reason were at war. Previously my admiration had been at a distance, and was based upon my enjoyment of your liveliness and your undoubted attractiveness, but now I was confronted with the truth of your intelligence and quickness, your humour, and your delightful way of looking at the world. It didn't help either that I could also see such compassion in your care of your sister. My difficulty was, that despite my resolution to remain withdrawn, there were times I found the allure of your company and conversation too much, and I dare say you cannot appreciate the relief I felt upon your removal to Longbourn, particularly might I add, after our time alone in the library - your physical presence was far too captivating.
By the evening of Bingley's ball I felt enough in command of myself to believe I could see you without danger, but from the moment I watched you walk in the door I knew that I was wrong. I envied every officer at whom you smiled (you know Elizabeth, you smile at far too many men) and each of your partners, whether in dance or conversation. It was against my every determination that I asked you to dance. I believe I had some dubious excuse such as the dance might be able to sate my longing, and afterwards allow me some desired peace, but such a hope was vain, as any time in your company only served to further increase my appreciation of you.
It was after the ball that I knew I could no longer stay in Hertfordshire. I need to say here though Elizabeth, that though my own partiality to you was beyond that which I ever felt, I also watched you. Your looks and manners were as happy and engaging as ever, but I did not believe you looked on me with any particular regard. Indeed Miss Bennet, it was a relief when you accepted my request, as twice before you had rejected my invitations to dance. Although you received my attentions that night with good humour and pleasure, it did not seem as though you invited them with any singular participation of sentiment. In removing myself to London I had no suspicion that I was causing pain to anyone but myself.
If now Elizabeth, I confess some feelings that may be offensive to yours, I can only say I am sorry. - The necessity must be obeyed - and further apology would be absurd -- My objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have required the utmost force of passion to put aside; I believe had these been the only concerns I would have put them aside all those months ago; but there were objections which I have myself endeavoured to forget, because they were not immediately before me. -- These concerns must be stated, though briefly. -- The situation of your mother's family, was nothing in comparison of that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly, betrayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father. -- Pardon me. -- It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your eldest sister, than it is honourable to the sense and disposition of both. -- I will only say farther that, from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every inducement heightened, which could have led me to preserve myself from what I esteemed an unequal and inappropriate connection. - I left Netherfield for London, on the day following. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your feelings, it was unknowingly done; and though the motives which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn them.
I must now go on to address my behaviour in London, over which my cousin found so much pleasure in teasing me. Given my conviction of your indifference, and my own expectations for myself in regard to a fitting alliance in marriage, I almost felt it a duty to involve myself in society more than is my wont. I will not deny that my main motivation was to put my feelings for you aside, and to perhaps replace them with ones more appropriate to my position, but I could not. I was introduced to, and danced with, more women than I ever knew existed, but not one could displace my thoughts of you. I know how Fitzwilliam's accusation sounded, but can I ask you to believe that my behaviour was not that of a flirt. I met many women, but I encouraged none.
I fear now I have come to a place where I cannot look at my behaviour with such complacence. I fear my actions during my stay for Bingley's wedding will not bear so close an examination. Looking back I can now recognise that from the moment of my seeing you once more I was again lost, and as much as I had intended to, I did not practise restraint in my behaviour toward you. In this I have no excuse to plead but my feelings for you, and can now only be ashamed at how self-centred my actions were, and how little I considered your own feelings in my struggle.
There is one point here on which I might presume to try to clear myself. Last night when you rebuked my attitude toward your uncle I was at a point where I was too overwhelmed to think on it, but later it struck me as odd. Though I was surprised at his connection, I in no way felt disdain. He is an intelligent, well mannered and respectable man whose company I very much enjoyed. If I appeared rude I must offer my apologies, but I believe my behaviour was that of distraction, which I can easily put down to your presence in the room Elizabeth, not that of disdain.
There was no disdain either in the early removal of Georgiana from Hertfordshire. Her acquaintance with yourself and your sister was everything I might have hoped for, and even in that short period she seemed to gain some ease. I will not attempt to deny that my own cowardliness regarding the strength of my feelings for you also facilitated our early departure, but there were other reasons which called for Georgiana's swift departure which I will now relate to you having no doubt of your secrecy.
I early on told you much of my history with Mr Wickham, and though it was all truth, it was not the whole of the story.I have informed you that I had paid my father's Godson a generous amount of money in lieu of his preferment in the Church, and in doing so I felt relieved. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman. He had some intention, I believe, of studying the law.
All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town, I believe, he chiefly lived, but his studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad.
He had found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in question -- of which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances -- and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every appearance of acquaintance was dropt. How he lived I know not. But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.
I know I am rambling in the attempt to put off the mention of a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold to any human being. About a year ago, Georgiana was taken from school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by her connivance and aid he so far recommended himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her imprudence, I am happy to add that I owed the knowledge of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the intended elopement; and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed. He would be pleased at least to know that my concern over him has caused some misunderstanding between myself and the woman I so admire.
I know you will accept this as an adequate explanation for my hasty removal of Georgiana from your company, and acquit me of the charge of simply trying to separate her from an unequal society.
I am now called upon to review my manners over these last weeks in Kent, and I cannot think of them without abhorrence. I have been so caught up in my own emotions that I thought little of yours. I am ashamed to admit too, that much of my guarded behaviour stemmed from embarrassment, not of you Elizabeth, as you have so reasonably assumed, but of myself. This sounds so foolish now as I come to put it into words, but I will confess it nevertheless. Just prior to our arrival at Rosings, I had, in an unguarded moment, let slip to my cousin my feelings toward you (though not in name) and in doing so had created in him an insatiable curiosity as to which woman of my acquaintance could excite such admiration. Aware of his acute interest, my desire to keep him from the suspicion that you were the lady in question and to avert any consequent interference, has governed much of my behaviour whilst we were in company together. It is no excuse I know. I have been thoughtless and vain in my actions, thinking only of myself and neglecting the feelings of the one whom I claim to love.
It is inexpressibly painful to now review the effects of the inconsistency and thoughtlessness of my behaviour to you, and to accept the justice of your rebuke. Please believe me sincere when I say I would have infinitely preferred to receive your anger, than to witness the pain and the tears for which I am responsible, and I beg of you your forgiveness.
I know I have little right to request more of you, but may I ask that when we meet in the future that it might be as friends. It is more than I deserve, but I cannot help but hope for the chance to show you the respect as a friend, which I was unable to show you as a lover.
I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.
FITZWILLIAM DARCY.''
Chapter 21
In a nervous agitation Elizabeth had begun to walk as she scanned the lines of the letter, and was relieved to soon find herself at a secluded bench on which to sit, fearing her legs would hold her no longer. At first her eyes may have moved over the lines of the letter, but she had taken little in, but on a second perusal the import of words began to take hold, and the contrariety of emotion which began to rise within her can only be imagined. Her feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined, but that they were real and powerful was evidenced by the tears again flowing unrestrained down her cheeks.
She would have reckoned it impossible, but turmoil of thoughts which had beset her since the previous evening, now seemed almost insignificant compared to those which now descended upon her. In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing, she was unable to fully comprehend the particulars of his letter, but its overall essence had laid upon her an even greater sense of sadness and loss, rendering her for a time, incapable of anything but grief.
Her first awakening to thoughts other than ones of her own general oppression, were stirrings of compassion toward the young and insecure Georgiana. She had not for a moment doubted the veracity of Darcy's revelation, it explained very well the puzzling extent of enmity between the two men. This understanding in turn brought prickings of guilt over the injustice of some of her assumptions concerning Darcy's motives and behaviours, and threatened to again bring the tears which had taken so long to subside.
It took every ounce of self control to keep herself from again slipping into the well of overwhelming emotion, and after pausing at this point a considerable while, she once more composed herself to read, to look at the letter with her mind as well as her heart.
She scanned the opening, registering a renewed respect for his straight-forward manner, for the fact that he would write with out recourse to emotional language or the highly charged overtones that might be expected in such a circumstance. Still, she let her eyes and mind linger on the words which told of his attraction to, and growing appreciation of her. Her heart would have had to have been made of stone not to be moved by his sentiments, and rather than dwell on his objections her mind moved more to consider the strength of attachment which had overcome such considerations, causing his disappointed feelings to become the object of an even greater compassion.
A much as it might have comforted her to find his explanations for his early behaviour insufficient, she could not. She was unable to deny that from the very beginning of anything like friendship between them, she had recognised the difficulty of his attraction given his position in society. She had accepted it at first without concern, and it was only as she came to detect emerging feelings within herself that she found any fault with the idea. Neither could she discount his assertion that he had believed her indifferent upon first removing himself from Hertfordshire. Indeed, she could recall how often in her earliest interactions with him, she had meant to give offence rather than not.
Given the heightening of all her feelings, when she came to that part of the letter in which her family were mentioned, in terms of such mortifying yet merited reproach, her sense of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly for denial, and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded, as having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind than on hers. The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed, but it could not console her for the contempt which had been thus self-attracted by the rest of her family; -- and as she considered that much of her own disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest relations, and reflected how materially the credit all members of the family must be hurt by such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond any thing she had ever known before. She wanted to hold his opinions of her family against him, but she could not. She might long to impute his feelings to an arrogant pride, but had to acknowledge they might be based on far more reasonable considerations.
As her eyes moved on to the rest of the missive she felt an overwhelming gratitude for his frank confession of his failings and for his open words of regret and apology, only she now felt them far less called for. His concluding request that they meet again as friends could by no means be scorned, though it in itself caused immeasurable pain, in that she was now convinced that somehow friendship could never be adequate. Such a request gave her hope, and quenched it at the same time. Had he now accepted the rationale that they were not meant to be together, just as she began to question her assurance that such a union could not be?
Feeling the need to clear her head, she stood to walk, hoping activity might help her to work out her thoughts and emotions. After wandering along the lane for more than two hours, giving way to every variety of thought; re-considering events, determining probabilities, and reconciling herself, as well as she could, to the situation as it now stood; fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence made her at length return home.
The walk had, however, done her some good, and had given her a modicum of equanimity. By the time she had returned to the parsonage she recognised that though she had misread some of his motives, and had possessed an incomplete understanding of the whole situation, she had in essence been right. In the turmoil of emotions upon first reading his letter, she had not been able to register that his explanations and acknowledgement had in fact confirmed many of her reasons to fear the relationship would be ill fated. He did have grave concerns over an alignment with her family, he had been thoughtless of her feelings and indulgent of his own, and he had in his treatment of her shown a disrespect, that if allowed to continue could only forebode heartache.
There was an enigma in the whole circumstance. If she had accepted his offer he might not have examined his actions, and could have continued in his thoughtless disregard of her feelings, damaging the chance of an equal and healthy relationship, or in the very least building a rather shaky foundation for a marriage. It was her rejection which had lead to his acknowledgement and contrition, but at the same time it had put an effective end to their hopes. The irony of it failed to amuse in the slightest, as she mused that it was, in a large part, his respect of her decision which made her now long for renewal of his offer, but such a circumstance was impossible to hope for if he continued to respect her rejection. Her head hurt to think on it.
She waited for a moment outside the parsonage, then entered the house with the wish of appearing more her usual self, and with the resolution of repressing such reflections as must make her unfit for conversation, but Charlotte was concerned by the pale complexion beneath the strained smile.
Elizabeth was immediately told, that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each called during her absence; and had been sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her till she could be found. -- Elizabeth was unable to tell if she was more relieved or disappointed at missing them - or more honestly at missing Mr Darcy - but deep down she rejoiced as she knew she was not yet ready to see him. She needed time to think, time to recover.
THE two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning; and Mr. Collins having been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting obeisance, was able to bring home the pleasing intelligence of their appearing in very good health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the melancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings. To Rosings he then hastened to console Lady Catherine and her daughter; and on his return brought back, with great satisfaction, a message from her ladyship, importing that she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of having them all to dine with her.
Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that, had she chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to her as her future niece; nor could she think, without some trepidation, of what her ladyship's indignation would have been. ``What would she have said? -- how would she have behaved?'' were questions which distracted her.
Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings party. -- ``I assure you, I feel it exceedingly,'' said Lady Catherine; ``I believe nobody feels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I am particularly attached to these young men; and know them to be so much attached to me! -- They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The dear colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy seemed to feel it most acutely, more I think than last year. His attachment to Rosings, certainly increases.''
While Mr. Collins had a compliment, and an allusion to throw in here, which were kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter, Elizabeth fought again against the mixture of sadness and guilt which threatened to overwhelm. It was a fight she would have face again and again during her remaining few days at Rosings, and by the time of her return to Longbourn she was exhausted by the effort of hiding her despondency.
There was a real relief in returning to the familiarity of home, and she was able to find some comfort, and even enjoyment, in the unceremonious routines of her home and family, and any indifferent observer might have thought her tolerably cheerful.
She was able to find real pleasure though, in her sister's happiness. Keeping in mind her sister's newlywed status, and knowing how unthinking the rest of the family could sometimes be, she visited Jane as much as she might without intrusiveness. That Jane had blossomed in the role of wife, could not be questioned. She was more and more finding her own joy in forming Bingley's happiness, which he returned four-fold. Their mutual fulfilment was clear to all.
Occasionally though, Elizabeth would be struck by poignant emotion over the relationship her sister now shared with her husband, and feel anew a sharp pang of loss at that which she had turned away. Jane had questioned her on a few of such occasions, but Elizabeth was not about to cause Jane concern by burdening her with her sorrows. Jane was entitled to enjoy this new period of her life without another's cares on her shoulders. She could also appreciated the awkwardness of position such information could place upon Jane. Darcy was still Bingley's best friend, and Elizabeth was not inclined divide Jane's loyalties in regard to her sister, and her husband's companion of some years standing.
Mr Bennet though, early noticed his favourite's underlying melancholy and as he saw no improvement as the days wore on, his concern increased. It was very unlike his Lizzy to stay down for such an extended period, and he longed to heal her, or at least distract her, from whatever was causing her pain. She still joined with him in his amused and amusing observations, but he sometimes felt she were only half there.
Another cause for disquiet soon began to intrude upon Elizabeth during this time. It seemed that Wickham, who had had very little to do with the Bennet family whilst either herself or Darcy were in the area, has become more confident over the spring. Lydia's speech was littered with references to the man, and Elizabeth knew not what to do with her knowledge of his character. Her only comfort came with knowing that the regiment was to leave Meryton, and that he soon would be gone.
Lydia and Kitty were far from restrained in their mourning over the loss of such fine military men, and they gave no allowance for any to forget their sorrow, begging there father for a family trip to Brighton where the regiment would be quartered for the summer, and generally speaking of their broken hearts.
Elizabeth tried to make the girls be sensible, but to no avail; while they were supported by their mother's indulgence, what chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited, irritable, and completely under Lydia's guidance, had been always affronted by her advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless, would scarcely give her a hearing. They were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at them, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his youngest daughters; and her mother, with manners so far from right herself, was entirely insensible of the evil.
Elizabeth could only wish for the regiment's hasty removal, and hope there would finally be an end to the girls' histrionics.
But the gloom of Lydia's prospect was shortly cleared away; for she received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the Colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of their three months' acquaintance they had been intimate two.
The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster, the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely to be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister's feelings, Lydia flew about the house in restless ecstacy, calling for everyone's congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever; whilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repining at her fate in terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish.
As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she considered it as the death-warrant of all possibility of common sense for the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her were it known, she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her go. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia's general behaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must be greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said,
``Lydia will never be easy till she has exposed herself in some public place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present circumstances.''
``If you were aware,'' said Elizabeth, ``of the very great disadvantage to us all, which must arise from the public notice of Lydia's unguarded and imprudent manner; nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you would judge differently in the affair.''
``Already arisen!'' repeated Mr. Bennet. ``What, has she frightened away some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of the pitiful fellows who have been kept aloof by Lydia's folly.''
Elizabeth was taken aback momentarily by the how close her father's joking had touched on the truth, and it took a great deal of effort to compose herself to continue.
``Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent, It is not of peculiar, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our importance, our respectability in the world, must be affected by the wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark Lydia's character. Excuse me -- for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and of teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of her life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character will be fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt that ever made herself and her family ridiculous. A flirt, too, in the worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond youth and a tolerable person; and from the ignorance and emptiness of her mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion of that universal contempt which her rage for admiration will excite. In this danger Kitty is also comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. -- Vain, ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh! my dear father, can you suppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever they are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the disgrace?''
Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject; and affectionately taking her hand, said in reply,
``Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known, you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less advantage for having a couple of -- or I may say, three -- very silly sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to Brighton. Let her go then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will keep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an object of prey to any body. At Brighton she will be of less importance, even as a common flirt, than she has been here. The officers will find women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being there may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow many degrees worse without authorizing us to lock her up for the rest of her life.''
Time was now for Mr Bennet to be taken aback, as he noticed that his assurance had come to nought. His Elizabeth, who was usually so strong and pragmatic had lost all composure and had moved away in an attempt to hide tears which had come unbidden to her eyes. She seemed effected far above that which the situation seemed to call for, and he cast his quick mind over the conversation, and came down fairly close to the heart of her discomposure.
"Are you sure no-one has been frightened off Lizzy?" He paused for a moment and thought. "Did I hear you mention Mr Darcy had been in Kent? If he can not appreciate your full value Lizzy, he's not the man I thought he was."
He could not doubt that his words hit a mark, as he found himself, for the first time since she was small, holding and consoling his sobbing child, murmuring inadequate and inane comforts as he rocked her in his arms.
"Elizabeth my love..." he ventured as her crying subsided, "it may be hard now but it might be for the best. If his love was such that it could not overlook the folly of your family, you are better without it."
He had to wait, as his comment cause a return to her momentary insensibility, but his surprise could not have been more than it was on finally hearing her reply.
"But father, you don't understand. He did ask to marry me. It was I who rejected him."
"Do not distress yourself then Lizzy, " he replied softly, trying to quickly reassess the situation given this new piece of information. "You were right to refuse him if you did not feel as you should. He is rich, to be sure, and you may have had more fine clothes and fine carriages than Jane, but without affection they would not make you happy I am proud of your decision Lizzy, though a bit surprised. I quite liked the man, even if only for his good taste in his obvious appreciation of you."
It seemed that he was doomed to misunderstand what was going on in Elizabeth's head, as this again sent her back to tears.
``But I do, I do like him,'' she replied, shaking her head, and only adding more to her poor father's confusion, ``Indeed I love him... it was a matter of respect..."
Mr Bennet tried to pull all the threads together, and in another vain attempt at reassurance, finally ventured - "I know that you could be neither happy nor respectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband; unless you looked up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape discredit and misery. My child, be assured you have acted rightly. I would not want the grief of seeing you unable to respect your partner in life. ''
Elizabeth, still more affected, somehow gave him to understand that it had not been her regard in question, but rather his , and after some time spent in earnest and solemn conversation, he came to some understanding of what had actually passed.
A quiet reigned in the room for some time as he regarded his daughter, taking in the full import of that which he had learned, and he was aroused by a slight sigh from Elizabeth.
"I could not stand the thought of being in a marriage where I would ever fear the lessening of my husband's affection... where I might have to live in the shadow of his regret."
The weight of this statement fell on her father with an impact that was not often experienced by a man of his temperament, and he suddenly felt a heavy weight of responsibility for the desolation of his beloved daughter. His behaviour as a husband and a father was now before him in a way he had not seen before. It was not simply his indolence in checking the foolish behaviour of his wife and younger daughters that presented itself, but he was confronted by his lack of appropriate respect in his treatment of his own wife. He could easily understand how Elizabeth could develop and hold such a fear as she had just expressed, and he began to comprehend the insecurities his and her mother's relationship might create in her, particularly in this situation, where the social disparity between herself and Mr Darcy was rather glaring.
"Elizabeth my dear," he could only venture in the end, "I can not blame you for your reaction. From what you have told me some things needed to be addressed. I can only hope that this will not be the end of the story, that he will be man enough to attend to your concerns, and not give you up. If he is as superior and intelligent a man as you describe, he should have the sense to continue."
Elizabeth gave a weak smile at her father's bias and shook her head.
"I am not so conceited about my own charms as to be able to honestly hope for such a thing... oh Father, if you could have heard what I said as I turned him down..."
"Come Lizzy, let us not straight away undervalue the strength of his feelings. Remember too, he is Bingley's best friend and I'm sure we will see much of him. Do you really believe there is no chance this situation might yet be redeemed?"
"But you see Father," she answered with a wry smile, "there is a dilemma. I demanded of him his respect, and told him the way to show it was to honour my refusal."
Mr Bennet could not help but bark out a laugh at these words.
"Oh my love, you really excelled yourself in cleverness there. Small wonder we have not seen the man yet - you have set him very much between a rock and a hard place." Though he laughed, he gave her a reassuring, albeit teasing, smile. "I have thought on all our words today Lizzy, and you are right. It is now a late hour to try to take on the foolishness of certain of our family circle, but it must be attempted. It would be too much for me to go through another interview such as this. Lydia will not go to Brighton... but you must understand it is on your head - and that if your young man does come to visit, she will be here rather than out of sight."
Relief and gratitude washed across Elizabeth's face as she hugged and thanked her father.
"Such squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity are not worth a regret," she quoted back at him with a grin. "Anyway, if he does visit it may be up to you to protect him from exposure to their folly Father. Remember I am off to The Lakes in two week's time."
Chapter 22
When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham's and departure, she found little other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties, in which she had found at least a little distraction, were less varied than before; and at home she had a mother and two sisters whose constant repining at the dullness of every thing around them threw a real gloom over their domestic circle. Lydia was still particularly bitter at her father's refusal to accept her friend's invitation, and her mother scarcely less so, but they were both learning to curb their tongue about the matter when Mr Bennet was in the room.
Elizabeth had found herself delightedly surprised at her father's firmness in this regard, and truly grateful that he kept her interference in the matter to himself. On top of this, in his behaviours at home she started to see a side of her father which she distantly recalled from her own childhood, and began to appreciate how much his positive influence had been missed by the younger girls as he'd withdrawn more and more into himself and into the escape of his library.
Much to the girls' initial confusion their father had been taking pains to really talk to them, trying to solicit their opinions, or to draw them to open in conversation with himself. Lizzy watched in amusement as first Mary, then Kitty discerned that he was not merely searching for subjects on which to hone his satirical humour, and she began to see a sense of pride and satisfaction developing at their father's renewed interest in their concerns.
Not wanting her father to be alone in such an ambitious endeavour Lizzy also decided to exert herself in the campaign for the improvement of their minds and manners. She surprisingly had more success with Kitty than Mary, as Mary felt too highly of herself to want concede she might benefit from the interference of a sister not quite two years her senior, but she was flattered by, and open to, her father's thoughts, and in her pleasure at his recognition was already showing slight signs of being less overtly pretentious, and seeming not to feel quite the same pressure to prove herself as she used to, occasionally relaxing so far as see the lighter side of a situation, or even to laugh.
Kitty became Elizabeth's special project and every day appeared to grow somewhat less irritable, less ignorant, and less insipid. It was fortunate that Kitty seemed, at this time, particularly susceptible to Lizzy's influence, given that there had been an estrangement of sorts between herself and Lydia, who insisted on blaming Kitty's upset reaction on being left out of the invitation to Brighton, for her father's refusal of permission. Elizabeth was thankful for the diversion of spending time with Kitty, as any activity which kept her mind from a constant re-examination of her refusal of Darcy was a welcome relief - on top of which she was finding some real satisfaction in her younger sister regaining some of her natural degree of sense now she was outside both the regiment's immediate vicinity, and also Lydia's sway.
Elizabeth though, harboured little hope of any real improvement in Lydia who, whilst she had her mother to indulge her, seemed beyond rational reach, but as the weeks wore on she began to notice Lydia too begin to seek her father's approval. Though the roots of this development were obviously implanted in nothing more than a peevish jealousy for anything her sisters, or more particularly Kitty, had which she did not, her father took the opening offered to him and worked with what he could, gaining the occasional small piece of ground.
``Lizzy," Mr Bennet said one day in early June, "I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your advice to me last month. If I had been truly interested in my own peace I would have exerted myself for the improvement of these girls years ago - it's easier to live in this house now than it has been for years."
Elizabeth laughed at her father's view of the situation, and thanked him again for the efforts he was making.
"Lizzy, do not thank me for doing something which is my duty, and which I should have not neglected for so long," he replied, suddenly serious. "Let me once in my life feel how much I have been delinquent in my responsibilities toward my family. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression. It will pass away soon enough.''
Elizabeth could only smile at her father and hug him affectionately, laughing this representation of himself.
These diversions, though bringing a kind of fulfilment, were not enough to displace the emptiness she still felt in regard to her refusal of Mr Darcy. Rather than weakening the sense of loss, her absence from him, and her constant re-perusal of his letter, had lessened her remembrance of the hurts and the confusion, and had highlighted all that which she saw as good or superior in him.
It was consequently necessary to look forward to some future period for the commencement of real enjoyment and perhaps even some actual felicity; to have some other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the present, and prepare for another disappointment - which now seemed inevitable, as in the almost five weeks which had passed since her return from Kent, she had not even heard a whisper that Mr Darcy might be considering a visit to his friend.
Her tour to the Lakes was now the object of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation for all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness her own mind brought upon her. The time fixed for the beginning of their Northern tour was now fast approaching; and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from setting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again within a month; and as that left too short a period for them to go so far, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with the leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up the Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour; and, according to the present plan, were to go no farther northward than Derbyshire. In that county, there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The town where she had formerly passed some years of her life, and where they were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of her curiosity, as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, Dovedale, or the Peak.
Elizabeth was excessively disappointed, having almost convinced herself that this summer trip might be the medicine required to move her past the disappointments of spring. She had set her heart on seeing the Lakes; and still thought there might have been time enough. It was her business though, to be satisfied -- and certainly it was not in her temper to be unhappy with her Uncle and Aunt; but with the mention of Derbyshire, there were many ideas connected. It was impossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its owner. ``But surely,'' said she, ``I may enter his county with impunity, and rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me.'' She feared the pain of unexpectedly running across him now that now that he had most likely accepted the impossibility of them being together.
The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away before her uncle and aunt's arrival. But they did pass away, and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at Longbourn. As a sign of the improvement of the younger Bennet girls, the children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two younger boys, were to be left under the particular care of Mary and Kitty whom, Mr Bennet assured his brother and sister, had matured to a point where jointly they could be trusted with such a charge.
The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement, the irony being that by the time the journey finally began, Elizabeth actually wished it could have been further delayed.
This change of heart had originated not long after the Gardiners had advised of their rearranged plans. Elizabeth had spent much of her time since the arrival of her Aunt's letter, swinging between dreams of possibly seeing Mr Darcy in Derbyshire, and fears of the same - whether she wished or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. His silence since April had damaged her faint hopes that he might not let her go so easily, and she now suspected that their relationship may have been damaged even beyond the point of friendship. It was as she was fighting to accept this conclusion that a timely visit to Netherfield taught her to hope once more.
She was sitting talking with Jane one morning, whilst Bingley - who preferred not to shut himself away from his wife unless absolutely necessary - was sitting on the other side of the room, half attending to some correspondence. After an hour or so in which he seemed to have achieved little, he had sighed with satisfaction as he came to the point where he was able to seal the letter he was writing, and finally put it aside as done, and quite out of the blue he looked up to ask Elizabeth if she had been able to 'read that book yet'.
"Which book would that be?" Elizabeth asked, a little confused.
"The one Darcy asked me to recommend to you," Bingley replied as though Elizabeth would know of what he was speaking.
Elizabeth's felt a wave of overwhelming emotion as she realised she had not been completely outside the man's thoughts, and that in the least he did want a friendship. She was amazed at her own external self control, as she calmly protested she did not know which book, or which recommendation he was referring to.
"Oh... I'm sorry, I was sure I mentioned it to you... at least I intended to. Here..." he said, handing across a letter - the hand of which was so very familiar, for she had seen the same in a letter which she had read over so often that she now knew it by heart - for Elizabeth's own perusal. "The letter is a couple weeks old but I've only come to answer it today... the piece I am referring to is toward the end."
Lizzy's eyes skimmed over the pleasantries and information particularly for her new brother, and quickly found herself at a paragraph where Darcy asked after the Bennets and particularly Elizabeth, mentioning that he'd had the privilege of seeing her in Kent, and requesting Bingley to tell Elizabeth of a book he'd recently read and enjoyed, which he thought would 'amuse and entertain Miss Bennet'.
Elizabeth could feel her pulse begin to race, and was sure her heightened colour must give away her feelings, but neither Jane nor Bingley - who seemed to have forgotten her presence after Jane had walked across to him and seated herself at her husband's side - appeared to notice. She took the time to steady her breathing and to contain herself, before taking the opportunity of a gap in their conversation to ask Mr Bingley to pass on her thanks to Mr Darcy when he answered the letter.
"Oh, I've just sealed my answer," Bingley replied, oblivious to the distress this communication caused to his Elizabeth. "I hope you don't mind if I defer your thanks until I next write."
There was nothing to for Elizabeth to do but agree, despite her doubts that Bingley would actually remember when the time came for him to next respond. Still, at least she had the satisfaction of understanding that Darcy might be experiencing the same uncertainty as to how she might now feel, as she was in regard to his feelings.
A further assurance that she was still in Darcy's mind came the following week upon the receipt of a letter from Miss Darcy. Georgiana had apologised for her forwardness in writing, saying that she would have liked to have begun a correspondence after their introduction last winter, but had felt nervous about initiating it. She had only found the courage, she explained, after her brother's insistence that Elizabeth would welcome such a continuance of their friendship.
Elizabeth found it hard to restrain the hope that bubbled in her at such a communication, and though she tried to calm herself with rationalisations that he was only showing the friendship he had promised, she could not help but dream that a happiness might eventually be theirs after all.
Georgian's letter had also given her a more reliable means by which to answer Mr Darcy's gesture in recommending the novel, and she wrote back immediately, including in her response thanks to the brother, and the information that the book had already been a long time favourite of hers.
It can only be imagined how much more positive Elizabeth's meditations on visiting Derbyshire now grew. There was still the fear that when she next met Mr Darcy it might simply be as a friend, but at least she had no longer the concern that he now held her refusal so much against her that he might not wish for her company at all. She still tried to be realistic in her anticipation, to tell her self that she would probably not even come across him, to stay her thoughts and dreams from getting too far ahead of themselves, but just as her hopes began to predominate over her anxieties, the news came that the Bingleys were to expect a visit from Mr Darcy and his sister... and they were likely to arrive two days after Elizabeth's departure.
Suddenly that on which Elizabeth had previously pinned her hopes of relief, became instead a obstacle in the road of any possible reconciliation. She could no longer look at her time away with any semblance of ease. There were times she questioned if Darcy might chosen this point to visit in the knowledge that she would be away... but in more rational moments she doubted that Bingley would have passed on such information to his friend. She cursed that, due to a fear of looking as though she were angling for an invitation whilst in Derbyshire, she had not mentioned her trip in the letter to Georgiana. It now looked as though her attempt at circumspection might have made the situation even more awkward. She would never know if Mr Darcy had timed the visit to avoid her, or alternately if he would believe that her absence was a message to him, proclaiming a deliberate avoidance.
There was nothing she could do now but make the best of the matter by leaving a letter for Georgiana expressing her disappointment at missing both herself and her brother, and in hoping they might still be there when she returned.
Resigning herself to the situation Elizabeth set out to at least exert herself to some pleasure for the sake of her Aunt and uncle. One enjoyment was certain -- that of suitableness as companions; a suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear inconveniences -- cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure -- and affection and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were disappointments abroad.
A source of real pleasure was in the early receipt of mail from her family, and Elizabeth's astonishment at much of that which she read was immense. Letters from not only Jane, but also from her father and mother, made reference to the enjoyment they were receiving from Mr Darcy's presence in the area. Elizabeth was amazed as she read how Mr Darcy seemed to have won her mother over with judicious compliments on her housekeeping and wonderful meals, Mr Bennet it seemed had taken the time to really try to get to know the man, and reported to Elizabeth that the more time he spent with him, the more he could be pleased about, and Jane simply spoke of his coming out of his shell, and at his civility toward all of the Bennet household. Elizabeth blushed as she could only see such behaviour as a compliment to herself.
It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenelworth, Birmingham, &c. are sufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present concern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs Gardiner's former residence, and where she had lately learned that some acquaintance still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen all the principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of Lambton, Elizabeth found from her aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not in their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In talking over their route the evening before, Mrs Gardiner expressed an inclination to see the place again, particularly now she was acquainted with its owner. Mr Gardiner declared his willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.
``My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so much?'' said her aunt. ``A place too, with which so many of your acquaintance are connected.''
Elizabeth felt a surprising awkwardness over the suggestion, feeling that if she should see Pemberley she would rather it was at the invitation of Mr Darcy. She felt that she had no business at Pemberley without him, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She must own that she was tired of great houses; after going over so many, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.
Mrs Gardiner abused her stupidity. ``If it were merely a fine house richly furnished,'' said she, ``I should not care about it myself; but the grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the country, and with your friendship with both Mr and Miss Darcy I would have assumed you'd have a great interest.''
Elizabeth said no more and she when was again applied to in the morning tried to affect, a proper air of indifference, in replying that she had not really any dislike to the scheme.
To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.
Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation of mind; and when at length they turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.
The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through a beautiful wood, stretching over a wide extent.
Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for half a mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which the road, with some abruptness, wound. It was a large, handsome, stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills; -- and in front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal, nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were all of them warm in their admiration, and she could not but think how well Mr Darcy would suit such a setting.
They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and, on applying to see the place, they were admitted into the hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder at her being where she was.
The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking, elderly and very civil woman. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well-proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, from which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene -- the river, the trees scattered on its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it -- with delight. As they passed into other rooms, these objects were taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendour, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.
``This is just a piece of Mr Darcy,'' thought she, ``and of this I might have been mistress! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt." She blushed as she recalled her earlier assumption that Darcy would not have welcomed them.
Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr Darcy suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward,
`` That,'' said Mrs. Reynolds, ``is my master -- and very like him. It was drawn at about eight years ago.''
``It is very like him,'' said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture, "is it not Lizzy?"
Mrs. Reynolds's respect for Elizabeth and Mrs Gardiner seemed to increase on this intimation of her knowing her master.
``Do you know Mr. Darcy?''
Elizabeth coloured, and said -- ``A little.''
"Actually Elizabeth knows him quite well," replied Mrs Gardiner, "whereas my husband and I have only a small acquaintance with him. His friend Mr Bingley is recently married to her sister."
Mrs Reynolds beamed at this revelation. " I have heard nothing but good of Mr Bingley's young bride. I am very pleased, for he is such an amiable young man. You must know my master quite well then. Do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, Ma'am?''
``Yes, very handsome.''
``I am sure I know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them.''
Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old.
`` Miss Darcy is a delightful young girl,'' said Mr. Gardiner.
``Oh! yes -- the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so accomplished! -- She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a new instrument just come down for her -- a present from my master."
Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were easy and pleasant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either from pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her master and his sister. And Elizabeth found an awkward pleasure in listening to her.
``Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?''
``Not so much as I could wish, Sir; but I dare say he may spend half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months.''
``If your master would marry, you might see more of him.''
``Yes, Sir; but I do not know when that will be. I do not know who is good enough for him.''
Elizabeth could not help saying, ``It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so.''
``I say no more than the truth, and what every body will say that knows him,'' replied the other. ``I have never had a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old.''
This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to the ideas she had a first entertained of him. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more, and was grateful to her uncle for saying,
``There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in having such a master.''
``Yes, Sir, I know I am. If I was to go through the world, I could not meet with a better. But I have always observed that they who are good-natured when children are good-natured when they grow up; and he was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted, boy in the world.''
``His father was an excellent man,'' said Mrs. Gardiner.
``Yes, Ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him -- just as affable to the poor.''
Elizabeth listened, with her esteem for Mr Darcy ever increasing by the minute. How very much had she underestimated the man. She was impatient for more. Mrs Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subject of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the furniture, in vain. Mr Gardiner, sensing Elizabeth's interest soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his many merits, as they proceeded together up the great staircase.
``He is the best landlord, and the best master,'' said she, ``that ever lived. Not like the wild young men now-a-days, who think of nothing but themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but what will give him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never saw any thing of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away like other young men.''
``In what an amiable light does this place him!'' thought Elizabeth. "I wonder if I had known this of him before April whether it would have made any difference to my choice... I would have at least understood him more."
The picture gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms, were all that remained to be shown. In the former were many good paintings; but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such as had been already visible below, she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss Darcy's, in crayons, whose subjects were usually more interesting, and also more intelligible.
In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked on in quest of the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it arrested her -- and she beheld a striking resemblance of Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over the face as she remembered to have often seen, when he looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture in earnest contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery. Mrs. Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father's life time.
There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth's mind, an even more ardent sensation towards the original than she had ever before felt. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she considered how many people's happiness were in his guardianship! -- How much of pleasure or pain it was in his power to bestow! -- How much of good or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought forward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she stood before the canvas, on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes upon herself, she thought of his regard with an even deeper sentiment of gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered again all its warmth, and further softened its impropriety of expression.
When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen, they returned down stairs, and, taking leave of the housekeeper, were consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall door.
As they walked across the lawn towards the river, Elizabeth turned back to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while the former was conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself suddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.
They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of each were overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party, a tentative smile growing on his face, and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect and friendly civility.