diff --git a/backend/sync_lib/test/resources/pride_and_prejudice.txt b/backend/sync_lib/test/resources/pride_and_prejudice.txt new file mode 100644 index 00000000..2dd9de33 --- /dev/null +++ b/backend/sync_lib/test/resources/pride_and_prejudice.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14910 @@ +prThe Project Gutenberg eBook of Pride and Prejudice + +This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online +at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, +you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located +before using this eBook. + +Title: Pride and Prejudice + +Author: Jane Austen + +Release date: June 1, 1998 [eBook #1342] + Most recently updated: June 17, 2024 + +Language: English + +Credits: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images available at The Internet Archive) + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRIDE AND PREJUDICE *** + + + + + [Illustration: + + GEORGE ALLEN + PUBLISHER + + 156 CHARING CROSS ROAD + LONDON + + RUSKIN HOUSE + ] + + [Illustration: + + _Reading Jane’s Letters._ _Chap 34._ + ] + + + + + PRIDE. + and + PREJUDICE + + by + Jane Austen, + + with a Preface by + George Saintsbury + and + Illustrations by + Hugh Thomson + + [Illustration: 1894] + + Ruskin 156. Charing + House. Cross Road. + + London + George Allen. + + + + + CHISWICK PRESS:--CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO. + TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON. + + + + + [Illustration: + + _To J. Comyns Carr + in acknowledgment of all I + owe to his friendship and + advice, these illustrations are + gratefully inscribed_ + + _Hugh Thomson_ + ] + + + + +PREFACE. + +[Illustration] + + +_Walt Whitman has somewhere a fine and just distinction between “loving +by allowance” and “loving with personal love.” This distinction applies +to books as well as to men and women; and in the case of the not very +numerous authors who are the objects of the personal affection, it +brings a curious consequence with it. There is much more difference as +to their best work than in the case of those others who are loved “by +allowance” by convention, and because it is felt to be the right and +proper thing to love them. And in the sect--fairly large and yet +unusually choice--of Austenians or Janites, there would probably be +found partisans of the claim to primacy of almost every one of the +novels. To some the delightful freshness and humour of_ Northanger +Abbey, _its completeness, finish, and_ entrain, _obscure the undoubted +critical facts that its scale is small, and its scheme, after all, that +of burlesque or parody, a kind in which the first rank is reached with +difficulty._ Persuasion, _relatively faint in tone, and not enthralling +in interest, has devotees who exalt above all the others its exquisite +delicacy and keeping. The catastrophe of_ Mansfield Park _is admittedly +theatrical, the hero and heroine are insipid, and the author has almost +wickedly destroyed all romantic interest by expressly admitting that +Edmund only took Fanny because Mary shocked him, and that Fanny might +very likely have taken Crawford if he had been a little more assiduous; +yet the matchless rehearsal-scenes and the characters of Mrs. Norris and +others have secured, I believe, a considerable party for it._ Sense and +Sensibility _has perhaps the fewest out-and-out admirers; but it does +not want them._ + +_I suppose, however, that the majority of at least competent votes +would, all things considered, be divided between_ Emma _and the present +book; and perhaps the vulgar verdict (if indeed a fondness for Miss +Austen be not of itself a patent of exemption from any possible charge +of vulgarity) would go for_ Emma. _It is the larger, the more varied, the +more popular; the author had by the time of its composition seen rather +more of the world, and had improved her general, though not her most +peculiar and characteristic dialogue; such figures as Miss Bates, as the +Eltons, cannot but unite the suffrages of everybody. On the other hand, +I, for my part, declare for_ Pride and Prejudice _unhesitatingly. It +seems to me the most perfect, the most characteristic, the most +eminently quintessential of its author’s works; and for this contention +in such narrow space as is permitted to me, I propose here to show +cause._ + +_In the first place, the book (it may be barely necessary to remind the +reader) was in its first shape written very early, somewhere about 1796, +when Miss Austen was barely twenty-one; though it was revised and +finished at Chawton some fifteen years later, and was not published till +1813, only four years before her death. I do not know whether, in this +combination of the fresh and vigorous projection of youth, and the +critical revision of middle life, there may be traced the distinct +superiority in point of construction, which, as it seems to me, it +possesses over all the others. The plot, though not elaborate, is almost +regular enough for Fielding; hardly a character, hardly an incident +could be retrenched without loss to the story. The elopement of Lydia +and Wickham is not, like that of Crawford and Mrs. Rushworth, a_ coup de +théâtre; _it connects itself in the strictest way with the course of the +story earlier, and brings about the denouement with complete propriety. +All the minor passages--the loves of Jane and Bingley, the advent of Mr. +Collins, the visit to Hunsford, the Derbyshire tour--fit in after the +same unostentatious, but masterly fashion. There is no attempt at the +hide-and-seek, in-and-out business, which in the transactions between +Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax contributes no doubt a good deal to the +intrigue of_ Emma, _but contributes it in a fashion which I do not think +the best feature of that otherwise admirable book. Although Miss Austen +always liked something of the misunderstanding kind, which afforded her +opportunities for the display of the peculiar and incomparable talent to +be noticed presently, she has been satisfied here with the perfectly +natural occasions provided by the false account of Darcy’s conduct given +by Wickham, and by the awkwardness (arising with equal naturalness) from +the gradual transformation of Elizabeth’s own feelings from positive +aversion to actual love. I do not know whether the all-grasping hand of +the playwright has ever been laid upon_ Pride and Prejudice; _and I dare +say that, if it were, the situations would prove not startling or +garish enough for the footlights, the character-scheme too subtle and +delicate for pit and gallery. But if the attempt were made, it would +certainly not be hampered by any of those loosenesses of construction, +which, sometimes disguised by the conveniences of which the novelist can +avail himself, appear at once on the stage._ + +_I think, however, though the thought will doubtless seem heretical to +more than one school of critics, that construction is not the highest +merit, the choicest gift, of the novelist. It sets off his other gifts +and graces most advantageously to the critical eye; and the want of it +will sometimes mar those graces--appreciably, though not quite +consciously--to eyes by no means ultra-critical. But a very badly-built +novel which excelled in pathetic or humorous character, or which +displayed consummate command of dialogue--perhaps the rarest of all +faculties--would be an infinitely better thing than a faultless plot +acted and told by puppets with pebbles in their mouths. And despite the +ability which Miss Austen has shown in working out the story, I for one +should put_ Pride and Prejudice _far lower if it did not contain what +seem to me the very masterpieces of Miss Austen’s humour and of her +faculty of character-creation--masterpieces who may indeed admit John +Thorpe, the Eltons, Mrs. Norris, and one or two others to their company, +but who, in one instance certainly, and perhaps in others, are still +superior to them._ + +_The characteristics of Miss Austen’s humour are so subtle and delicate +that they are, perhaps, at all times easier to apprehend than to +express, and at any particular time likely to be differently +apprehended by different persons. To me this humour seems to possess a +greater affinity, on the whole, to that of Addison than to any other of +the numerous species of this great British genus. The differences of +scheme, of time, of subject, of literary convention, are, of course, +obvious enough; the difference of sex does not, perhaps, count for much, +for there was a distinctly feminine element in “Mr. Spectator,” and in +Jane Austen’s genius there was, though nothing mannish, much that was +masculine. But the likeness of quality consists in a great number of +common subdivisions of quality--demureness, extreme minuteness of touch, +avoidance of loud tones and glaring effects. Also there is in both a +certain not inhuman or unamiable cruelty. It is the custom with those +who judge grossly to contrast the good nature of Addison with the +savagery of Swift, the mildness of Miss Austen with the boisterousness +of Fielding and Smollett, even with the ferocious practical jokes that +her immediate predecessor, Miss Burney, allowed without very much +protest. Yet, both in Mr. Addison and in Miss Austen there is, though a +restrained and well-mannered, an insatiable and ruthless delight in +roasting and cutting up a fool. A man in the early eighteenth century, +of course, could push this taste further than a lady in the early +nineteenth; and no doubt Miss Austen’s principles, as well as her heart, +would have shrunk from such things as the letter from the unfortunate +husband in the_ Spectator, _who describes, with all the gusto and all the +innocence in the world, how his wife and his friend induce him to play +at blind-man’s-buff. But another_ Spectator _letter--that of the damsel +of fourteen who wishes to marry Mr. Shapely, and assures her selected +Mentor that “he admires your_ Spectators _mightily”--might have been +written by a rather more ladylike and intelligent Lydia Bennet in the +days of Lydia’s great-grandmother; while, on the other hand, some (I +think unreasonably) have found “cynicism” in touches of Miss Austen’s +own, such as her satire of Mrs. Musgrove’s self-deceiving regrets over +her son. But this word “cynical” is one of the most misused in the +English language, especially when, by a glaring and gratuitous +falsification of its original sense, it is applied, not to rough and +snarling invective, but to gentle and oblique satire. If cynicism means +the perception of “the other side,” the sense of “the accepted hells +beneath,” the consciousness that motives are nearly always mixed, and +that to seem is not identical with to be--if this be cynicism, then +every man and woman who is not a fool, who does not care to live in a +fool’s paradise, who has knowledge of nature and the world and life, is +a cynic. And in that sense Miss Austen certainly was one. She may even +have been one in the further sense that, like her own Mr. Bennet, she +took an epicurean delight in dissecting, in displaying, in setting at +work her fools and her mean persons. I think she did take this delight, +and I do not think at all the worse of her for it as a woman, while she +was immensely the better for it as an artist._ + +_In respect of her art generally, Mr. Goldwin Smith has truly observed +that “metaphor has been exhausted in depicting the perfection of it, +combined with the narrowness of her field;” and he has justly added that +we need not go beyond her own comparison to the art of a miniature +painter. To make this latter observation quite exact we must not use the +term miniature in its restricted sense, and must think rather of Memling +at one end of the history of painting and Meissonier at the other, than +of Cosway or any of his kind. And I am not so certain that I should +myself use the word “narrow” in connection with her. If her world is a +microcosm, the cosmic quality of it is at least as eminent as the +littleness. She does not touch what she did not feel herself called to +paint; I am not so sure that she could not have painted what she did not +feel herself called to touch. It is at least remarkable that in two very +short periods of writing--one of about three years, and another of not +much more than five--she executed six capital works, and has not left a +single failure. It is possible that the romantic paste in her +composition was defective: we must always remember that hardly +anybody born in her decade--that of the eighteenth-century +seventies--independently exhibited the full romantic quality. Even Scott +required hill and mountain and ballad, even Coleridge metaphysics and +German to enable them to chip the classical shell. Miss Austen was an +English girl, brought up in a country retirement, at the time when +ladies went back into the house if there was a white frost which might +pierce their kid shoes, when a sudden cold was the subject of the +gravest fears, when their studies, their ways, their conduct were +subject to all those fantastic limits and restrictions against which +Mary Wollstonecraft protested with better general sense than particular +taste or judgment. Miss Austen, too, drew back when the white frost +touched her shoes; but I think she would have made a pretty good journey +even in a black one._ + +_For if her knowledge was not very extended, she knew two things which +only genius knows. The one was humanity, and the other was art. On the +first head she could not make a mistake; her men, though limited, are +true, and her women are, in the old sense, “absolute.” As to art, if she +has never tried idealism, her realism is real to a degree which makes +the false realism of our own day look merely dead-alive. Take almost any +Frenchman, except the late M. de Maupassant, and watch him laboriously +piling up strokes in the hope of giving a complete impression. You get +none; you are lucky if, discarding two-thirds of what he gives, you can +shape a real impression out of the rest. But with Miss Austen the +myriad, trivial, unforced strokes build up the picture like magic. +Nothing is false; nothing is superfluous. When (to take the present book +only) Mr. Collins changed his mind from Jane to Elizabeth “while Mrs. +Bennet was stirring the fire” (and we know_ how _Mrs. Bennet would have +stirred the fire), when Mr. Darcy “brought his coffee-cup back_ +himself,” _the touch in each case is like that of Swift--“taller by the +breadth of my nail”--which impressed the half-reluctant Thackeray with +just and outspoken admiration. Indeed, fantastic as it may seem, I +should put Miss Austen as near to Swift in some ways, as I have put her +to Addison in others._ + +_This Swiftian quality appears in the present novel as it appears +nowhere else in the character of the immortal, the ineffable Mr. +Collins. Mr. Collins is really_ great; _far greater than anything Addison +ever did, almost great enough for Fielding or for Swift himself. It has +been said that no one ever was like him. But in the first place,_ he +_was like him; he is there--alive, imperishable, more real than hundreds +of prime ministers and archbishops, of “metals, semi-metals, and +distinguished philosophers.” In the second place, it is rash, I think, +to conclude that an actual Mr. Collins was impossible or non-existent at +the end of the eighteenth century. It is very interesting that we +possess, in this same gallery, what may be called a spoiled first +draught, or an unsuccessful study of him, in John Dashwood. The +formality, the under-breeding, the meanness, are there; but the portrait +is only half alive, and is felt to be even a little unnatural. Mr. +Collins is perfectly natural, and perfectly alive. In fact, for all the +“miniature,” there is something gigantic in the way in which a certain +side, and more than one, of humanity, and especially eighteenth-century +humanity, its Philistinism, its well-meaning but hide-bound morality, +its formal pettiness, its grovelling respect for rank, its materialism, +its selfishness, receives exhibition. I will not admit that one speech +or one action of this inestimable man is incapable of being reconciled +with reality, and I should not wonder if many of these words and actions +are historically true._ + +_But the greatness of Mr. Collins could not have been so satisfactorily +exhibited if his creatress had not adjusted so artfully to him the +figures of Mr. Bennet and of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. The latter, like +Mr. Collins himself, has been charged with exaggeration. There is, +perhaps, a very faint shade of colour for the charge; but it seems to me +very faint indeed. Even now I do not think that it would be impossible +to find persons, especially female persons, not necessarily of noble +birth, as overbearing, as self-centred, as neglectful of good manners, +as Lady Catherine. A hundred years ago, an earl’s daughter, the Lady +Powerful (if not exactly Bountiful) of an out-of-the-way country parish, +rich, long out of marital authority, and so forth, had opportunities of +developing these agreeable characteristics which seldom present +themselves now. As for Mr. Bennet, Miss Austen, and Mr. Darcy, and even +Miss Elizabeth herself, were, I am inclined to think, rather hard on him +for the “impropriety” of his conduct. His wife was evidently, and must +always have been, a quite irreclaimable fool; and unless he had shot her +or himself there was no way out of it for a man of sense and spirit but +the ironic. From no other point of view is he open to any reproach, +except for an excusable and not unnatural helplessness at the crisis of +the elopement, and his utterances are the most acutely delightful in the +consciously humorous kind--in the kind that we laugh with, not at--that +even Miss Austen has put into the mouth of any of her characters. It is +difficult to know whether he is most agreeable when talking to his wife, +or when putting Mr. Collins through his paces; but the general sense of +the world has probably been right in preferring to the first rank his +consolation to the former when she maunders over the entail, “My dear, +do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for better things. +Let us flatter ourselves that_ I _may be the survivor;” and his inquiry +to his colossal cousin as to the compliments which Mr. Collins has just +related as made by himself to Lady Catherine, “May I ask whether these +pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the +result of previous study?” These are the things which give Miss Austen’s +readers the pleasant shocks, the delightful thrills, which are felt by +the readers of Swift, of Fielding, and we may here add, of Thackeray, as +they are felt by the readers of no other English author of fiction +outside of these four._ + +_The goodness of the minor characters in_ Pride and Prejudice _has been +already alluded to, and it makes a detailed dwelling on their beauties +difficult in any space, and impossible in this. Mrs. Bennet we have +glanced at, and it is not easy to say whether she is more exquisitely +amusing or more horribly true. Much the same may be said of Kitty and +Lydia; but it is not every author, even of genius, who would have +differentiated with such unerring skill the effects of folly and +vulgarity of intellect and disposition working upon the common +weaknesses of woman at such different ages. With Mary, Miss Austen has +taken rather less pains, though she has been even more unkind to her; +not merely in the text, but, as we learn from those interesting +traditional appendices which Mr. Austen Leigh has given us, in dooming +her privately to marry “one of Mr. Philips’s clerks.” The habits of +first copying and then retailing moral sentiments, of playing and +singing too long in public, are, no doubt, grievous and criminal; but +perhaps poor Mary was rather the scapegoat of the sins of blue stockings +in that Fordyce-belectured generation. It is at any rate difficult not +to extend to her a share of the respect and affection (affection and +respect of a peculiar kind; doubtless), with which one regards Mr. +Collins, when she draws the moral of Lydia’s fall. I sometimes wish +that the exigencies of the story had permitted Miss Austen to unite +these personages, and thus at once achieve a notable mating and soothe +poor Mrs. Bennet’s anguish over the entail._ + +_The Bingleys and the Gardiners and the Lucases, Miss Darcy and Miss de +Bourgh, Jane, Wickham, and the rest, must pass without special comment, +further than the remark that Charlotte Lucas (her egregious papa, though +delightful, is just a little on the thither side of the line between +comedy and farce) is a wonderfully clever study in drab of one kind, and +that Wickham (though something of Miss Austen’s hesitation of touch in +dealing with young men appears) is a not much less notable sketch in +drab of another. Only genius could have made Charlotte what she is, yet +not disagreeable; Wickham what he is, without investing him either with +a cheap Don Juanish attractiveness or a disgusting rascality. But the +hero and the heroine are not tints to be dismissed._ + +_Darcy has always seemed to me by far the best and most interesting of +Miss Austen’s heroes; the only possible competitor being Henry Tilney, +whose part is so slight and simple that it hardly enters into +comparison. It has sometimes, I believe, been urged that his pride is +unnatural at first in its expression and later in its yielding, while +his falling in love at all is not extremely probable. Here again I +cannot go with the objectors. Darcy’s own account of the way in which +his pride had been pampered, is perfectly rational and sufficient; and +nothing could be, psychologically speaking, a_ causa verior _for its +sudden restoration to healthy conditions than the shock of Elizabeth’s +scornful refusal acting on a nature_ ex hypothesi _generous. Nothing in +even our author is finer and more delicately touched than the change of +his demeanour at the sudden meeting in the grounds of Pemberley. Had he +been a bad prig or a bad coxcomb, he might have been still smarting +under his rejection, or suspicious that the girl had come +husband-hunting. His being neither is exactly consistent with the +probable feelings of a man spoilt in the common sense, but not really +injured in disposition, and thoroughly in love. As for his being in +love, Elizabeth has given as just an exposition of the causes of that +phenomenon as Darcy has of the conditions of his unregenerate state, +only she has of course not counted in what was due to her own personal +charm._ + +_The secret of that charm many men and not a few women, from Miss Austen +herself downwards, have felt, and like most charms it is a thing rather +to be felt than to be explained. Elizabeth of course belongs to the_ +allegro _or_ allegra _division of the army of Venus. Miss Austen was +always provokingly chary of description in regard to her beauties; and +except the fine eyes, and a hint or two that she had at any rate +sometimes a bright complexion, and was not very tall, we hear nothing +about her looks. But her chief difference from other heroines of the +lively type seems to lie first in her being distinctly clever--almost +strong-minded, in the better sense of that objectionable word--and +secondly in her being entirely destitute of ill-nature for all her +propensity to tease and the sharpness of her tongue. Elizabeth can give +at least as good as she gets when she is attacked; but she never +“scratches,” and she never attacks first. Some of the merest +obsoletenesses of phrase and manner give one or two of her early +speeches a slight pertness, but that is nothing, and when she comes to +serious business, as in the great proposal scene with Darcy (which is, +as it should be, the climax of the interest of the book), and in the +final ladies’ battle with Lady Catherine, she is unexceptionable. Then +too she is a perfectly natural girl. She does not disguise from herself +or anybody that she resents Darcy’s first ill-mannered personality with +as personal a feeling. (By the way, the reproach that the ill-manners of +this speech are overdone is certainly unjust; for things of the same +kind, expressed no doubt less stiltedly but more coarsely, might have +been heard in more than one ball-room during this very year from persons +who ought to have been no worse bred than Darcy.) And she lets the +injury done to Jane and the contempt shown to the rest of her family +aggravate this resentment in the healthiest way in the world._ + +_Still, all this does not explain her charm, which, taking beauty as a +common form of all heroines, may perhaps consist in the addition to her +playfulness, her wit, her affectionate and natural disposition, of a +certain fearlessness very uncommon in heroines of her type and age. +Nearly all of them would have been in speechless awe of the magnificent +Darcy; nearly all of them would have palpitated and fluttered at the +idea of proposals, even naughty ones, from the fascinating Wickham. +Elizabeth, with nothing offensive, nothing_ viraginous, _nothing of the +“New Woman” about her, has by nature what the best modern (not “new”) +women have by education and experience, a perfect freedom from the idea +that all men may bully her if they choose, and that most will away with +her if they can. Though not in the least “impudent and mannish grown,” +she has no mere sensibility, no nasty niceness about her. The form of +passion common and likely to seem natural in Miss Austen’s day was so +invariably connected with the display of one or the other, or both of +these qualities, that she has not made Elizabeth outwardly passionate. +But I, at least, have not the slightest doubt that she would have +married Darcy just as willingly without Pemberley as with it, and +anybody who can read between lines will not find the lovers’ +conversations in the final chapters so frigid as they might have looked +to the Della Cruscans of their own day, and perhaps do look to the Della +Cruscans of this._ + +_And, after all, what is the good of seeking for the reason of +charm?--it is there. There were better sense in the sad mechanic +exercise of determining the reason of its absence where it is not. In +the novels of the last hundred years there are vast numbers of young +ladies with whom it might be a pleasure to fall in love; there are at +least five with whom, as it seems to me, no man of taste and spirit can +help doing so. Their names are, in chronological order, Elizabeth +Bennet, Diana Vernon, Argemone Lavington, Beatrix Esmond, and Barbara +Grant. I should have been most in love with Beatrix and Argemone; I +should, I think, for mere occasional companionship, have preferred Diana +and Barbara. But to live with and to marry, I do not know that any one +of the four can come into competition with Elizabeth._ + +_GEORGE SAINTSBURY._ + + + + +[Illustration: List of Illustrations.] + + + PAGE + +Frontispiece iv + +Title-page v + +Dedication vii + +Heading to Preface ix + +Heading to List of Illustrations xxv + +Heading to Chapter I. 1 + +“He came down to see the place” 2 + +Mr. and Mrs. Bennet 5 + +“I hope Mr. Bingley will like it” 6 + +“I’m the tallest” 9 + +“He rode a black horse” 10 + +“When the party entered” 12 + +“She is tolerable” 15 + +Heading to Chapter IV. 18 + +Heading to Chapter V. 22 + +“Without once opening his lips” 24 + +Tailpiece to Chapter V. 26 + +Heading to Chapter VI. 27 + +“The entreaties of several” 31 + +“A note for Miss Bennet” 36 + +“Cheerful prognostics” 40 + +“The apothecary came” 43 + +“Covering a screen” 45 + +“Mrs. Bennet and her two youngest girls” 53 + +Heading to Chapter X. 60 + +“No, no; stay where you are” 67 + +“Piling up the fire” 69 + +Heading to Chapter XII. 75 + +Heading to Chapter XIII. 78 + +Heading to Chapter XIV. 84 + +“Protested that he never read novels” 87 + +Heading to Chapter XV. 89 + +Heading to Chapter XVI. 95 + +“The officers of the ----shire” 97 + +“Delighted to see their dear friend again” 108 + +Heading to Chapter XVIII. 113 + +“Such very superior dancing is not often seen” 118 + +“To assure you in the most animated language” 132 + +Heading to Chapter XX. 139 + +“They entered the breakfast-room” 143 + +Heading to Chapter XXI. 146 + +“Walked back with them” 148 + +Heading to Chapter XXII. 154 + +“So much love and eloquence” 156 + +“Protested he must be entirely mistaken” 161 + +“Whenever she spoke in a low voice” 166 + +Heading to Chapter XXIV. 168 + +Heading to Chapter XXV. 175 + +“Offended two or three young ladies” 177 + +“Will you come and see me?” 181 + +“On the stairs” 189 + +“At the door” 194 + +“In conversation with the ladies” 198 + +“Lady Catherine,” said she, “you have given me a treasure” 200 + +Heading to Chapter XXX. 209 + +“He never failed to inform them” 211 + +“The gentlemen accompanied him” 213 + +Heading to Chapter XXXI. 215 + +Heading to Chapter XXXII. 221 + +“Accompanied by their aunt” 225 + +“On looking up” 228 + +Heading to Chapter XXXIV. 235 + +“Hearing herself called” 243 + +Heading to Chapter XXXVI. 253 + +“Meeting accidentally in town” 256 + +“His parting obeisance” 261 + +“Dawson” 263 + +“The elevation of his feelings” 267 + +“They had forgotten to leave any message” 270 + +“How nicely we are crammed in!” 272 + +Heading to Chapter XL. 278 + +“I am determined never to speak of it again” 283 + +“When Colonel Miller’s regiment went away” 285 + +“Tenderly flirting” 290 + +The arrival of the Gardiners 294 + +“Conjecturing as to the date” 301 + +Heading to Chapter XLIV. 318 + +“To make herself agreeable to all” 321 + +“Engaged by the river” 327 + +Heading to Chapter XLVI. 334 + +“I have not an instant to lose” 339 + +“The first pleasing earnest of their welcome” 345 + +The Post 359 + +“To whom I have related the affair” 363 + +Heading to Chapter XLIX. 368 + +“But perhaps you would like to read it” 370 + +“The spiteful old ladies” 377 + +“With an affectionate smile” 385 + +“I am sure she did not listen” 393 + +“Mr. Darcy with him” 404 + +“Jane happened to look round” 415 + +“Mrs. Long and her nieces” 420 + +“Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak to you” 422 + +Heading to Chapter LVI. 431 + +“After a short survey” 434 + +“But now it comes out” 442 + +“The efforts of his aunt” 448 + +“Unable to utter a syllable” 457 + +“The obsequious civility” 466 + +Heading to Chapter LXI. 472 + +The End 476 + + + + +[Illustration: ·PRIDE AND PREJUDICE· + + + + +Chapter I.] + + +It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession +of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. + +However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his +first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds +of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful +property of some one or other of their daughters. + +“My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that +Netherfield Park is let at last?” + +Mr. Bennet replied that he had not. + +“But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she +told me all about it.” + +Mr. Bennet made no answer. + +“Do not you want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife, impatiently. + +“_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.” + +[Illustration: + +“He came down to see the place” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +This was invitation enough. + +“Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken +by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came +down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much +delighted with it that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is +to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be +in the house by the end of next week.” + +“What is his name?” + +“Bingley.” + +“Is he married or single?” + +“Oh, single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or +five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!” + +“How so? how can it affect them?” + +“My dear Mr. Bennet,” replied his wife, “how can you be so tiresome? You +must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them.” + +“Is that his design in settling here?” + +“Design? Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he +_may_ fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as +soon as he comes.” + +“I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go--or you may send +them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better; for as you are +as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley might like you the best of the +party.” + +“My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of beauty, but +I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now. When a woman has five +grown-up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty.” + +“In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.” + +“But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into +the neighbourhood.” + +“It is more than I engage for, I assure you.” + +“But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would +be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to go, +merely on that account; for in general, you know, they visit no new +comers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for _us_ to visit +him, if you do not.” + +“You are over scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very +glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my +hearty consent to his marrying whichever he chooses of the girls--though +I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy.” + +“I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the +others: and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so +good-humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving _her_ the preference.” + +“They have none of them much to recommend them,” replied he: “they are +all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of +quickness than her sisters.” + +“Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take +delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves.” + +“You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They +are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration +these twenty years at least.” + +“Ah, you do not know what I suffer.” + +“But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four +thousand a year come into the neighbourhood.” + +“It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you will not +visit them.” + +“Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them +all.” + +Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, +reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had +been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind +was less difficult to develope. She was a woman of mean understanding, +little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented, she +fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her +daughters married: its solace was visiting and news. + +[Illustration: M^{r.} & M^{rs.} Bennet + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +[Illustration: + +“I hope Mr. Bingley will like it” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +[Illustration] + +Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He +had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his +wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was +paid she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following +manner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he +suddenly addressed her with,-- + +“I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.” + +“We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes,” said her mother, +resentfully, “since we are not to visit.” + +“But you forget, mamma,” said Elizabeth, “that we shall meet him at the +assemblies, and that Mrs. Long has promised to introduce him.” + +“I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces +of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion +of her.” + +“No more have I,” said Mr. Bennet; “and I am glad to find that you do +not depend on her serving you.” + +Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply; but, unable to contain +herself, began scolding one of her daughters. + +“Don’t keep coughing so, Kitty, for heaven’s sake! Have a little +compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.” + +“Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,” said her father; “she times +them ill.” + +“I do not cough for my own amusement,” replied Kitty, fretfully. “When +is your next ball to be, Lizzy?” + +“To-morrow fortnight.” + +“Ay, so it is,” cried her mother, “and Mrs. Long does not come back till +the day before; so, it will be impossible for her to introduce him, for +she will not know him herself.” + +“Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce +Mr. Bingley to _her_.” + +“Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him +myself; how can you be so teasing?” + +“I honour your circumspection. A fortnight’s acquaintance is certainly +very little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a +fortnight. But if _we_ do not venture, somebody else will; and after +all, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their chance; and, therefore, +as she will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I +will take it on myself.” + +The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only, “Nonsense, +nonsense!” + +“What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?” cried he. “Do +you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on +them, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you _there_. What say you, +Mary? For you are a young lady of deep reflection, I know, and read +great books, and make extracts.” + +Mary wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how. + +“While Mary is adjusting her ideas,” he continued, “let us return to Mr. +Bingley.” + +“I am sick of Mr. Bingley,” cried his wife. + +“I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did you not tell me so before? If I +had known as much this morning, I certainly would not have called on +him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we +cannot escape the acquaintance now.” + +The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished--that of Mrs. +Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though when the first tumult of joy +was over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the +while. + +“How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should +persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to +neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! And it is such a +good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning, and never said a +word about it till now.” + +“Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,” said Mr. Bennet; and, +as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife. + +“What an excellent father you have, girls,” said she, when the door was +shut. “I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness; +or me either, for that matter. At our time of life, it is not so +pleasant, I can tell you, to be making new acquaintances every day; but +for your sakes we would do anything. Lydia, my love, though you _are_ +the youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next +ball.” + +“Oh,” said Lydia, stoutly, “I am not afraid; for though I _am_ the +youngest, I’m the tallest.” + +The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would +return Mr. Bennet’s visit, and determining when they should ask him to +dinner. + +[Illustration: “I’m the tallest”] + + + + +[Illustration: + + “He rode a black horse” +] + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +[Illustration] + +Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five +daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her +husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him +in various ways, with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and +distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all; and they were at +last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour, +Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been +delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely +agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly +with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of +dancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively +hopes of Mr. Bingley’s heart were entertained. + +“If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,” +said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, “and all the others equally well +married, I shall have nothing to wish for.” + +In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet’s visit, and sat about ten +minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being +admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had heard +much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more +fortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining, from an upper +window, that he wore a blue coat and rode a black horse. + +An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards despatched; and already had +Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her +housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley +was obliged to be in town the following day, and consequently unable to +accept the honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite +disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town +so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that +he might always be flying about from one place to another, and never +settled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a +little by starting the idea of his + +[Illustration: + + “When the Party entered” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +being gone to London only to get a large party for the ball; and a +report soon followed that Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and +seven gentlemen with him to the assembly. The girls grieved over such a +number of ladies; but were comforted the day before the ball by hearing +that, instead of twelve, he had brought only six with him from London, +his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party entered the +assembly-room, it consisted of only five altogether: Mr. Bingley, his +two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and another young man. + +Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike: he had a pleasant +countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women, +with an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely +looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention +of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and +the report, which was in general circulation within five minutes after +his entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen +pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he was +much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great +admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust +which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be +proud, to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his +large estate in Derbyshire could save him from having a most forbidding, +disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared with his +friend. + +Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal +people in the room: he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance, +was angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving one +himself at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for +themselves. What a contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced +only once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being +introduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in +walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party. +His character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man in +the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there again. +Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of +his general behaviour was sharpened into particular resentment by his +having slighted one of her daughters. + +Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit +down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been +standing near enough for her to overhear a conversation between him and +Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes to press his +friend to join it. + +“Come, Darcy,” said he, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you +standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better +dance.” + +“I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am +particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this, it +would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not +another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to +stand up with.” + +“I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Bingley, “for a +kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my +life as I have this evening; and there are several of them, you see, +uncommonly pretty.” + +“_You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said Mr. +Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet. + +“Oh, she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one +of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I +dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.” + +[Illustration: + +“She is tolerable” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +“Which do you mean?” and turning round, he looked for a moment at +Elizabeth, till, catching her eye, he withdrew his own, and coldly said, +“She is tolerable: but not handsome enough to tempt _me_; and I am in no +humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted +by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her +smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.” + +Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth +remained with no very cordial feelings towards him. She told the story, +however, with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively, +playful disposition, which delighted in anything ridiculous. + +The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs. +Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield +party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been +distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this as her +mother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane’s +pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most +accomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been +fortunate enough to be never without partners, which was all that they +had yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good +spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they +were the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up. With a +book, he was regardless of time; and on the present occasion he had a +good deal of curiosity as to the event of an evening which had raised +such splendid expectations. He had rather hoped that all his wife’s +views on the stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found that he +had a very different story to hear. + +“Oh, my dear Mr. Bennet,” as she entered the room, “we have had a most +delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there. +Jane was so admired, nothing could be like it. Everybody said how well +she looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her quite beautiful, and danced with +her twice. Only think of _that_, my dear: he actually danced with her +twice; and she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second +time. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand +up with her; but, however, he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody +can, you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going +down the dance. So he inquired who she was, and got introduced, and +asked her for the two next. Then, the two third he danced with Miss +King, and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane +again, and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the _Boulanger_----” + +“If he had had any compassion for _me_,” cried her husband impatiently, +“he would not have danced half so much! For God’s sake, say no more of +his partners. O that he had sprained his ancle in the first dance!” + +“Oh, my dear,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “I am quite delighted with him. He +is so excessively handsome! and his sisters are charming women. I never +in my life saw anything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the +lace upon Mrs. Hurst’s gown----” + +Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any +description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch +of the subject, and related, with much bitterness of spirit, and some +exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy. + +“But I can assure you,” she added, “that Lizzy does not lose much by not +suiting _his_ fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at +all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited, that there was no enduring +him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very +great! Not handsome enough to dance with! I wish you had been there, my +dear, to have given him one of your set-downs. I quite detest the man.” + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +[Illustration] + +When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in +her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister how very much +she admired him. + +“He is just what a young-man ought to be,” said she, “sensible, +good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners! so much ease, +with such perfect good breeding!” + +“He is also handsome,” replied Elizabeth, “which a young man ought +likewise to be if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete.” + +“I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I +did not expect such a compliment.” + +“Did not you? _I_ did for you. But that is one great difference between +us. Compliments always take _you_ by surprise, and _me_ never. What +could be more natural than his asking you again? He could not help +seeing that you were about five times as pretty as every other woman in +the room. No thanks to his gallantry for that. Well, he certainly is +very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a +stupider person.” + +“Dear Lizzy!” + +“Oh, you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general. +You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good and agreeable +in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in my life.” + +“I would wish not to be hasty in censuring anyone; but I always speak +what I think.” + +“I know you do: and it is _that_ which makes the wonder. With _your_ +good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of +others! Affectation of candour is common enough; one meets with it +everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design,--to take the +good of everybody’s character and make it still better, and say nothing +of the bad,--belongs to you alone. And so, you like this man’s sisters, +too, do you? Their manners are not equal to his.” + +“Certainly not, at first; but they are very pleasing women when you +converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother, and keep +his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a very charming +neighbour in her.” + +Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced: their behaviour at +the assembly had not been calculated to please in general; and with more +quickness of observation and less pliancy of temper than her sister, and +with a judgment, too, unassailed by any attention to herself, she was +very little disposed to approve them. They were, in fact, very fine +ladies; not deficient in good-humour when they were pleased, nor in the +power of being agreeable where they chose it; but proud and conceited. +They were rather handsome; had been educated in one of the first private +seminaries in town; had a fortune of twenty thousand pounds; were in the +habit of spending more than they ought, and of associating with people +of rank; and were, therefore, in every respect entitled to think well of +themselves and meanly of others. They were of a respectable family in +the north of England; a circumstance more deeply impressed on their +memories than that their brother’s fortune and their own had been +acquired by trade. + +Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly a hundred +thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an estate, +but did not live to do it. Mr. Bingley intended it likewise, and +sometimes made choice of his county; but, as he was now provided with a +good house and the liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of those +who best knew the easiness of his temper, whether he might not spend the +remainder of his days at Netherfield, and leave the next generation to +purchase. + +His sisters were very anxious for his having an estate of his own; but +though he was now established only as a tenant, Miss Bingley was by no +means unwilling to preside at his table; nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had +married a man of more fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider +his house as her home when it suited her. Mr. Bingley had not been of +age two years when he was tempted, by an accidental recommendation, to +look at Netherfield House. He did look at it, and into it, for half an +hour; was pleased with the situation and the principal rooms, satisfied +with what the owner said in its praise, and took it immediately. + +Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of a +great opposition of character. Bingley was endeared to Darcy by the +easiness, openness, and ductility of his temper, though no disposition +could offer a greater contrast to his own, and though with his own he +never appeared dissatisfied. On the strength of Darcy’s regard, Bingley +had the firmest reliance, and of his judgment the highest opinion. In +understanding, Darcy was the superior. Bingley was by no means +deficient; but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty, +reserved, and fastidious; and his manners, though well bred, were not +inviting. In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley +was sure of being liked wherever he appeared; Darcy was continually +giving offence. + +The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was sufficiently +characteristic. Bingley had never met with pleasanter people or prettier +girls in his life; everybody had been most kind and attentive to him; +there had been no formality, no stiffness; he had soon felt acquainted +with all the room; and as to Miss Bennet, he could not conceive an angel +more beautiful. Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a collection of people +in whom there was little beauty and no fashion, for none of whom he had +felt the smallest interest, and from none received either attention or +pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty; but she smiled too +much. + +Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so; but still they admired +her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl, and one whom +they should not object to know more of. Miss Bennet was therefore +established as a sweet girl; and their brother felt authorized by such +commendation to think of her as he chose. + + + + +[Illustration: [_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +[Illustration] + +Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets +were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been formerly in trade +in Meryton, where he had made a tolerable fortune, and risen to the +honour of knighthood by an address to the king during his mayoralty. The +distinction had, perhaps, been felt too strongly. It had given him a +disgust to his business and to his residence in a small market town; +and, quitting them both, he had removed with his family to a house about +a mile from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge; where he +could think with pleasure of his own importance, and, unshackled by +business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all the world. For, +though elated by his rank, it did not render him supercilious; on the +contrary, he was all attention to everybody. By nature inoffensive, +friendly, and obliging, his presentation at St. James’s had made him +courteous. + +Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a +valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The eldest +of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven, was +Elizabeth’s intimate friend. + +That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk over a +ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the assembly +brought the former to Longbourn to hear and to communicate. + +“_You_ began the evening well, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Bennet, with civil +self-command, to Miss Lucas. “_You_ were Mr. Bingley’s first choice.” + +“Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.” + +“Oh, you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice. To be +sure that _did_ seem as if he admired her--indeed, I rather believe he +_did_--I heard something about it--but I hardly know what--something +about Mr. Robinson.” + +“Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson: did not +I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson’s asking him how he liked our Meryton +assemblies, and whether he did not think there were a great many pretty +women in the room, and _which_ he thought the prettiest? and his +answering immediately to the last question, ‘Oh, the eldest Miss Bennet, +beyond a doubt: there cannot be two opinions on that point.’” + +“Upon my word! Well, that was very decided, indeed--that does seem as +if--but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know.” + +“_My_ overhearings were more to the purpose than _yours_, Eliza,” said +Charlotte. “Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend, +is he? Poor Eliza! to be only just _tolerable_.” + +“I beg you will not put it into Lizzy’s head to be vexed by his +ill-treatment, for he is such a disagreeable man that it would be quite +a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night that he +sat close to her for half an hour without once opening his lips.” + +[Illustration: “Without once opening his lips” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +“Are you quite sure, ma’am? Is not there a little mistake?” said Jane. +“I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her.” + +“Ay, because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he +could not help answering her; but she said he seemed very angry at being +spoke to.” + +“Miss Bingley told me,” said Jane, “that he never speaks much unless +among his intimate acquaintance. With _them_ he is remarkably +agreeable.” + +“I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very +agreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how it +was; everybody says that he is eat up with pride, and I dare say he had +heard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage, and had to come +to the ball in a hack chaise.” + +“I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,” said Miss Lucas, “but I +wish he had danced with Eliza.” + +“Another time, Lizzy,” said her mother, “I would not dance with _him_, +if I were you.” + +“I believe, ma’am, I may safely promise you _never_ to dance with him.” + +“His pride,” said Miss Lucas, “does not offend _me_ so much as pride +often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so +very fine a young man, with family, fortune, everything in his favour, +should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a _right_ +to be proud.” + +“That is very true,” replied Elizabeth, “and I could easily forgive +_his_ pride, if he had not mortified _mine_.” + +“Pride,” observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her +reflections, “is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have +ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed; that human +nature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us +who do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some +quality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different +things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be +proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of +ourselves; vanity to what we would have others think of us.” + +“If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,” cried a young Lucas, who came with his +sisters, “I should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of +foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine every day.” + +“Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,” said Mrs. +Bennet; “and if I were to see you at it, I should take away your bottle +directly.” + +The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she +would; and the argument ended only with the visit. + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +[Illustration] + +The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit +was returned in due form. Miss Bennet’s pleasing manners grew on the +good-will of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was +found to be intolerable, and the younger sisters not worth speaking to, +a wish of being better acquainted with _them_ was expressed towards the +two eldest. By Jane this attention was received with the greatest +pleasure; but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment of +everybody, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them; +though their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value, as arising, +in all probability, from the influence of their brother’s admiration. It +was generally evident, whenever they met, that he _did_ admire her; and +to _her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference +which she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a +way to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it +was not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane +united with great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and an +uniform cheerfulness of manner, which would guard her from the +suspicions of the impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend, Miss +Lucas. + +“It may, perhaps, be pleasant,” replied Charlotte, “to be able to impose +on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be +so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill +from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and +it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in the +dark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every +attachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all +_begin_ freely--a slight preference is natural enough; but there are +very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without +encouragement. In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better show _more_ +affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he +may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.” + +“But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If _I_ can +perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton indeed not to +discover it too.” + +“Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane’s disposition as you do.” + +“But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavor to conceal +it, he must find it out.” + +“Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But though Bingley and Jane +meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and as they +always see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that +every moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should +therefore make the most of every half hour in which she can command his +attention. When she is secure of him, there will be leisure for falling +in love as much as she chooses.” + +“Your plan is a good one,” replied Elizabeth, “where nothing is in +question but the desire of being well married; and if I were determined +to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I should adopt it. But +these are not Jane’s feelings; she is not acting by design. 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. Of +this she was perfectly unaware: to her he was only the man who made +himself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough +to dance with. + +He began to wish to know more of her; and, as a step towards conversing +with her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so +drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas’s, where a large party were +assembled. + +“What does Mr. Darcy mean,” said she to Charlotte, “by listening to my +conversation with Colonel Forster?” + +“That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.” + +“But if he does it any more, I shall certainly let him know that I see +what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by +being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him.” + +[Illustration: “The entreaties of several” [_Copyright 1894 by George +Allen._]] + +On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have +any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such +a subject to him, which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she +turned to him and said,-- + +“Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well +just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at +Meryton?” + +“With great energy; but it is a subject which always makes a lady +energetic.” + +“You are severe on us.” + +“It will be _her_ turn soon to be teased,” said Miss Lucas. “I am going +to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.” + +“You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me +to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken a +musical turn, you would have been invaluable; but as it is, I would +really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of +hearing the very best performers.” On Miss Lucas’s persevering, however, +she added, “Very well; if it must be so, it must.” And gravely glancing +at Mr. Darcy, “There is a very fine old saying, which everybody here is +of course familiar with--‘Keep your breath to cool your porridge,’--and +I shall keep mine to swell my song.” + +Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song +or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she +would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her +sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in +the family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always +impatient for display. + +Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her +application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited +manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she +had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with +much more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the +end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by +Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who with +some of the Lucases, and two or three officers, joined eagerly in +dancing at one end of the room. + +Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of +passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too +much engrossed by his own thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas +was his neighbour, till Sir William thus began:-- + +“What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy! There is +nothing like dancing, after all. I consider it as one of the first +refinements of polished societies.” + +“Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst +the less polished societies of the world: every savage can dance.” + +Sir William only smiled. “Your friend performs delightfully,” he +continued, after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group; “and I doubt +not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy.” + +“You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir.” + +“Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do +you often dance at St. James’s?” + +“Never, sir.” + +“Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?” + +“It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it.” + +“You have a house in town, I conclude?” + +Mr. Darcy bowed. + +“I had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself, for I am fond of +superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of +London would agree with Lady Lucas.” + +He paused in hopes of an answer: but his companion was not disposed to +make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was +struck with the notion of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to +her,-- + +“My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow +me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You +cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you.” +And, taking her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy, who, though +extremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly +drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William,-- + +“Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you +not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.” + +Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the honour of +her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did Sir William at +all shake her purpose by his attempt at persuasion. + +“You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me +the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the +amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us +for one half hour.” + +“Mr. Darcy is all politeness,” said Elizabeth, smiling. + +“He is, indeed: but considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza, we +cannot wonder at his complaisance; for who would object to such a +partner?” + +Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not injured +her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with some +complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley,-- + +“I can guess the subject of your reverie.” + +“I should imagine not.” + +“You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many +evenings in this manner,--in such society; and, indeed, I am quite of +your opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the +noise--the nothingness, and yet the self-importance, of all these +people! What would I give to hear your strictures on them!” + +“Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more +agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure +which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.” + +Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he +would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. +Mr. Darcy replied, with great intrepidity,-- + +“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” + +“Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” repeated Miss Bingley. “I am all astonishment. +How long has she been such a favourite? and pray when am I to wish you +joy?” + +“That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady’s +imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love +to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy.” + +“Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the matter as +absolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law, indeed, and +of course she will be always at Pemberley with you.” + +He listened to her with perfect indifference, while she chose to +entertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced her +that all was safe, her wit flowed along. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “A note for Miss Bennet” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +[Illustration] + +Mr. Bennet’s property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two +thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed, +in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother’s +fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply +the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and +had left her four thousand pounds. + +She had a sister married to a Mr. Philips, who had been a clerk to their +father and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in +London in a respectable line of trade. + +The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most +convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted +thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt, and +to a milliner’s shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family, +Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions: +their minds were more vacant than their sisters’, and when nothing +better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning +hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and, however bare of +news the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn +some from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both +with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in +the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was +the head-quarters. + +Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most interesting +intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge of the +officers’ names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a secret, +and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr. Philips +visited them all, and this opened to his nieces a source of felicity +unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr. +Bingley’s large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their +mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of +an ensign. + +After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr. +Bennet coolly observed,-- + +“From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two +of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but +I am now convinced.” + +Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with perfect +indifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter, and +her hope of seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the +next morning to London. + +“I am astonished, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that you should be so +ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly +of anybody’s children, it should not be of my own, however.” + +“If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of it.” + +“Yes; but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.” + +“This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I +had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must +so far differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly +foolish.” + +“My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of +their father and mother. When they get to our age, I dare say they will +not think about officers any more than we do. I remember the time when I +liked a red coat myself very well--and, indeed, so I do still at my +heart; and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year, +should want one of my girls, I shall not say nay to him; and I thought +Colonel Forster looked very becoming the other night at Sir William’s in +his regimentals.” + +“Mamma,” cried Lydia, “my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain +Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson’s as they did when they first +came; she sees them now very often standing in Clarke’s library.” + +Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with a +note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited +for an answer. Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was +eagerly calling out, while her daughter read,-- + +“Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say? Well, +Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love.” + +“It is from Miss Bingley,” said Jane, and then read it aloud. + + /* NIND “My dear friend, */ + + “If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and + me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our + lives; for a whole day’s _tête-à-tête_ between two women can never + end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on the receipt of + this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers. + Yours ever, + +“CAROLINE BINGLEY.” + +“With the officers!” cried Lydia: “I wonder my aunt did not tell us of +_that_.” + +“Dining out,” said Mrs. Bennet; “that is very unlucky.” + +“Can I have the carriage?” said Jane. + +“No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to +rain; and then you must stay all night.” + +“That would be a good scheme,” said Elizabeth, “if you were sure that +they would not offer to send her home.” + +“Oh, but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley’s chaise to go to Meryton; +and the Hursts have no horses to theirs.” + +“I had much rather go in the coach.” + +“But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are +wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are not they?” + +[Illustration: Cheerful prognostics] + +“They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them.” + +“But if you have got them to-day,” said Elizabeth, “my mother’s purpose +will be answered.” + +She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the horses +were engaged; Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her +mother attended her to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a bad +day. Her hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone long before it +rained hard. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was +delighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission; +Jane certainly could not come back. + +“This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!” said Mrs. Bennet, more than +once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the next +morning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her +contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield +brought the following note for Elizabeth:-- + + /* NIND “My dearest Lizzie, */ + + “I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be + imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will + not hear of my returning home till I am better. They insist also on + my seeing Mr. Jones--therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear + of his having been to me--and, excepting a sore throat and a + headache, there is not much the matter with me. + +“Yours, etc.” + +“Well, my dear,” said Mr. 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. She was received, however, very politely by them; and in their +brother’s manners there was something better than politeness--there was +good-humour and kindness. Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr. Hurst +nothing at all. The former was divided between admiration of the +brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion and doubt as to +the occasion’s justifying her coming so far alone. The latter was +thinking only of his breakfast. + +Her inquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered. Miss +Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish, and not well +enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be taken to her +immediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the fear of giving +alarm or inconvenience, from expressing in her note how much she longed +for such a visit, was delighted at her entrance. She was not equal, +however, to much conversation; and when Miss Bingley left them together, +could attempt little beside expressions of gratitude for the +extraordinary kindness she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended +her. + +When breakfast was over, they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth +began to like them herself, when she saw how much affection and +solicitude they showed for Jane. The apothecary came; and having +examined his patient, said, as might be supposed, that she had caught a +violent cold, and that they must endeavour to get the better of it; +advised her to return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The advice +was followed readily, for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head +ached acutely. Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment, nor were +the other ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had in fact +nothing to do elsewhere. + +When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go, and very +unwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage, and she only +wanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane testified such concern +at parting with her that Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer +of the chaise into an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the +present. Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was +despatched to Longbourn, to acquaint the family with her stay, and bring +back a supply of clothes. + +[Illustration: + +“The Apothecary came” +] + + + + +[Illustration: + +“covering a screen” +] + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +[Illustration] + +At five o’clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half-past six +Elizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil inquiries which then +poured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of distinguishing the +much superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley, she could not make a very +favourable answer. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing +this, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how +shocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked +being ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter: and their +indifference towards Jane, when not immediately before them, restored +Elizabeth to the enjoyment of all her original dislike. + +Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she could +regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his +attentions to herself most pleasing; and they prevented her feeling +herself so much an intruder as she believed she was considered by the +others. She had very little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley was +engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so; and as for Mr. +Hurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he was an indolent man, who lived only to +eat, drink, and play at cards, who, when he found her prefer a plain +dish to a ragout, had nothing to say to her. + +When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley +began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her manners were +pronounced to be very bad indeed,--a mixture of pride and impertinence: +she had no conversation, no style, no taste, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst +thought the same, and added,-- + +“She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent +walker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really +looked almost wild.” + +“She did indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very +nonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering about the +country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair so untidy, so blowzy!” + +“Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep +in mud, I am absolutely certain, and the gown which had been let down to +hide it not doing its office.” + +“Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,” said Bingley; “but this was +all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably well +when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite +escaped my notice.” + +“_You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley; “and I am +inclined to think that you would not wish to see _your sister_ make such +an exhibition.” + +“Certainly not.” + +“To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is, +above her ancles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! what could she mean by +it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence, +a most country-town indifference to decorum.” + +“It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,” said +Bingley. + +“I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,” observed Miss Bingley, in a half whisper, +“that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine +eyes.” + +“Not at all,” he replied: “they were brightened by the exercise.” A +short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again,-- + +“I have an excessive regard for Jane Bennet,--she is really a very sweet +girl,--and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such +a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no +chance of it.” + +“I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in +Meryton?” + +“Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.” + +“That is capital,” added her sister; and they both laughed heartily. + +“If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside,” cried Bingley, “it +would not make them one jot less agreeable.” + +“But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any +consideration in the world,” replied Darcy. + +To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their +hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of +their dear friend’s vulgar relations. + +With a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to her room on +leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee. +She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till +late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her asleep, and +when it appeared to her rather right than pleasant that she should go +down stairs herself. On entering the drawing-room, she found the whole +party at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting +them to be playing high, she declined it, and making her sister the +excuse, said she would amuse herself, for the short time she could stay +below, with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment. + +“Do you prefer reading to cards?” said he; “that is rather singular.” + +“Miss Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, “despises cards. She is a great +reader, and has no pleasure in anything else.” + +“I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,” cried Elizabeth; “I +am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.” + +“In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,” said Bingley; “and +I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well.” + +Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table +where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her +others; all that his library afforded. + +“And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own +credit; but I am an idle fellow; and though I have not many, I have more +than I ever looked into.” + +Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those +in the room. + +“I am astonished,” said Miss Bingley, “that my father should have left +so small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at +Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!” + +“It ought to be good,” he replied: “it has been the work of many +generations.” + +“And then you have added so much to it yourself--you are always buying +books.” + +“I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as +these.” + +“Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of +that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be +half as delightful as Pemberley.” + +“I wish it may.” + +“But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that +neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a +finer county in England than Derbyshire.” + +“With all my heart: I will buy Pemberley itself, if Darcy will sell it.” + +“I am talking of possibilities, Charles.” + +“Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get +Pemberley by purchase than by imitation.” + +Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little +attention for her book; and, soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near +the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest +sister, to observe the game. + +“Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?” said Miss Bingley: “will +she be as tall as I am?” + +“I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s height, or +rather taller.” + +“How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me +so much. Such a countenance, such manners, and so extremely accomplished +for her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.” + +“It is amazing to me,” said Bingley, “how young ladies can have patience +to be so very accomplished as they all are.” + +“All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?” + +“Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens, and +net purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this; and I am +sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without +being informed that she was very accomplished.” + +“Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Darcy, “has +too much truth. 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. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is +despicable.” + +Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to +continue the subject. + +Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and +that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones’s being sent for +immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could +be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most +eminent physicians. This she would not hear of; but she was not so +unwilling to comply with their brother’s proposal; and it was settled +that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet +were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters +declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness, +however, by duets after supper; while he could find no better relief to +his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every +possible attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister. + + + + +[Illustration: + +M^{rs} Bennet and her two youngest girls + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister’s room, and in the +morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the +inquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid, +and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his +sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a +note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her +own judgment of her situation. The note was immediately despatched, and +its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her +two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast. + +Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been +very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was +not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her +restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She +would not listen, therefore, to her daughter’s proposal of being carried +home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think +it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss +Bingley’s appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all +attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes +that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected. + +“Indeed I have, sir,” was her answer. “She is a great deal too ill to be +moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass +a little longer on your kindness.” + +“Removed!” cried Bingley. “It must not be thought of. My sister, I am +sure, will not hear of her removal.” + +“You may depend upon it, madam,” said Miss Bingley, with cold civility, +“that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she +remains with us.” + +Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments. + +“I am sure,” she added, “if it was not for such good friends, I do not +know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a +vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is +always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest +temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to +_her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect +over that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is +equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry, I +hope, though you have but a short lease.” + +“Whatever I do is done in a hurry,” replied he; “and therefore if I +should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five +minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here.” + +“That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,” said Elizabeth. + +“You begin to comprehend me, do you?” cried he, turning towards her. + +“Oh yes--I understand you perfectly.” + +“I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen +through, I am afraid, is pitiful.” + +“That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, +intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours.” + +“Lizzy,” cried her mother, “remember where you are, and do not run on in +the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.” + +“I did not know before,” continued Bingley, immediately, “that you were +a studier of character. It must be an amusing study.” + +“Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at +least that advantage.” + +“The country,” said Darcy, “can in general supply but few subjects for +such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and +unvarying society.” + +“But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be +observed in them for ever.” + +“Yes, indeed,” cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a +country neighbourhood. “I assure you there is quite as much of _that_ +going on in the country as in town.” + +Everybody was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment, +turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete +victory over him, continued her triumph,-- + +“I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, for +my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal +pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?” + +“When I am in the country,” he replied, “I never wish to leave it; and +when I am in town, it is pretty much the same. They have each their +advantages, and I can be equally happy in either.” + +“Ay, that is because you have the right disposition. But that +gentleman,” looking at Darcy, “seemed to think the country was nothing +at all.” + +“Indeed, mamma, you are mistaken,” said Elizabeth, blushing for her +mother. “You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there was not +such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in town, which +you must acknowledge to be true.” + +“Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with +many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few +neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four-and-twenty families.” + +Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his +countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eye towards +Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of +saying something that might turn her mother’s thoughts, now asked her if +Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since _her_ coming away. + +“Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir +William is, Mr. Bingley--is not he? so much the man of fashion! so +genteel and so easy! He has always something to say to everybody. _That_ +is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very +important and never open their mouths quite mistake the matter.” + +“Did Charlotte dine with you?” + +“No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince-pies. For +my part, Mr. Bingley, _I_ always keep servants that can do their own +work; _my_ daughters are brought up differently. But everybody is to +judge for themselves, and the Lucases are a very good sort of girls, I +assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that _I_ think +Charlotte so _very_ plain; but then she is our particular friend.” + +“She seems a very pleasant young woman,” said Bingley. + +“Oh dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself +has often said so, and envied me Jane’s beauty. I do not like to boast +of my own child; but to be sure, Jane--one does not often see anybody +better looking. It is what everybody says. I do not trust my own +partiality. When she was only fifteen there was a gentleman at my +brother Gardiner’s in town so much in love with her, that my +sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away. +But, however, he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he +wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were.” + +“And so ended his affection,” said Elizabeth, impatiently. “There has +been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first +discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!” + +“I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love,” said Darcy. + +“Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is +strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I +am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.” + +Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth +tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to +speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs. +Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to +Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was +unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be +civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part, +indeed, without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and +soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of +her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to +each other during the whole visit; and the result of it was, that the +youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming +into the country to give a ball at Netherfield. + +Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion +and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose +affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high +animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the +attentions of the officers, to whom her uncle’s good dinners and her +own easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was +very equal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the +ball, and abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be +the most shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer +to this sudden attack was delightful to her mother’s ear. + +“I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and, when +your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of +the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while she is ill?” + +Lydia declared herself satisfied. “Oh yes--it would be much better to +wait till Jane was well; and by that time, most likely, Captain Carter +would be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball,” she +added, “I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel +Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not.” + +Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned +instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations’ behaviour to the +remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, +could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of +all Miss Bingley’s witticisms on _fine eyes_. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + +[Illustration] + +The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss +Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who +continued, though slowly, to mend; and, in the evening, Elizabeth joined +their party in the drawing-room. The loo table, however, did not appear. +Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching +the progress of his letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by +messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and +Mrs. Hurst was observing their game. + +Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in +attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual +commendations of the lady either on his hand-writing, or on the evenness +of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern +with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was +exactly in unison with her opinion of each. + +“How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!” + +He made no answer. + +“You write uncommonly fast.” + +“You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.” + +“How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a +year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!” + +“It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours.” + +“Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.” + +“I have already told her so once, by your desire.” + +“I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend +pens remarkably well.” + +“Thank you--but I always mend my own.” + +“How can you contrive to write so even?” + +He was silent. + +“Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp, +and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful +little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss +Grantley’s.” + +“Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At +present I have not room to do them justice.” + +“Oh, it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you +always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?” + +“They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me +to determine.” + +“It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter with +ease cannot write ill.” + +“That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,” cried her +brother, “because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much +for words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?” + +“My style of writing is very different from yours.” + +“Oh,” cried Miss Bingley, “Charles writes in the most careless way +imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.” + +“My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them; by which +means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.” + +“Your humility, Mr. Bingley,” said Elizabeth, “must disarm reproof.” + +“Nothing is more deceitful,” said Darcy, “than the appearance of +humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an +indirect boast.” + +“And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?” + +“The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in +writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of +thought and carelessness of execution, which, if not estimable, you +think at least highly interesting. The power of doing anything with +quickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any +attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs. +Bennet this morning, that if you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield +you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of +panegyric, of compliment to yourself; and yet what is there so very +laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business +undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or anyone else?” + +“Nay,” cried Bingley, “this is too much, to remember at night all the +foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I +believed what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this +moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless +precipitance merely to show off before the ladies.” + +“I daresay you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you +would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as +dependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were +mounting your horse, a friend were to say, ‘Bingley, you had better stay +till next week,’ you would probably do it--you would probably not +go--and, at another word, might stay a month.” + +“You have only proved by this,” cried Elizabeth, “that Mr. Bingley did +not do justice to his own disposition. You have shown him off now much +more than he did himself.” + +“I am exceedingly gratified,” said Bingley, “by your converting what my +friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am +afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means +intend; for he would certainly think the better of me if, under such a +circumstance, I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I +could.” + +“Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intention +as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?” + +“Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter--Darcy must speak for +himself.” + +“You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call mine, +but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to +stand according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet, +that the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and +the delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering +one argument in favour of its propriety.” + +“To yield readily--easily--to the _persuasion_ of a friend is no merit +with you.” + +“To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of +either.” + +“You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of +friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make +one readily yield to a request, without waiting for arguments to reason +one into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have +supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the +circumstance occurs, before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour +thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases, between friend and friend, +where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no +very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying +with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?” + +“Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange +with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to +appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting +between the parties?” + +“By all means,” cried Bingley; “let us hear all the particulars, not +forgetting their comparative height and size, for that will have more +weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure +you that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with +myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not +know a more awful object than Darcy on particular occasions, and in +particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening, +when he has nothing to do.” + +Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that he was +rather offended, and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly +resented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with her +brother for talking such nonsense. + +“I see your design, Bingley,” said his friend. “You dislike an argument, +and want to silence this.” + +“Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss +Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very +thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me.” + +“What you ask,” said Elizabeth, “is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr. +Darcy had much better finish his letter.” + +Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter. + +When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth +for the indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with alacrity to +the pianoforte, and after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead the +way, which the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she +seated herself. + +Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister; and while they were thus employed, +Elizabeth could not help observing, as she turned over some music-books +that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy’s eyes were fixed +on her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of +admiration to so great a man, and yet that he should look at her because +he disliked her was still more strange. She could only imagine, however, +at last, that she drew his notice because there was something about her +more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in +any other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked +him too little to care for his approbation. + +After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by a +lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near +Elizabeth, said to her,-- + +“Do you not feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an +opportunity of dancing a reel?” + +She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some +surprise at her silence. + +“Oh,” said she, “I heard you before; but I could not immediately +determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say ‘Yes,’ +that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always +delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of +their premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell +you that I do not want to dance a reel at all; and now despise me if you +dare.” + +“Indeed I do not dare.” + +Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his +gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her +manner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody, and Darcy had +never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really +believed that, were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he +should be in some danger. + +Miss Bingley saw, or suspected, enough to be jealous; and her great +anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received some +assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth. + +She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of +their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance. + +“I hope,” said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery the +next day, “you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this +desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue; +and if you can compass it, to cure the younger girls of running after +the officers. And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to +check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence, +which your lady possesses.” + +[Illustration: + + “No, no; stay where you are” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +“Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?” + +“Oh yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips be placed +in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great-uncle the +judge. They are in the same profession, you know, only in different +lines. As for your Elizabeth’s picture, you must not attempt to have it +taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?” + +“It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression; but their +colour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, might be +copied.” + +At that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and +Elizabeth herself. + +“I did not know that you intended to walk,” said Miss Bingley, in some +confusion, lest they had been overheard. + +“You used us abominably ill,” answered Mrs. Hurst, “running away without +telling us that you were coming out.” + +Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk +by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness, +and immediately said,-- + +“This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the +avenue.” + +But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them, +laughingly answered,-- + +“No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and appear to +uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a +fourth. Good-bye.” + +She then ran gaily off, rejoicing, as she rambled about, in the hope of +being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered +as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “Piling up the fire” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + +[Illustration] + +When the ladies removed after dinner Elizabeth ran up to her sister, and +seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the drawing-room, +where she was welcomed by her two friends with many professions of +pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable as they were +during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared. Their powers +of conversation were considerable. They could describe an entertainment +with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh at their +acquaintance with spirit. + +But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object; +Miss Bingley’s eyes were instantly turned towards Darcy, and she had +something to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed +himself directly to Miss Bennet with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst +also made her a slight bow, and said he was “very glad;” but diffuseness +and warmth remained for Bingley’s salutation. He was full of joy and +attention. The first half hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she +should suffer from the change of room; and she removed, at his desire, +to the other side of the fireplace, that she might be farther from the +door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to anyone else. +Elizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great +delight. + +When tea was over Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the +card-table--but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr. +Darcy did not wish for cards, and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open +petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and the +silence of the whole party on the subject seemed to justify her. Mr. +Hurst had, therefore, nothing to do but to stretch himself on one of the +sofas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book. Miss Bingley did the same; +and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and +rings, joined now and then in her brother’s conversation with Miss +Bennet. + +Miss Bingley’s attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr. +Darcy’s progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own; and she was +perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She +could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her +question and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be +amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the +second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, “How pleasant it +is to spend an evening in this way! I declare, after all, there is no +enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a +book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not +an excellent library.” + +No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and +cast her eyes round the room in quest of some amusement; when, hearing +her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly +towards him and said,-- + +“By the bye Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at +Netherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult +the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not +some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a +pleasure.” + +“If you mean Darcy,” cried her brother, “he may go to bed, if he +chooses, before it begins; but as for the ball, it is quite a settled +thing, and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send +round my cards.” + +“I should like balls infinitely better,” she replied, “if they were +carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably +tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much +more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the +day.” + +“Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say; but it would not be +near so much like a ball.” + +Miss Bingley made no answer, and soon afterwards got up and walked about +the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well; but Darcy, at +whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the +desperation of her feelings, she resolved on one effort more; and, +turning to Elizabeth, said,-- + +“Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a +turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so +long in one attitude.” + +Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley +succeeded no less in the real object of her civility: Mr. Darcy looked +up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as +Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was +directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing that +he could imagine but two motives for their choosing to walk up and down +the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would +interfere. What could he mean? She was dying to know what could be his +meaning--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him. + +“Not at all,” was her answer; “but, depend upon it, he means to be +severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask +nothing about it.” + +Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in +anything, and persevered, therefore, in requiring an explanation of his +two motives. + +“I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,” said he, as soon +as she allowed him to speak. “You either choose this method of passing +the evening because you are in each other’s confidence, and have secret +affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures +appear to the greatest advantage in walking: if the first, I should be +completely in your way; and if the second, I can admire you much better +as I sit by the fire.” + +“Oh, shocking!” cried Miss Bingley. “I never heard anything so +abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?” + +“Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,” said Elizabeth. “We +can all plague and punish one another. Tease him--laugh at him. Intimate +as you are, you must know how it is to be done.” + +“But upon my honour I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not +yet taught me _that_. Tease calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, +no; I feel he may defy us there. 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 _your_ defect is a propensity to hate everybody.” + +“And yours,” he replied, with a smile, “is wilfully to misunderstand +them.” + +“Do let us have a little music,” cried Miss Bingley, tired of a +conversation in which she had no share. “Louisa, you will not mind my +waking Mr. Hurst.” + +Her sister made not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was +opened; and Darcy, after a few moments’ recollection, was not sorry for +it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + +[Illustration] + +In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the +next morning to her mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for +them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on +her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which +would exactly finish Jane’s week, could not bring herself to receive +them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at +least not to Elizabeth’s wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs. +Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage +before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley +and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them very +well. Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively +resolved--nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the +contrary, of being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long, +she urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley’s carriage immediately, and at +length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield +that morning should be mentioned, and the request made. + +The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was +said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work on +Jane; and till the morrow their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was +then sorry that she had proposed the delay; for her jealousy and dislike +of one sister much exceeded her affection for the other. + +The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so +soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be +safe for her--that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where +she felt herself to be right. + +To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence: Elizabeth had been at +Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked; and Miss +Bingley was uncivil to _her_ and more teasing than usual to himself. He +wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration +should _now_ escape him--nothing that could elevate her with the hope of +influencing his felicity; sensible that, if such an idea had been +suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight +in confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke +ten words to her through the whole of Saturday: and though they were at +one time left by themselves for half an hour, he adhered most +conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her. + +On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost +all, took place. Miss Bingley’s civility to Elizabeth increased at last +very rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted, +after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her to +see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most +tenderly, she even shook hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of +the whole party in the liveliest spirits. + +They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet +wondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much +trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again. But their +father, though very laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really +glad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The +evening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of its +animation, and almost all its sense, by the absence of Jane and +Elizabeth. + +They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough bass and human +nature; and had some new extracts to admire and some new observations of +threadbare morality to listen to. Catherine and Lydia had information +for them of a different sort. Much had been done, and much had been said +in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers +had dined lately with their uncle; a private had been flogged; and it +had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +[Illustration] + +“I hope, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at +breakfast the next morning, “that you have ordered a good dinner to-day, +because I have reason to expect an addition to our family party.” + +“Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am sure, +unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in; and I hope _my_ dinners +are good enough for her. I do not believe she often sees such at home.” + +“The person of whom I speak is a gentleman and a stranger.” + +Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled. “A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr. +Bingley, I am sure. Why, Jane--you never dropped a word of this--you sly +thing! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see Mr. Bingley. +But--good Lord! how unlucky! there is not a bit of fish to be got +to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell. I must speak to Hill this +moment.” + +“It is _not_ Mr. Bingley,” said her husband; “it is a person whom I +never saw in the whole course of my life.” + +This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of being +eagerly questioned by his wife and five daughters at once. + +After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus +explained:--“About a month ago I received this letter, and about a +fortnight ago I answered it; for I thought it a case of some delicacy, +and requiring early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, +when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as he +pleases.” + +“Oh, my dear,” cried his wife, “I cannot bear to hear that mentioned. +Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing +in the world, that your estate should be entailed away from your own +children; and I am sure, if I had been you, I should have tried long ago +to do something or other about it.” + +Jane and Elizabeth attempted to explain to her the nature of an entail. +They had often attempted it before: but it was a subject on which Mrs. +Bennet was beyond the reach of reason; and she continued to rail +bitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of +five daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about. + +“It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,” said Mr. Bennet; “and +nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn. +But if you will listen to his letter, you may, perhaps, be a little +softened by his manner of expressing himself.” + +“No, that I am sure I shall not: and I think it was very impertinent of +him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false +friends. Why could not he keep on quarrelling with you, as his father +did before him?” + +“Why, indeed, he does seem to have had some filial scruples on that +head, as you will hear.” + + /* RIGHT “Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, _15th October_. */ + +“Dear Sir, + + “The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured + father always gave me much uneasiness; and, since I have had the + misfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal the + breach: but, for some time, I was kept back by my own doubts, + fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be + on good terms with anyone with whom it had always pleased him to be + at variance.”--‘There, Mrs. Bennet.’--“My mind, however, is now + made up on the subject; for, having received ordination at Easter, + I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage of + the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis + de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has preferred me to the + valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest + endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her + Ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies + which are instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman, + moreover, I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing + of peace in all families within the reach of my influence; and on + these grounds I flatter myself that my present overtures of + good-will are highly commendable, and that the circumstance of my + being next in the entail of Longbourn estate will be kindly + overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the offered + olive branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the + means of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to + apologize for it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to make + them every possible amends; but of this hereafter. If you should + have no objection to receive me into your house, I propose myself + the satisfaction of waiting on you and your family, Monday, + November 18th, by four o’clock, and shall probably trespass on your + hospitality till the Saturday se’nnight following, which I can do + without any inconvenience, as Lady Catherine is far from objecting + to my occasional absence on a Sunday, provided that some other + clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day. I remain, dear sir, + with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your + well-wisher and friend, + +“WILLIAM COLLINS.” + +“At four o’clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman,” +said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. “He seems to be a most +conscientious and polite young man, upon my word; and, I doubt not, will +prove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so +indulgent as to let him come to us again.” + +“There is some sense in what he says about the girls, however; and, if +he is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to +discourage him.” + +“Though it is difficult,” said Jane, “to guess in what way he can mean +to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his +credit.” + +Elizabeth was chiefly struck with his extraordinary deference for Lady +Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying +his parishioners whenever it were required. + +“He must be an oddity, I think,” said she. “I cannot make him out. There +is something very pompous in his style. And what can he mean by +apologizing for being next in the entail? We cannot suppose he would +help it, if he could. Can he be a sensible man, sir?” + +“No, my dear; I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the +reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his +letter which promises well. I am impatient to see him.” + +“In point of composition,” said Mary, “his letter does not seem +defective. The idea of the olive branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I +think it is well expressed.” + +To Catherine and Lydia neither the letter nor its writer were in any +degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should +come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had +received pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for +their mother, Mr. Collins’s letter had done away much of her ill-will, +and she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure which +astonished her husband and daughters. + +Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great +politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the +ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in need +of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a tall, +heavy-looking young man of five-and-twenty. His air was grave and +stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated +before he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of +daughters, said he had heard much of their beauty, but that, in this +instance, fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did not +doubt her seeing them all in due time well disposed of in marriage. This +gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers; but Mrs. +Bennet, who quarrelled with no compliments, answered most readily,-- + +“You are very kind, sir, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may +prove so; for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so +oddly.” + +“You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.” + +“Ah, sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you +must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with _you_, for such things, +I know, are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates +will go when once they come to be entailed.” + +“I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins, and +could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing +forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies that I come +prepared to admire them. At present I will not say more, but, perhaps, +when we are better acquainted----” + +He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each +other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins’s admiration. The +hall, the dining-room, and all its furniture, were examined and praised; +and his commendation of everything would have touched Mrs. Bennet’s +heart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his +own future property. The dinner, too, in its turn, was highly admired; +and he begged to know to which of his fair cousins the excellence of its +cookery was owing. But here he was set right by Mrs. Bennet, who assured +him, with some asperity, that they were very well able to keep a good +cook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He begged +pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she declared +herself not at all offended; but he continued to apologize for about a +quarter of an hour. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +[Illustration] + +During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants +were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his +guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to +shine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady +Catherine de Bourgh’s attention to his wishes, and consideration for his +comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen +better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him +to more than usual solemnity of manner; and with a most important aspect +he protested that he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in a +person of rank--such affability and condescension, as he had himself +experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to +approve of both the discourses which he had already had the honour of +preaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings, +and had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of +quadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many +people, he knew, but _he_ had never seen anything but affability in her. +She had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she +made not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the +neighbourhood, nor to his leaving his parish occasionally for a week or +two to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to +marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had +once paid him a visit in his humble parsonage, where she had perfectly +approved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed +to suggest some herself,--some shelves in the closets upstairs. + +“That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,” said Mrs. Bennet, “and I +dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies +in general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?” + +“The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane +from Rosings Park, her Ladyship’s residence.” + +“I think you said she was a widow, sir? has she any family?” + +“She has one only daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very +extensive property.” + +“Ah,” cried Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, “then she is better off than +many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she handsome?” + +“She is a most charming young lady, indeed. Lady Catherine herself says +that, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far superior to the +handsomest of her sex; because there is that in her features which marks +the young woman of distinguished birth. 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. Kitty stared at him, and Lydia +exclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he +chose “Fordyce’s Sermons.” Lydia gaped as he opened the volume; and +before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she +interrupted him with,-- + +“Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Philips talks of turning away +Richard? and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me +so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more +about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town.” + +Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr. +Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said,-- + +“I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books +of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes +me, I confess; for certainly there can be nothing so advantageous to +them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin.” + +Then, turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at +backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted +very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs. +Bennet and her daughters apologized most civilly for Lydia’s +interruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would +resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his +young cousin no ill-will, and should never resent her behaviour as any +affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared +for backgammon. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + +[Illustration] + +Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had +been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of +his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and +miserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he +had merely kept the necessary terms without forming at it any useful +acquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up had +given him originally great humility of manner; but it was now a good +deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in +retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected +prosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de +Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he +felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness, +mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a +clergyman, and his right as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of +pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility. + +Having now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended to +marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had +a wife in view, as he meant to choose one of the daughters, if he found +them as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report. +This was his plan of amends--of atonement--for inheriting their father’s +estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and +suitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own +part. + +His plan did not vary on seeing them. Miss Bennet’s lovely face +confirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of what +was due to seniority; and for the first evening _she_ was his settled +choice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a quarter +of an hour’s _tête-à-tête_ with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a +conversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally +to the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress for it might be found at +Longbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general +encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on. “As to +her _younger_ daughters, she could not take upon her to say--she could +not positively answer--but she did not _know_ of any prepossession;--her +_eldest_ daughter she must just mention--she felt it incumbent on her to +hint, was likely to be very soon engaged.” + +Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth--and it was soon +done--done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. Elizabeth, equally +next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course. + +Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have +two daughters married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of +the day before, was now high in her good graces. + +Lydia’s intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten: every sister +except Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them, +at the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him, +and have his library to himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed +him after breakfast, and there he would continue, nominally engaged with +one of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr. +Bennet, with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such +doings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been +always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told +Elizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other room in the +house, he was used to be free from them there: his civility, therefore, +was most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their +walk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact much better fitted for a walker +than a reader, was extremely well pleased to close his large book, and +go. + +In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his +cousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The attention of +the younger ones was then no longer to be gained by _him_. Their eyes +were immediately wandering up the street in quest of the officers, and +nothing less than a very smart bonnet, indeed, or a really new muslin in +a shop window, could recall them. + +But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom +they had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking +with an officer on the other side of the way. The officer was the very +Mr. Denny concerning whose return from London Lydia came to inquire, and +he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the stranger’s air, all +wondered who he could be; and Kitty and Lydia, determined if possible +to find out, led the way across the street, under pretence of wanting +something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained the +pavement, when the two gentlemen, turning back, had reached the same +spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated permission to +introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with him the day +before from town, and, he was happy to say, had accepted a commission in +their corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the young man wanted +only regimentals to make him completely charming. His appearance was +greatly in his favour: he had all the best parts of beauty, a fine +countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction +was followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation--a +readiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the +whole party were still standing and talking together very agreeably, +when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley were +seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the ladies of the group +the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and began the usual +civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and Miss Bennet the +principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to Longbourn on +purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated it with a bow, and +was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they +were suddenly arrested by the sight of the stranger; and Elizabeth +happening to see the countenance of both as they looked at each other, +was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting. Both changed colour, +one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few moments, +touched his hat--a salutation which Mr. Darcy just deigned to return. +What could be the meaning of it? It was impossible to imagine; it was +impossible not to long to know. + +In another minute Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have noticed what +passed, took leave and rode on with his friend. + +Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of +Mr. Philips’s house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia’s +pressing entreaties that they would come in, and even in spite of Mrs. +Philips’s throwing up the parlour window, and loudly seconding the +invitation. + +Mrs. Philips was always glad to see her nieces; and the two eldest, from +their recent absence, were particularly welcome; and she was eagerly +expressing her surprise at their sudden return home, which, as their own +carriage had not fetched them, she should have known nothing about, if +she had not happened to see Mr. Jones’s shopboy in the street, who had +told her that they were not to send any more draughts to Netherfield, +because the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility was claimed +towards Mr. Collins by Jane’s introduction of him. She received him with +her very best politeness, which he returned with as much more, +apologizing for his intrusion, without any previous acquaintance with +her, which he could not help flattering himself, however, might be +justified by his relationship to the young ladies who introduced him to +her notice. Mrs. Philips was quite awed by such an excess of good +breeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon put an end to +by exclamations and inquiries about the other, of whom, however, she +could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that Mr. Denny had +brought him from London, and that he was to have a lieutenant’s +commission in the ----shire. She had been watching him the last hour, +she said, as he walked up and down the street,--and had Mr. Wickham +appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued the occupation; +but unluckily no one passed the windows now except a few of the +officers, who, in comparison with the stranger, were become “stupid, +disagreeable fellows.” Some of them were to dine with the Philipses the +next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr. +Wickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn +would come in the evening. This was agreed to; and Mrs. Philips +protested that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery +tickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such +delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr. +Collins repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured, +with unwearying civility, that they were perfectly needless. + +As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass +between the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either or +both, had they appeared to be wrong, she could no more explain such +behaviour than her sister. + +Mr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by admiring Mrs. +Philips’s manners and politeness. He protested that, except Lady +Catherine and her daughter, he had never seen a more elegant woman; for +she had not only received him with the utmost civility, but had even +pointedly included him in her invitation for the next evening, although +utterly unknown to her before. Something, he supposed, might be +attributed to his connection with them, but yet he had never met with so +much attention in the whole course of his life. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + +[Illustration] + +As no objection was made to the young people’s engagement with their +aunt, and all Mr. Collins’s scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for +a single evening during his visit were most steadily resisted, the coach +conveyed him and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton; and the +girls had the pleasure of hearing, as they entered the drawing-room, +that Mr. Wickham had accepted their uncle’s invitation, and was then in +the house. + +When this information was given, and they had all taken their seats, Mr. +Collins was at leisure to look around him and admire, and he was so much +struck with the size and furniture of the apartment, that he declared he +might almost have supposed himself in the small summer breakfast parlour +at Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey much +gratification; but when Mrs. Philips understood from him what Rosings +was, and who was its proprietor, when she had listened to the +description of only one of Lady Catherine’s drawing-rooms, and found +that the chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all +the force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a comparison +with the housekeeper’s room. + +In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her mansion, +with occasional digressions in praise of his own humble abode, and the +improvements it was receiving, he was happily employed until the +gentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs. Philips a very attentive +listener, whose opinion of his consequence increased with what she +heard, and who was resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as +soon as she could. To the girls, who could not listen to their cousin, +and who had nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine +their own indifferent imitations of china on the mantel-piece, the +interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last, however. +The gentlemen did approach: and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room, +Elizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing him before, nor thinking +of him since, with the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration. The +officers of the ----shire were in general a very creditable, +gentlemanlike set and the best of them were of the present party; but +Mr, Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and +walk, as _they_ were superior to the broad-faced stuffy uncle Philips, +breathing port wine, who followed them into the room. + +[Illustration: + +“The officers of the ----shire” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was +turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated +himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into +conversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, and on the +probability of a rainy season, made her feel that the commonest, +dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered interesting by the +skill of the speaker. + +With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham and the +officers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; to the young +ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a kind +listener in Mrs. Philips, and was, by her watchfulness, most abundantly +supplied with coffee and muffin. + +When the card tables were placed, he had an opportunity of obliging her, +in return, by sitting down to whist. + +“I know little of the game at present,” said he, “but I shall be glad to +improve myself; for in my situation of life----” Mrs. Philips was very +thankful for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason. + +Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he +received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there +seemed danger of Lydia’s engrossing him entirely, for she was a most +determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets, +she soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets +and exclaiming after prizes, to have attention for anyone in particular. +Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore +at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear him, +though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told, +the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even +mention that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly +relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far +Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in +a hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there. + +“About a month,” said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject +drop, added, “he is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I +understand.” + +“Yes,” replied Wickham; “his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten +thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of +giving you certain information on that head than myself--for I have been +connected with his family, in a particular manner, from my infancy.” + +Elizabeth could not but look surprised. + +“You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after +seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting +yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?” + +“As much as I ever wish to be,” cried Elizabeth, warmly. “I have spent +four days in the same house with him, and I think him very +disagreeable.” + +“I have no right to give _my_ opinion,” said Wickham, “as to his being +agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him +too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_ to +be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general +astonish--and, perhaps, you would not express it quite so strongly +anywhere else. Here you are in your own family.” + +“Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in the +neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in +Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will not find +him more favourably spoken of by anyone.” + +“I cannot pretend to be sorry,” said Wickham, after a short +interruption, “that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond +their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The +world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his +high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen.” + +“I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an +ill-tempered man.” + +Wickham only shook his head. + +“I wonder,” said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, “whether he is +likely to be in this country much longer.” + +“I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I +was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will +not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.” + +“Oh no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ +wishes to avoid seeing _me_ he must go. We are not on friendly terms, +and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for +avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world--a sense of +very great ill-usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. +His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men +that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be +in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a +thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been +scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and +everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the +memory of his father.” + +Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with +all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented further inquiry. + +Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the +neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he +had yet seen, and speaking of the latter, especially, with gentle but +very intelligible gallantry. + +“It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,” he added, +“which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I know it to be a +most respectable, agreeable corps; and my friend Denny tempted me +further by his account of their present quarters, and the very great +attentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton had procured them. +Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and +my spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society. +A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have +now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I +was brought up for the church; and I should at this time have been in +possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we +were speaking of just now.” + +“Indeed!” + +“Yes--the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best +living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. +I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, +and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given +elsewhere.” + +“Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth; “but how could _that_ be? How could his +will be disregarded? Why did not you seek legal redress?” + +“There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to +give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the +intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it--or to treat it as a merely +conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim +to it by extravagance, imprudence, in short, anything or nothing. +Certain it is that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I +was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no +less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done +anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm unguarded temper, and I +may perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too +freely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very +different sort of men, and that he hates me.” + +“This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.” + +“Some time or other he _will_ be--but it shall not be by _me_. Till I +can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_.” + +Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than +ever as he expressed them. + +“But what,” said she, after a pause, “can have been his motive? what can +have induced him to behave so cruelly?” + +“A thorough, determined dislike of me--a dislike which I cannot but +attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me +less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father’s uncommon +attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early in life. He had +not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort +of preference which was often given me.” + +“I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked +him, I had not thought so very ill of him--I had supposed him to be +despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of +descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as +this!” + +After a few minutes’ reflection, however, she continued, “I _do_ +remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of +his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition +must be dreadful.” + +“I will not trust myself on the subject,” replied Wickham; “_I_ can +hardly be just to him.” + +Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, “To +treat in such a manner the godson, the friend, the favourite of his +father!” She could have added, “A young man, too, like _you_, whose very +countenance may vouch for your being amiable.” But she contented herself +with--“And one, too, who had probably been his own companion from +childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest +manner.” + +“We were born in the same parish, within the same park; the greatest +part of our youth was passed together: inmates of the same house, +sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _My_ +father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Philips, +appears to do so much credit to; but he gave up everything to be of use +to the late Mr. Darcy, and devoted all his time to the care of the +Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most +intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to +be under the greatest obligations to my father’s active superintendence; +and when, immediately before my father’s death, Mr. Darcy gave him a +voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it +to be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_ as of affection to myself.” + +“How strange!” cried Elizabeth. “How abominable! I wonder that the very +pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you. If from no better +motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest,--for +dishonesty I must call it.” + +“It _is_ wonderful,” replied Wickham; “for almost all his actions may be +traced to pride; and pride has often been his best friend. It has +connected him nearer with virtue than any other feeling. But we are none +of us consistent; and in his behaviour to me there were stronger +impulses even than pride.” + +“Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?” + +“Yes; it has often led him to be liberal and generous; to give his money +freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the +poor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride, for he is very proud of what his +father was, have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to +degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the +Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride, +which, with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and +careful guardian of his sister; and you will hear him generally cried up +as the most attentive and best of brothers.” + +“What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?” + +He shook his head. “I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to +speak ill of a Darcy; but she is too much like her brother,--very, very +proud. As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond +of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is +nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, +and, I understand, highly accomplished. Since her father’s death her +home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her +education.” + +After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not +help reverting once more to the first, and saying,-- + +“I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley. How can Mr. Bingley, +who seems good-humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable, +be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other? Do you +know Mr. Bingley?” + +“Not at all.” + +“He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr. +Darcy is.” + +“Probably not; but Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not +want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth +his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a +very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride +never deserts him; but with the rich he is liberal-minded, just, +sincere, rational, honourable, and, perhaps, agreeable,--allowing +something for fortune and figure.” + +The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round +the other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin +Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips. The usual inquiries as to his success were +made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point; +but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured +her, with much earnest gravity, that it was not of the least importance; +that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not +make herself uneasy. + +“I know very well, madam,” said he, “that when persons sit down to a +card table they must take their chance of these things,--and happily I +am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There +are, undoubtedly, many who could not say the same; but, thanks to Lady +Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding +little matters.” + +Mr. Wickham’s attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for +a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relations +were very intimately acquainted with the family of De Bourgh. + +“Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” she replied, “has very lately given him a +living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her +notice, but he certainly has not known her long.” + +“You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy +were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy.” + +“No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine’s +connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before +yesterday.” + +“Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is +believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates.” + +This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss +Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her +affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already +self-destined to another. + +“Mr. Collins,” said she, “speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her +daughter; but, from some particulars that he has related of her +Ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him; and that, in spite of +her being his patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman.” + +“I believe her to be both in a great degree,” replied Wickham; “I have +not seen her for many years; but I very well remember that I never liked +her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the +reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe +she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from +her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who +chooses that everyone connected with him should have an understanding of +the first class.” + +Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and +they continued talking together with mutual satisfaction till supper put +an end to cards, and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr. +Wickham’s attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise of +Mrs. Philips’s supper party, but his manners recommended him to +everybody. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done +gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could +think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all +the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name as +they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia +talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the +fish she had won; and Mr. Collins, in describing the civility of Mr. and +Mrs. Philips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses +at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing +that he crowded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage +before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “delighted to see their dear friend again” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth related to Jane, the next day, what had passed between Mr. +Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern: she +knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr. +Bingley’s regard; and yet it was not in her nature to question the +veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham. The +possibility of his having really endured such unkindness was enough to +interest all her tender feelings; and nothing therefore remained to be +done but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each, and +throw into the account of accident or mistake whatever could not be +otherwise explained. + +“They have both,” said she, “been deceived, I dare say, in some way or +other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps +misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to +conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them, +without actual blame on either side.” + +“Very true, indeed; and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say in +behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the +business? Do clear _them_, too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of +somebody.” + +“Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my +opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light +it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father’s favourite in such a +manner,--one whom his father had promised to provide for. It is +impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his +character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so +excessively deceived in him? Oh no.” + +“I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley’s being imposed on than that +Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me last +night; names, facts, everything mentioned without ceremony. If it be not +so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks.” + +“It is difficult, indeed--it is distressing. One does not know what to +think.” + +“I beg your pardon;--one knows exactly what to think.” + +But Jane could think with certainty on only one point,--that Mr. +Bingley, if he _had been_ imposed on, would have much to suffer when +the affair became public. + +The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery, where this +conversation passed, by the arrival of some of the very persons of whom +they had been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their +personal invitation for the long expected ball at Netherfield, which was +fixed for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see +their dear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and +repeatedly asked what she had been doing with herself since their +separation. To the rest of the family they paid little attention; +avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, +and nothing at all to the others. They were soon gone again, rising from +their seats with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and +hurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet’s civilities. + +The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every +female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in +compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered by +receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a +ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the +society of her two friends, and the attentions of their brother; and +Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr. +Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of everything in Mr. Darcy’s look +and behaviour. The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia depended +less on any single event, or any particular person; for though they +each, like Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham, +he was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a ball +was, at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her family that she +had no disinclination for it. + +“While I can have my mornings to myself,” said she, “it is enough. I +think it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements. +Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those who +consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for +everybody.” + +Elizabeth’s spirits were so high on the occasion, that though she did +not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not help asking +him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley’s invitation, and if he +did, whether he would think it proper to join in the evening’s +amusement; and she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no +scruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke, +either from the Archbishop or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to +dance. + +“I am by no means of opinion, I assure you,” said he, “that a ball of +this kind, given by a young man of character, to respectable people, can +have any evil tendency; and I am so far from objecting to dancing +myself, that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair +cousins in the course of the evening; and I take this opportunity of +soliciting yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially; a +preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right +cause, and not to any disrespect for her.” + +Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed being +engaged by Wickham for those very dances; and to have Mr. Collins +instead!--her liveliness had been never worse timed. There was no help +for it, however. Mr. Wickham’s happiness and her own was perforce +delayed a little longer, and Mr. Collins’s proposal accepted with as +good a grace as she could. She was not the better pleased with his +gallantry, from the idea it suggested of something more. It now first +struck her, that _she_ was selected from among her sisters as worthy of +being the mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a +quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible visitors. +The idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed his increasing +civilities towards herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a +compliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more astonished than +gratified herself by this effect of her charms, it was not long before +her mother gave her to understand that the probability of their marriage +was exceedingly agreeable to _her_. Elizabeth, however, did not choose +to take the hint, being well aware that a serious dispute must be the +consequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and, +till he did, it was useless to quarrel about him. + +If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the +younger Miss Bennets would have been in a pitiable state at this time; +for, from the day of the invitation to the day of the ball, there was +such a succession of rain as prevented their walking to Meryton once. No +aunt, no officers, no news could be sought after; the very shoe-roses +for Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have found some +trial of her patience in weather which totally suspended the improvement +of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than a dance on +Tuesday could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday +endurable to Kitty and Lydia. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + +[Illustration] + +Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in +vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a +doubt of his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty of +meeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that +might not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than +usual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all +that remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than +might be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose the +dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted, for Mr. Darcy’s +pleasure, in the Bingleys’ invitation to the officers; and though this +was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was +pronounced by his friend Mr. Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and +who told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business +the day before, and was not yet returned; adding, with a significant +smile,-- + +“I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if +he had not wished to avoid a certain gentleman here.” + +This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by +Elizabeth; and, as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for +Wickham’s absence than if her first surmise had been just, every feeling +of displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate +disappointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to +the polite inquiries which he directly afterwards approached to make. +Attention, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She +was resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned away +with a degree of ill-humour which she could not wholly surmount even in +speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality provoked her. + +But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect +of her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her +spirits; and, having told all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she +had not seen for a week, she was soon able to make a voluntary +transition to the oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her +particular notice. The two first dances, however, brought a return of +distress: they were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and +solemn, apologizing instead of attending, and often moving wrong +without being aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a +disagreeable partner for a couple of dances can give. The moment of her +release from him was ecstasy. + +She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of talking of +Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked. When those dances +were over, she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with +her, when she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy, who took +her so much by surprise in his application for her hand, that, without +knowing what she did, she accepted him. He walked away again +immediately, and she was left to fret over her own want of presence of +mind: Charlotte tried to console her. + +“I dare say you will find him very agreeable.” + +“Heaven forbid! _That_ would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find +a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an +evil.” + +When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her +hand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her, in a whisper, not to be a +simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant +in the eyes of a man often times his consequence. Elizabeth made no +answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which +she was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and +reading in her neighbours’ looks their equal amazement in beholding it. +They stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to +imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and, at +first, was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it +would be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, +she made some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again +silent. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time, +with-- + +“It is _your_ turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. _I_ talked about the +dance, and _you_ ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the +room, or the number of couples.” + +He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be +said. + +“Very well; that reply will do for the present. Perhaps, by-and-by, I +may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones; but +_now_ we may be silent.” + +“Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?” + +“Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be +entirely silent for half an hour together; and yet, for the advantage of +_some_, conversation ought to be so arranged as that they may have the +trouble of saying as little as possible.” + +“Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you +imagine that you are gratifying mine?” + +“Both,” replied Elizabeth archly; “for I have always seen a great +similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, +taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say +something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to +posterity with all the _éclat_ of a proverb.” + +“This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,” +said he. “How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot pretend to say. _You_ +think it a faithful portrait, undoubtedly.” + +“I must not decide on my own performance.” + +He made no answer; and they were again silent till they had gone down +the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often +walk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative; and, unable to resist +the temptation, added, “When you met us there the other day, we had just +been forming a new acquaintance.” + +The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of _hauteur_ overspread his +features, but he said not a word; and Elizabeth, though blaming herself +for her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a +constrained manner said,-- + +“Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may insure his +_making_ friends; whether he may be equally capable of _retaining_ them, +is less certain.” + +“He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship,” replied Elizabeth, +with emphasis, “and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all +his life.” + +Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the subject. At +that moment Sir William Lucas appeared close to them, meaning to pass +through the set to the other side of the room; but, on perceiving Mr. +Darcy, he stopped, with a bow of superior courtesy, to compliment him on +his dancing and his partner. + +“I have been most highly gratified, indeed, my dear sir; such very +superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong to the +first circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not +disgrace you: and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated, +especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Miss Eliza (glancing +at her sister and Bingley), shall take place. What congratulations will +then flow in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy;--but let me not interrupt you, sir. +You will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of +that young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.” + +[Illustration: + +“Such very superior dancing is not +often seen.” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but Sir +William’s allusion to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his +eyes were directed, with a very serious expression, towards Bingley and +Jane, who were dancing together. Recovering himself, however, shortly, +he turned to his partner, and said,-- + +“Sir William’s interruption has made me forget what we were talking +of.” + +“I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have +interrupted any two people in the room who had less to say for +themselves. We have tried two or three subjects already without success, +and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.” + +“What think you of books?” said he, smiling. + +“Books--oh no!--I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same +feelings.” + +“I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be +no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.” + +“No--I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of +something else.” + +“The _present_ always occupies you in such scenes--does it?” said he, +with a look of doubt. + +“Yes, always,” she replied, without knowing what she said; for her +thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared +by her suddenly exclaiming, “I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, +that you hardly ever forgave;--that your resentment, once created, was +unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its _being +created_?” + +“I am,” said he, with a firm voice. + +“And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?” + +“I hope not.” + +“It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, +to be secure of judging properly at first.” + +“May I ask to what these questions tend?” + +“Merely to the illustration of _your_ character,” said she, endeavouring +to shake off her gravity. “I am trying to make it out.” + +“And what is your success?” + +She shook her head. “I do not get on at all. I hear such different +accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.” + +“I can readily believe,” answered he, gravely, “that reports may vary +greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were +not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to +fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.” + +“But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another +opportunity.” + +“I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” he coldly replied. +She said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in +silence; on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree; for +in Darcy’s breast there was a tolerably powerful feeling towards her, +which soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against +another. + +They had not long separated when Miss Bingley came towards her, and, +with an expression of civil disdain, thus accosted her,-- + +“So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George Wickham? +Your sister has been talking to me about him, and asking me a thousand +questions; and I find that the young man forgot to tell you, among his +other communications, that he was the son of old Wickham, the late Mr. +Darcy’s steward. Let me recommend you, however, as a friend, not to give +implicit confidence to all his assertions; for, as to Mr. Darcy’s using +him ill, it is perfectly false: for, on the contrary, he has been always +remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated Mr. Darcy in a +most infamous manner. I do not know the particulars, but I know very +well that Mr. Darcy is not in the least to blame; that he cannot bear +to hear George Wickham mentioned; and that though my brother thought he +could not well avoid including him in his invitation to the officers, he +was excessively glad to find that he had taken himself out of the way. +His coming into the country at all is a most insolent thing, indeed, and +I wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you, Miss Eliza, for this +discovery of your favourite’s guilt; but really, considering his +descent, one could not expect much better.” + +“His guilt and his descent appear, by your account, to be the same,” +said Elizabeth, angrily; “for I have heard you accuse him of nothing +worse than of being the son of Mr. Darcy’s steward, and of _that_, I can +assure you, he informed me himself.” + +“I beg your pardon,” replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a sneer. +“Excuse my interference; it was kindly meant.” + +“Insolent girl!” said Elizabeth to herself. “You are much mistaken if +you expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as this. I see +nothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the malice of Mr. +Darcy.” She then sought her eldest sister, who had undertaken to make +inquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane met her with a smile of +such sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently +marked how well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the evening. +Elizabeth instantly read her feelings; and, at that moment, solicitude +for Wickham, resentment against his enemies, and everything else, gave +way before the hope of Jane’s being in the fairest way for happiness. + +“I want to know,” said she, with a countenance no less smiling than her +sister’s, “what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But perhaps you have +been too pleasantly engaged to think of any third person, in which case +you may be sure of my pardon.” + +“No,” replied Jane, “I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing +satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of his +history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which have +principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the good conduct, +the probity and honour, of his friend, and is perfectly convinced that +Mr. Wickham has deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he has +received; and I am sorry to say that by his account, as well as his +sister’s, Mr. Wickham is by no means a respectable young man. I am +afraid he has been very imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy’s +regard.” + +“Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself.” + +“No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.” + +“This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am +perfectly satisfied. But what does he say of the living?” + +“He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has heard +them from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it was left to +him _conditionally_ only.” + +“I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley’s sincerity,” said Elizabeth warmly, +“but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances only. Mr. +Bingley’s defence of his friend was a very able one, I dare say; but +since he is unacquainted with several parts of the story, and has learnt +the rest from that friend himself, I shall venture still to think of +both gentlemen as I did before.” + +She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each, and on +which there could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth listened with +delight to the happy though modest hopes which Jane entertained of +Bingley’s regard, and said all in her power to heighten her confidence +in it. On their being joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew +to Miss Lucas; to whose inquiry after the pleasantness of her last +partner she had scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them, +and told her with great exultation, that he had just been so fortunate +as to make a most important discovery. + +“I have found out,” said he, “by a singular accident, that there is now +in the room a near relation to my patroness. I happened to overhear the +gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who does the honours of +this house the names of his cousin Miss De Bourgh, and of her mother, +Lady Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would +have thought of my meeting with--perhaps--a nephew of Lady Catherine de +Bourgh in this assembly! I am most thankful that the discovery is made +in time for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to do, +and trust he will excuse my not having done it before. My total +ignorance of the connection must plead my apology.” + +“You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy?” + +“Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it earlier. +I believe him to be Lady Catherine’s _nephew_. It will be in my power to +assure him that her Ladyship was quite well yesterday se’nnight.” + +Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme; assuring him +that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without introduction as +an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment to his aunt; that it +was not in the least necessary there should be any notice on either +side, and that if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in +consequence, to begin the acquaintance. Mr. Collins listened to her with +the determined air of following his own inclination, and when she ceased +speaking, replied thus,-- + +“My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world of your +excellent judgment in all matters within the scope of your +understanding, but permit me to say that there must be a wide difference +between the established forms of ceremony amongst the laity and those +which regulate the clergy; for, give me leave to observe that I consider +the clerical office as equal in point of dignity with the highest rank +in the kingdom--provided that a proper humility of behaviour is at the +same time maintained. You must, therefore, allow me to follow the +dictates of my conscience on this occasion, which lead me to perform +what I look on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to profit by +your advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant guide, +though in the case before us I consider myself more fitted by education +and habitual study to decide on what is right than a young lady like +yourself;” and with a low bow he left her to attack Mr. Darcy, whose +reception of his advances she eagerly watched, and whose astonishment at +being so addressed was very evident. Her cousin prefaced his speech with +a solemn bow, and though she could not hear a word of it, she felt as if +hearing it all, and saw in the motion of his lips the words “apology,” +“Hunsford,” and “Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” It vexed her to see him +expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him with +unrestrained wonder; and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him to speak, +replied with an air of distant civility. Mr. Collins, however, was not +discouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy’s contempt seemed +abundantly increasing with the length of his second speech; and at the +end of it he only made him a slight bow, and moved another way: Mr. +Collins then returned to Elizabeth. + +“I have no reason, I assure you,” said he, “to be dissatisfied with my +reception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the attention. He answered +me with the utmost civility, and even paid me the compliment of saying, +that he was so well convinced of Lady Catherine’s discernment as to be +certain she could never bestow a favour unworthily. It was really a very +handsome thought. Upon the whole, I am much pleased with him.” + +As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she turned +her attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley; and the +train of agreeable reflections which her observations gave birth to made +her perhaps almost as happy as Jane. She saw her in idea settled in that +very house, in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection could +bestow; and she felt capable, under such circumstances, of endeavouring +even to like Bingley’s two sisters. Her mother’s thoughts she plainly +saw were bent the same way, and she determined not to venture near her, +lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to supper, therefore, +she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which placed them within +one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to find that her mother was +talking to that one person (Lady Lucas) freely, openly, and of nothing +else but of her expectation that Jane would be soon married to Mr. +Bingley. It was an animating subject, and Mrs. Bennet seemed incapable +of fatigue while enumerating the advantages of the match. His being such +a charming young man, and so rich, and living but three miles from them, +were the first points of self-gratulation; and then it was such a +comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of Jane, and to be +certain that they must desire the connection as much as she could do. It +was, moreover, such a promising thing for her younger daughters, as +Jane’s marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of other rich men; +and, lastly, it was so pleasant at her time of life to be able to +consign her single daughters to the care of their sister, that she might +not be obliged to go into company more than she liked. It was necessary +to make this circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on such +occasions it is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs. +Bennet to find comfort in staying at home at any period of her life. She +concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be equally +fortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing there was no +chance of it. + +In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her mother’s +words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible +whisper; for to her inexpressible vexation she could perceive that the +chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to them. Her +mother only scolded her for being nonsensical. + +“What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am +sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say +nothing _he_ may not like to hear.” + +“For heaven’s sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be to you +to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to his friend by +so doing.” + +Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her mother would +talk of her views in the same intelligible tone. Elizabeth blushed and +blushed again with shame and vexation. She could not help frequently +glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though every glance convinced her of what +she dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her mother, she was +convinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression +of his face changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and +steady gravity. + +At length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady Lucas, who +had been long yawning at the repetition of delights which she saw no +likelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts of cold ham and chicken. +Elizabeth now began to revive. But not long was the interval of +tranquillity; for when supper was over, singing was talked of, and she +had the mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty, +preparing to oblige the company. By many significant looks and silent +entreaties did she endeavour to prevent such a proof of +complaisance,--but in vain; Mary would not understand them; such an +opportunity of exhibiting was delightful to her, and she began her song. +Elizabeth’s eyes were fixed on her, with most painful sensations; and +she watched her progress through the several stanzas with an impatience +which was very ill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving +amongst the thanks of the table the hint of a hope that she might be +prevailed on to favour them again, after the pause of half a minute +began another. Mary’s powers were by no means fitted for such a display; +her voice was weak, and her manner affected. Elizabeth was in agonies. +She looked at Jane to see how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly +talking to Bingley. She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making +signs of derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued, however, +impenetrably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his +interference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the hint, +and, when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud,-- + +“That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough. +Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit.” + +Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted; and +Elizabeth, sorry for her, and sorry for her father’s speech, was afraid +her anxiety had done no good. Others of the party were now applied to. + +“If I,” said Mr. Collins, “were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I +should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an +air; for I consider music as a very innocent diversion, and perfectly +compatible with the profession of a clergyman. I do not mean, however, +to assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time to +music, for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The +rector of a parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make such +an agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not +offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time +that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care +and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making +as comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light importance +that he should have attentive and conciliatory manners towards +everybody, especially towards those to whom he owes his preferment. I +cannot acquit him of that duty; nor could I think well of the man who +should omit an occasion of testifying his respect towards anybody +connected with the family.” And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded +his speech, which had been spoken so loud as to be heard by half the +room. Many stared--many smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr. +Bennet himself, while his wife seriously commended Mr. Collins for +having spoken so sensibly, and observed, in a half-whisper to Lady +Lucas, that he was a remarkably clever, good kind of young man. + +To Elizabeth it appeared, that had her family made an agreement to +expose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it would +have been impossible for them to play their parts with more spirit, or +finer success; and happy did she think it for Bingley and her sister +that some of the exhibition had escaped his notice, and that his +feelings were not of a sort to be much distressed by the folly which he +must have witnessed. That his two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should +have such an opportunity of ridiculing her relations was bad enough; and +she could not determine whether the silent contempt of the gentleman, or +the insolent smiles of the ladies, were more intolerable. + +The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was teased by +Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her side; and though he +could not prevail with her to dance with him again, put it out of her +power to dance with others. In vain did she entreat him to stand up with +somebody else, and offered to introduce him to any young lady in the +room. He assured her that, as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent +to it; that his chief object was, by delicate attentions, to recommend +himself to her; and that he should therefore make a point of remaining +close to her the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a +project. She owed her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who +often joined them, and good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins’s conversation +to herself. + +She was at least free from the offence of Mr. Darcy’s further notice: +though often standing within a very short distance of her, quite +disengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She felt it to be the +probable consequence of her allusions to Mr. Wickham, and rejoiced in +it. + +The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart; and by a +manœuvre of Mrs. Bennet had to wait for their carriage a quarter of an +hour after everybody else was gone, which gave them time to see how +heartily they were wished away by some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her +sister scarcely opened their mouths except to complain of fatigue, and +were evidently impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed +every attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and, by so doing, threw a +languor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by the long +speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr. Bingley and his +sisters on the elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and +politeness which had marked their behaviour to their guests. Darcy said +nothing at all. Mr. Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene. +Mr. Bingley and Jane were standing together a little detached from the +rest, and talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a +silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was too +much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of “Lord, +how tired I am!” accompanied by a violent yawn. + +When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly +civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn; and +addressed herself particularly to Mr. Bingley, to assure him how happy +he would make them, by eating a family dinner with them at any time, +without the ceremony of a formal invitation. Bingley was all grateful +pleasure; and he readily engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of +waiting on her after his return from London, whither he was obliged to +go the next day for a short time. + +Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied; and quitted the house under the +delightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary preparations of +settlements, new carriages, and wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly +see her daughter settled at Netherfield in the course of three or four +months. Of having another daughter married to Mr. Collins she thought +with equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal, pleasure. +Elizabeth was the least dear to her of all her children; and though the +man and the match were quite good enough for _her_, the worth of each +was eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “to assure you in the most animated language” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + +[Illustration] + +The next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his +declaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of time, as +his leave of absence extended only to the following Saturday, and having +no feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at the +moment, he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all the +observances which he supposed a regular part of the business. On finding +Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together, soon +after breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words,-- + +“May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth, +when I solicit for the honour of a private audience with her in the +course of this morning?” + +Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise, Mrs. +Bennet instantly answered,-- + +“Oh dear! Yes, certainly. I am sure Lizzy will be very happy--I am sure +she can have no objection. Come, Kitty, I want you upstairs.” And +gathering her work together, she was hastening away, when Elizabeth +called out,-- + +“Dear ma’am, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must excuse +me. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not hear. I am +going away myself.” + +“No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you will stay where you are.” And +upon Elizabeth’s seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about +to escape, she added, “Lizzy, I _insist_ upon your staying and hearing +Mr. Collins.” + +Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction; and a moment’s +consideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to get it +over as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down again, and tried +to conceal, by incessant employment, the feelings which were divided +between distress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as +soon as they were gone, Mr. Collins began,-- + +“Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from +doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You +would have been less amiable in my eyes had there _not_ been this little +unwillingness; but allow me to assure you that I have your respected +mother’s permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the purport +of my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to +dissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as +soon as I entered the house I singled you out as the companion of my +future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this +subject, perhaps it will be advisable for me to state my reasons for +marrying--and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with the design +of selecting a wife, as I certainly did.” + +The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run away +with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing that she could not +use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him farther, and +he continued,-- + +“My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for +every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example +of matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am convinced it will add +very greatly to my happiness; and, thirdly, which perhaps I ought to +have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and +recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling +patroness. Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked +too!) on this subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I +left Hunsford,--between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was +arranging Miss De Bourgh’s footstool,--that she said, ‘Mr. Collins, you +must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose a +gentlewoman for _my_ sake, and for your _own_; let her be an active, +useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small +income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as +you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.’ Allow me, by the +way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice and +kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the +advantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond +anything I can describe; and your wit and vivacity, I think, must be +acceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and respect +which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general +intention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my views +were directed to Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I +assure you there are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that +being, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honoured +father (who, however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy +myself without resolving to choose a wife from among his daughters, that +the loss to them might be as little as possible when the melancholy +event takes place--which, however, as I have already said, may not be +for several years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and I +flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And now nothing +remains for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the +violence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and +shall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well +aware that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds +in the 4 per cents., which will not be yours till after your mother’s +decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head, +therefore, I shall be uniformly silent: and you may assure yourself that +no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married.” + +It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now. + +“You are too hasty, sir,” she cried. “You forget that I have made no +answer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my thanks for +the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour of +your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than decline +them.” + +“I am not now to learn,” replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the +hand, “that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the +man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their +favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second or even a +third time. I am, therefore, by no means discouraged by what you have +just said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.” + +“Upon my word, sir,” cried Elizabeth, “your hope is rather an +extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not +one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so +daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second +time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal. You could not make _me_ +happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who +would make _you_ so. Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I +am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the +situation.” + +“Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,” said Mr. Collins, +very gravely--“but I cannot imagine that her Ladyship would at all +disapprove of you. And you may be certain that when I have the honour of +seeing her again I shall speak in the highest terms of your modesty, +economy, and other amiable qualifications.” + +“Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You must +give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment of +believing what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by +refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise. +In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your +feelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn +estate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach. This matter may be +considered, therefore, as finally settled.” And rising as she thus +spoke, she would have quitted the room, had not Mr. Collins thus +addressed her,-- + +“When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the subject, I +shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given +me; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present, because I +know it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on the +first application, and, perhaps, you have even now said as much to +encourage my suit as would be consistent with the true delicacy of the +female character.” + +“Really, Mr. Collins,” cried Elizabeth, with some warmth, “you puzzle me +exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form +of encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as +may convince you of its being one.” + +“You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your +refusal of my addresses are merely words of course. My reasons for +believing it are briefly these:--It does not appear to me that my hand +is unworthy of your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer +would be any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my +connections with the family of De Bourgh, and my relationship to your +own, are circumstances highly in my favour; and you should take it into +further consideration that, in spite of your manifold attractions, it is +by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you. +Your portion is unhappily so small, that it will in all likelihood undo +the effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must, +therefore, conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me, I +shall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by +suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females.” + +“I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to that kind +of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I would +rather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere. I thank you +again and again for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but +to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect +forbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant +female intending to plague you, but as a rational creature speaking the +truth from her heart.” + +“You are uniformly charming!” cried he, with an air of awkward +gallantry; “and I am persuaded that, when sanctioned by the express +authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of +being acceptable.” + +To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would make no +reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, that if he +persisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering +encouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered +in such a manner as must be decisive, and whose behaviour at least could +not be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + +[Illustration] + +Mr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his +successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule +to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open the +door and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she +entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and herself in +warm terms on the happy prospect of their nearer connection. Mr. Collins +received and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then +proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result +of which he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the +refusal which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow +from her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her character. + +This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet: she would have been +glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage +him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared not believe it, +and could not help saying so. + +“But depend upon it, Mr. Collins,” she added, “that Lizzy shall be +brought to reason. I will speak to her about it myself directly. She is +a very headstrong, foolish girl, and does not know her own interest; but +I will _make_ her know it.” + +“Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,” cried Mr. Collins; “but if she +is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would +altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who +naturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If, therefore, she +actually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not to +force her into accepting me, because, if liable to such defects of +temper, she could not contribute much to my felicity.” + +“Sir, you quite misunderstand me,” said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. “Lizzy is +only headstrong in such matters as these. In everything else she is as +good-natured a girl as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and +we shall very soon settle it with her, I am sure.” + +She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her +husband, called out, as she entered the library,-- + +“Oh, Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. +You must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will +not have him; and if you do not make haste he will change his mind and +not have _her_.” + +Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them +on her face with a calm unconcern, which was not in the least altered by +her communication. + +“I have not the pleasure of understanding you,” said he, when she had +finished her speech. “Of what are you talking?” + +“Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins, +and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy.” + +“And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems a hopeless business.” + +“Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her +marrying him.” + +“Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion.” + +Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the +library. + +“Come here, child,” cried her father as she appeared. “I have sent for +you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made +you an offer of marriage. Is it true?” + +Elizabeth replied that it was. + +“Very well--and this offer of marriage you have refused?” + +“I have, sir.” + +“Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your +accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?” + +“Yes, or I will never see her again.” + +“An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must +be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you +again if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again +if you _do_.” + +Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning; +but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the +affair as she wished, was excessively disappointed. + +“What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, by talking in this way? You promised me +to _insist_ upon her marrying him.” + +“My dear,” replied her husband, “I have two small favours to request. +First, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the +present occasion; and, secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the +library to myself as soon as may be.” + +Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did +Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again; +coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane in +her interest, but Jane, with all possible mildness, declined +interfering; and Elizabeth, sometimes with real earnestness, and +sometimes with playful gaiety, replied to her attacks. Though her manner +varied, however, her determination never did. + +Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed. +He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what motive his cousin +could refuse him; and though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other +way. His regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her +deserving her mother’s reproach prevented his feeling any regret. + +While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend +the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to +her, cried in a half whisper, “I am glad you are come, for there is such +fun here! What do you think has happened this morning? Mr. Collins has +made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him.” + +[Illustration: + + “they entered the breakfast room” +] + +Charlotte had hardly time to answer before they were joined by Kitty, +who came to tell the same news; and no sooner had they entered the +breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on +the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating +her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of her +family. “Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,” she added, in a melancholy tone; +“for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me; I am cruelly used, +nobody feels for my poor nerves.” + +Charlotte’s reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth. + +“Ay, there she comes,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “looking as unconcerned as +may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided she +can have her own way. But I tell you what, Miss Lizzy, if you take it +into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way, +you will never get a husband at all--and I am sure I do not know who is +to maintain you when your father is dead. _I_ shall not be able to keep +you--and so I warn you. I have done with you from this very day. I told +you in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you again, +and you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking +to undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in talking +to anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have +no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it +is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied.” + +Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that any +attempt to reason with or soothe her would only increase the irritation. +She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of them till +they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered with an air more stately +than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to the girls,-- + +“Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and +let Mr. Collins and me have a little conversation together.” + +Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but +Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte, +detained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after +herself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little +curiosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending +not to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet thus began the projected +conversation:-- + +“Oh, Mr. Collins!” + +“My dear madam,” replied he, “let us be for ever silent on this point. +Far be it from me,” he presently continued, in a voice that marked his +displeasure, “to resent the behaviour of your daughter. Resignation to +inevitable evils is the duty of us all: the peculiar duty of a young man +who has been so fortunate as I have been, in early preferment; and, I +trust, I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt of my +positive happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with her hand; for I +have often observed, that resignation is never so perfect as when the +blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our estimation. +You will not, I hope, consider me as showing any disrespect to your +family, my dear madam, by thus withdrawing my pretensions to your +daughter’s favour, without having paid yourself and Mr. Bennet the +compliment of requesting you to interpose your authority in my behalf. +My conduct may, I fear, be objectionable in having accepted my +dismission from your daughter’s lips instead of your own; but we are all +liable to error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair. +My object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with due +consideration for the advantage of all your family; and if my _manner_ +has been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to apologize.” + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + +[Illustration] + +The discussion of Mr. Collins’s offer was now nearly at an end, and +Elizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings necessarily +attending it, and occasionally from some peevish allusion of her mother. +As for the gentleman himself, _his_ feelings were chiefly expressed, not +by embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid her, but by +stiffness of manner and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke to +her; and the assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of +himself were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose +civility in listening to him was a seasonable relief to them all, and +especially to her friend. + +The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet’s ill humour or ill +health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth +had hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did +not appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on +Saturday, and to Saturday he still meant to stay. + +After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton, to inquire if Mr. Wickham +were returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball. +He joined them on their entering the town, and attended them to their +aunt’s, where his regret and vexation and the concern of everybody were +well talked over. To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged +that the necessity of his absence _had_ been self-imposed. + +“I found,” said he, “as the time drew near, that I had better not meet +Mr. Darcy;--that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so +many hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes +might arise unpleasant to more than myself.” + +She highly approved his forbearance; and they had leisure for a full +discussion of it, and for all the commendations which they civilly +bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with +them to Longbourn, and during the walk he particularly attended to her. +His accompanying them was a double advantage: she felt all the +compliment it offered to herself; and it was most acceptable as an +occasion of introducing him to her father and mother. + +[Illustration: “Walked back with them” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came +from Netherfield, and was opened immediately. The envelope contained a +sheet of elegant, little, hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady’s +fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister’s countenance change as +she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some particular passages. +Jane recollected herself soon; and putting the letter away, tried to +join, with her usual cheerfulness, in the general conversation: but +Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention +even from Wickham; and no sooner had he and his companion taken leave, +than a glance from Jane invited her to follow her upstairs. When they +had gained their own room, Jane, taking out her letter, said, “This is +from Caroline Bingley: what it contains has surprised me a good deal. +The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their way +to town; and without any intention of coming back again. You shall hear +what she says.” + +She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information +of their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly, +and of their meaning to dine that day in Grosvenor Street, where Mr. +Hurst had a house. The next was in these words:--“‘I do not pretend to +regret anything I shall leave in Hertfordshire except your society, my +dearest friend; but we will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many +returns of that delightful intercourse we have known, and in the +meanwhile may lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most +unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that.’” To these +high-flown expressions Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of +distrust; and though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she +saw nothing in it really to lament: it was not to be supposed that their +absence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bingley’s being there; and as +to the loss of their society, she was persuaded that Jane must soon +cease to regard it in the enjoyment of his. + +“It is unlucky,” said she, after a short pause, “that you should not be +able to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not +hope that the period of future happiness, to which Miss Bingley looks +forward, may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful +intercourse you have known as friends will be renewed with yet greater +satisfaction as sisters? Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by +them.” + +“Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into +Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you. + +“‘When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which +took him to London might be concluded in three or four days; but as we +are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when +Charles gets to town he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have +determined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend +his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintance are +already there for the winter: I wish I could hear that you, my dearest +friend, had any intention of making one in the crowd, but of that I +despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in +the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your beaux +will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the three of +whom we shall deprive you.’ + +“It is evident by this,” added Jane, “that he comes back no more this +winter.” + +“It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean he _should_.” + +“Why will you think so? It must be his own doing; he is his own master. +But you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage which +particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_. ‘Mr. Darcy is +impatient to see his sister; and to confess the truth, _we_ are scarcely +less eager to meet her again. I really do not think Georgiana Darcy has +her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments; and the affection +she inspires in Louisa and myself is heightened into something still +more interesting from the hope we dare to entertain of her being +hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before mentioned to +you my feelings on this subject, but I will not leave the country +without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them +unreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already; he will have +frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing; her +relations all wish the connection as much as his own; and a sister’s +partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most +capable of engaging any woman’s heart. With all these circumstances to +favour an attachment, and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest +Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness +of so many?’ What think you of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?” said +Jane, as she finished it. “Is it not clear enough? Does it not expressly +declare that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; +that she is perfectly convinced of her brother’s indifference; and that +if she suspects the nature of my feelings for him she means (most +kindly!) to put me on my guard. Can there be any other opinion on the +subject?” + +“Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear it?” + +“Most willingly.” + +“You shall have it in a few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is +in love with you and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him to +town in the hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he +does not care about you.” + +Jane shook her head. + +“Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. No one who has ever seen you +together can doubt his affection; Miss Bingley, I am sure, cannot: she +is not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr. +Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the +case is this:--we are not rich enough or grand enough for them; and she +is the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion +that when there has been _one_ inter-marriage, she may have less trouble +in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I +dare say it would succeed if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But, my +dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that, because Miss Bingley +tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest +degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on +Tuesday; or that it will be in her power to persuade him that, instead +of being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend.” + +“If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,” replied Jane, “your +representation of all this might make me quite easy. But I know the +foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving +anyone; and all that I can hope in this case is, that she is deceived +herself.” + +“That is right. You could not have started a more happy idea, since you +will not take comfort in mine: believe her to be deceived, by all means. +You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer.” + +“But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in +accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry +elsewhere?” + +“You must decide for yourself,” said Elizabeth; “and if, upon mature +deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is +more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you, +by all means, to refuse him.” + +“How can you talk so?” said Jane, faintly smiling; “you must know, that, +though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could +not hesitate.” + +“I did not think you would; and that being the case, I cannot consider +your situation with much compassion.” + +“But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be +required. A thousand things may arise in six months.” + +The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost +contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline’s +interested wishes; and she could not for a moment suppose that those +wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man +so totally independent of everyone. + +She represented to her sister, as forcibly as possible, what she felt on +the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect. +Jane’s temper was not desponding; and she was gradually led to hope, +though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that +Bingley would return to Netherfield, and answer every wish of her heart. + +They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the +family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman’s conduct; +but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern, +and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen +to go away just as they were all getting so intimate together. After +lamenting it, however, at some length, she had the consolation of +thinking that Mr. Bingley would be soon down again, and soon dining at +Longbourn; and the conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration, +that, though he had been invited only to a family dinner, she would take +care to have two full courses. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + +[Illustration] + +The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases; and again, during the +chief of the day, was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins. +Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. “It keeps him in good +humour,” said she, “and I am more obliged to you than I can express.” + +Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and +that it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was +very amiable; but Charlotte’s kindness extended farther than Elizabeth +had any conception of:--its object was nothing less than to secure her +from any return of Mr. Collins’s addresses, by engaging them towards +herself. Such was Miss Lucas’s scheme; and appearances were so +favourable, that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost +sure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon. +But here she did injustice to the fire and independence of his +character; for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next +morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw +himself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins, +from a conviction that, if they saw him depart, they could not fail to +conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known +till its success could be known likewise; for, though feeling almost +secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging, +he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday. His +reception, however, was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas +perceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and +instantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had +she dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there. + +In as short a time as Mr. Collins’s long speeches would allow, +everything was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as +they entered the house, he earnestly entreated her to name the day that +was to make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must +be waived for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with +his happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature must +guard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its +continuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and +disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that +establishment were gained. + +Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent; +and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins’s present +circumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom +they could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were +exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate, with more +interest than the matter had ever + +[Illustration: + + “So much love and eloquence” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +excited before, how many years longer Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and +Sir William gave it as his decided opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins +should be in possession of the Longbourn estate, it would be highly +expedient that both he and his wife should make their appearance at St. +James’s. The whole family in short were properly overjoyed on the +occasion. The younger girls formed hopes of _coming out_ a year or two +sooner than they might otherwise have done; and the boys were relieved +from their apprehension of Charlotte’s dying an old maid. Charlotte +herself was tolerably composed. She had gained her point, and had time +to consider of it. Her reflections were in general satisfactory. Mr. +Collins, to be sure, was neither sensible nor agreeable: his society was +irksome, and his attachment to her must be imaginary. But still he would +be her husband. Without thinking highly either of men or of matrimony, +marriage had always been her object: it was the only honourable +provision for well-educated young women of small fortune, and, however +uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest preservative +from want. This preservative she had now obtained; and at the age of +twenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, she felt all the good +luck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business was the +surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she +valued beyond that of any other person. Elizabeth would wonder, and +probably would blame her; and though her resolution was not to be +shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such a disapprobation. She resolved +to give her the information herself; and therefore charged Mr. Collins, +when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had +passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very +dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the +curiosity excited by his long absence burst forth in such very direct +questions on his return, as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was +at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to +publish his prosperous love. + +As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of +the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies +moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet, with great politeness and +cordiality, said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, +whenever his other engagements might allow him to visit them. + +“My dear madam,” he replied, “this invitation is particularly +gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you +may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as +possible.” + +They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for +so speedy a return, immediately said,-- + +“But is there not danger of Lady Catherine’s disapprobation here, my +good sir? You had better neglect your relations than run the risk of +offending your patroness.” + +“My dear sir,” replied Mr. Collins, “I am particularly obliged to you +for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so +material a step without her Ladyship’s concurrence.” + +“You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk anything rather than her +displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us +again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home, +and be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence.” + +“Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such +affectionate attention; and, depend upon it, you will speedily receive +from me a letter of thanks for this as well as for every other mark of +your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, +though my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall +now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting +my cousin Elizabeth.” + +With proper civilities, the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally +surprised to find that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished +to understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of +her younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him. +She rated his abilities much higher than any of the others: there was a +solidity in his reflections which often struck her; and though by no +means so clever as herself, she thought that, if encouraged to read and +improve himself by such an example as hers, he might become a very +agreeable companion. But on the following morning every hope of this +kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a +private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before. + +The possibility of Mr. Collins’s fancying himself in love with her +friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two: but +that Charlotte could encourage him seemed almost as far from possibility +as that she could encourage him herself; and her astonishment was +consequently so great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and +she could not help crying out,-- + +“Engaged to Mr. Collins! my dear Charlotte, impossible!” + +The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her +story gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a +reproach; though, as it was no more than she expected, she soon regained +her composure, and calmly replied,-- + +“Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you think it incredible +that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman’s good opinion, +because he was not so happy as to succeed with you?” + +But Elizabeth had now recollected herself; and, making a strong effort +for it, was able to assure her, with tolerable firmness, that the +prospect of their relationship was highly grateful to her, and that she +wished her all imaginable happiness. + +“I see what you are feeling,” replied Charlotte; “you must be surprised, +very much surprised, so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to marry you. +But when you have had time to think it all over, I hope you will be +satisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic, you know. I never +was. I ask only a comfortable home; and, considering Mr. Collins’s +character, connections, and situation in life, I am convinced that my +chance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on +entering the marriage state.” + +Elizabeth quietly answered “undoubtedly;” and, after an awkward pause, +they returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not stay much +longer; and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard. It +was a long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so +unsuitable a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins’s making two offers +of marriage within three days was nothing in comparison of his being now +accepted. She had always felt that Charlotte’s opinion of matrimony was +not exactly like her own; but she could not have supposed it possible +that, when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better +feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte, the wife of Mr. Collins, was a +most humiliating picture! And to the pang of a friend disgracing +herself, and sunk in her esteem, was added the distressing conviction +that it was impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot +she had chosen. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “Protested he must be entirely mistaken.” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what +she had heard, and doubting whether she was authorized to mention it, +when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter to +announce her engagement to the family. With many compliments to them, +and much self-gratulation on the prospect of a connection between the +houses, he unfolded the matter,--to an audience not merely wondering, +but incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than +politeness, protested he must be entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always +unguarded and often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed,-- + +“Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? Do not you know +that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?” + +Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne +without anger such treatment: but Sir William’s good-breeding carried +him through it all; and though he begged leave to be positive as to the +truth of his information, he listened to all their impertinence with the +most forbearing courtesy. + +Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so unpleasant +a situation, now put herself forward to confirm his account, by +mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte herself; and +endeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her mother and sisters, +by the earnestness of her congratulations to Sir William, in which she +was readily joined by Jane, and by making a variety of remarks on the +happiness that might be expected from the match, the excellent character +of Mr. Collins, and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London. + +Mrs. Bennet was, in fact, too much overpowered to say a great deal while +Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than her feelings +found a rapid vent. In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving +the whole of the matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins +had been taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be happy +together; and, fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two +inferences, however, were plainly deduced from the whole: one, that +Elizabeth was the real cause of all the mischief; and the other, that +she herself had been barbarously used by them all; and on these two +points she principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could +console and nothing appease her. Nor did that day wear out her +resentment. A week elapsed before she could see Elizabeth without +scolding her: a month passed away before she could speak to Sir William +or Lady Lucas without being rude; and many months were gone before she +could at all forgive their daughter. + +Mr. Bennet’s emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion, and such +as he did experience he pronounced to be of a most agreeable sort; for +it gratified him, he said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had +been used to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and +more foolish than his daughter! + +Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match: but she said +less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for their happiness; +nor could Elizabeth persuade her to consider it as improbable. Kitty and +Lydia were far from envying Miss Lucas, for Mr. Collins was only a +clergyman; and it affected them in no other way than as a piece of news +to spread at Meryton. + +Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to retort on +Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well married; and she +called at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to say how happy she was, +though Mrs. Bennet’s sour looks and ill-natured remarks might have been +enough to drive happiness away. + +Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept them +mutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded that no +real confidence could ever subsist between them again. Her +disappointment in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her +sister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her opinion could +never be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious, as +Bingley had now been gone a week, and nothing was heard of his return. + +Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting +the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised +letter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to their +father, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a +twelve-month’s abode in the family might have prompted. After +discharging his conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them, +with many rapturous expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the +affection of their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained +that it was merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had +been so ready to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at +Longbourn, whither he hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; +for Lady Catherine, he added, so heartily approved his marriage, that +she wished it to take place as soon as possible, which he trusted would +be an unanswerable argument with his amiable Charlotte to name an early +day for making him the happiest of men. + +Mr. Collins’s return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of +pleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary, she was as much disposed to +complain of it as her husband. It was very strange that he should come +to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient +and exceedingly troublesome. She hated having visitors in the house +while her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the +most disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and they +gave way only to the greater distress of Mr. Bingley’s continued +absence. + +Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day after +day passed away without bringing any other tidings of him than the +report which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming no more to +Netherfield the whole winter; a report which highly incensed Mrs. +Bennet, and which she never failed to contradict as a most scandalous +falsehood. + +Even Elizabeth began to fear--not that Bingley was indifferent--but that +his sisters would be successful in keeping him away. Unwilling as she +was to admit an idea so destructive to Jane’s happiness, and so +dishonourable to the stability of her lover, she could not prevent its +frequently recurring. The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters, +and of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss +Darcy and the amusements of London, might be too much, she feared, for +the strength of his attachment. + +As for Jane, _her_ anxiety under this suspense was, of course, more +painful than Elizabeth’s: but whatever she felt she was desirous of +concealing; and between herself and Elizabeth, therefore, the subject +was never alluded to. But as no such delicacy restrained her mother, an +hour seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her +impatience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he +did not come back she should think herself very ill-used. It needed all +Jane’s steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable +tranquillity. + +Mr. Collins returned most punctually on the Monday fortnight, but his +reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his +first introduction. He was too happy, however, to need much attention; +and, luckily for the others, the business of love-making relieved them +from a great deal of his company. The chief of every day was spent by +him at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time +to make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed. + +[Illustration: + + “_Whenever she spoke in a low voice_” +] + +Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of +anything concerning the match threw her into an agony of ill-humour, and +wherever she went she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight of +Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her successor in that house, she +regarded her with jealous abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see +them, she concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and +whenever she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that +they were talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself +and her daughters out of the house as soon as Mr. Bennet was dead. She +complained bitterly of all this to her husband. + +“Indeed, Mr. Bennet,” said she, “it is very hard to think that Charlotte +Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that _I_ should be forced +to make way for _her_, and live to see her take my place in it!” + +“My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for +better things. Let us flatter ourselves that _I_ may be the survivor.” + +This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet; and, therefore, instead of +making any answer, she went on as before. + +“I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If it was +not for the entail, I should not mind it.” + +“What should not you mind?” + +“I should not mind anything at all.” + +“Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such +insensibility.” + +“I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for anything about the entail. How +anyone could have the conscience to entail away an estate from one’s own +daughters I cannot understand; and all for the sake of Mr. Collins, too! +Why should _he_ have it more than anybody else?” + +“I leave it to yourself to determine,” said Mr. Bennet. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + +[Illustration] + +Miss Bingley’s letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first +sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for +the winter, and concluded with her brother’s regret at not having had +time to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left +the country. + +Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest of +the letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the +writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy’s praise occupied +the chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on; and Caroline +boasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict +the accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former +letter. She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother’s being an +inmate of Mr. Darcy’s house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of +the latter with regard to new furniture. + +Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this, +heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern +for her sister and resentment against all others. To Caroline’s +assertion of her brother’s being partial to Miss Darcy, she paid no +credit. That he was really fond of Jane, she doubted no more than she +had ever done; and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she +could not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness +of temper, that want of proper resolution, which now made him the slave +of his designing friends, and led him to sacrifice his own happiness to +the caprice of their inclinations. Had his own happiness, however, been +the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in +whatever manner he thought best; but her sister’s was involved in it, as +she thought he must be sensible himself. It was a subject, in short, on +which reflection would be long indulged, and must be unavailing. She +could think of nothing else; and yet, whether Bingley’s regard had +really died away, or were suppressed by his friends’ interference; +whether he had been aware of Jane’s attachment, or whether it had +escaped his observation; whichever were the case, though her opinion of +him must be materially affected by the difference, her sister’s +situation remained the same, her peace equally wounded. + +A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her feelings to +Elizabeth; but at last, on Mrs. Bennet’s leaving them together, after a +longer irritation than usual about Netherfield and its master, she could +not help saying,-- + +“O that my dear mother had more command over herself! she can have no +idea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But I +will not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall +all be as we were before.” + +Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said +nothing. + +“You doubt me,” cried Jane, slightly colouring; “indeed, you have no +reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my +acquaintance but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear, and +nothing to reproach him with. Thank God I have not _that_ pain. A little +time, therefore--I shall certainly try to get the better----” + +With a stronger voice she soon added, “I have this comfort immediately, +that it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it +has done no harm to anyone but myself.” + +“My dear Jane,” exclaimed Elizabeth, “you are too good. Your sweetness +and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say to +you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you +deserve.” + +Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back +the praise on her sister’s warm affection. + +“Nay,” said Elizabeth, “this is not fair. _You_ wish to think all the +world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody. _I_ only want +to think _you_ perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not be +afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your +privilege of universal good-will. You need not. There are few people +whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see +of the world the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms +my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the +little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of either merit +or sense. I have met with two instances lately: one I will not mention, +the other is Charlotte’s marriage. It is unaccountable! in every view it +is unaccountable!” + +“My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will +ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference of +situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins’s respectability, and +Charlotte’s prudent, steady character. Remember that she is one of a +large family; that as to fortune it is a most eligible match; and be +ready to believe, for everybody’s sake, that she may feel something like +regard and esteem for our cousin.” + +“To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no one else +could be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I persuaded that +Charlotte had any regard for him, I should only think worse of her +understanding than I now do of her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a +conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man: you know he is, as well as +I do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the woman who marries him +cannot have a proper way of thinking. You shall not defend her, though +it is Charlotte Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual, +change the meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade +yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility of +danger security for happiness.” + +“I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,” replied +Jane; “and I hope you will be convinced of it, by seeing them happy +together. But enough of this. You alluded to something else. You +mentioned _two_ instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but I entreat +you, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking _that person_ to blame, and +saying your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy +ourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively young man +to be always so guarded and circumspect. It is very often nothing but +our own vanity that deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than +it does.” + +“And men take care that they should.” + +“If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea +of there being so much design in the world as some persons imagine.” + +“I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley’s conduct to design,” +said Elizabeth; “but, without scheming to do wrong, or to make others +unhappy, there may be error and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness, +want of attention to other people’s feelings, and want of resolution, +will do the business.” + +“And do you impute it to either of those?” + +“Yes; to the last. But if I go on I shall displease you by saying what I +think of persons you esteem. Stop me, whilst you can.” + +“You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him?” + +“Yes, in conjunction with his friend.” + +“I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can +only wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me no other woman can +secure it.” + +“Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his +happiness: they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they +may wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great +connections, and pride.” + +“Beyond a doubt they do wish him to choose Miss Darcy,” replied Jane; +“but this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have +known her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love +her better. But, whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely +they should have opposed their brother’s. What sister would think +herself at liberty to do it, unless there were something very +objectionable? If they believed him attached to me they would not try to +part us; if he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an +affection, you make everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most +unhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been +mistaken--or, at least, it is slight, it is nothing in comparison of +what I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it +in the best light, in the light in which it may be understood.” + +Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley’s +name was scarcely ever mentioned between them. + +Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no +more; and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account +for it clearly, there seemed little chance of her ever considering it +with less perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to convince her of what +she did not believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely +the effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw +her no more; but though the probability of the statement was admitted at +the time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet’s best +comfort was, that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer. + +Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. “So, Lizzy,” said he, one +day, “your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate her. Next +to being married, a girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and +then. It is something to think of, and gives her a sort of distinction +among her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to +be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough at +Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham +be your man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.” + +“Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not +all expect Jane’s good fortune.” + +“True,” said Mr. Bennet; “but it is a comfort to think that, whatever of +that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will +always make the most of it.” + +Mr. Wickham’s society was of material service in dispelling the gloom +which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn +family. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now +added that of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had already +heard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him, +was now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was +pleased to think how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they +had known anything of the matter. + +Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be any +extenuating circumstances in the case unknown to the society of +Hertfordshire: her mild and steady candour always pleaded for +allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes; but by everybody else +Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + +[Illustration] + +After a week spent in professions of love and schemes of felicity, Mr. +Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of +Saturday. The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his +side by preparations for the reception of his bride, as he had reason to +hope, that shortly after his next return into Hertfordshire, the day +would be fixed that was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave +of his relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished +his fair cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father +another letter of thanks. + +On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving her +brother and his wife, who came, as usual, to spend the Christmas at +Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly +superior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield +ladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived by +trade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so +well-bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger +than Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Philips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant +woman, and a great favourite with her Longbourn nieces. Between the two +eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a very particular regard. +They had frequently been staying with her in town. + +The first part of Mrs. Gardiner’s business, on her arrival, was to +distribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When this was +done, she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen. +Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They +had all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her +girls had been on the point of marriage, and after all there was nothing +in it. + +“I do not blame Jane,” she continued, “for Jane would have got Mr. +Bingley if she could. But, Lizzy! Oh, sister! it is very hard to think +that she might have been Mr. Collins’s wife by this time, had not it +been for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very room, +and she refused him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have +a daughter married before I have, and that Longbourn estate is just as +much entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful people, indeed, +sister. They are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of +them, but so it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted +so in my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves +before anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is the +greatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us of +long sleeves.” + +Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before, in +the course of Jane and Elizabeth’s correspondence with her, made her +sister a slight answer, and, in compassion to her nieces, turned the +conversation. + +When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. +“It seems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane,” said she. “I +am sorry it went off. But these things happen so often! A young man, +such as you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty +girl for a few weeks, and, when accident separates them, so easily +forgets her, that these sort of inconstancies are very frequent.” + +[Illustration: + + “Offended two or three young ladies” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +“An excellent consolation in its way,” said Elizabeth; “but it will not +do for _us_. We do not suffer by accident. It does not often happen +that the interference of friends will persuade a young man of +independent fortune to think no more of a girl whom he was violently in +love with only a few days before.” + +“But that expression of ‘violently in love’ is so hackneyed, so +doubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is as +often applied to feelings which arise only from a half hour’s +acquaintance, as to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how _violent was_ +Mr. Bingley’s love?” + +“I never saw a more promising inclination; he was growing quite +inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every time +they met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball he +offended two or three young ladies by not asking them to dance; and I +spoke to him twice myself without receiving an answer. Could there be +finer symptoms? Is not general incivility the very essence of love?” + +“Oh, yes! of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt. Poor +Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get +over it immediately. It had better have happened to _you_, Lizzy; you +would have laughed yourself out of it sooner. But do you think she would +be prevailed on to go back with us? Change of scene might be of +service--and perhaps a little relief from home may be as useful as +anything.” + +Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded +of her sister’s ready acquiescence. + +“I hope,” added Mrs. Gardiner, “that no consideration with regard to +this young man will influence her. We live in so different a part of +town, all our connections are so different, and, as you well know, we go +out so little, that it is very improbable they should meet at all, +unless he really comes to see her.” + +“And _that_ is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his +friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in such a +part of London! My dear aunt, how could you think of it? Mr. Darcy may, +perhaps, have _heard_ of such a place as Gracechurch Street, but he +would hardly think a month’s ablution enough to cleanse him from its +impurities, were he once to enter it; and, depend upon it, Mr. Bingley +never stirs without him.” + +“So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does not Jane +correspond with his sister? _She_ will not be able to help calling.” + +“She will drop the acquaintance entirely.” + +But, in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to place this +point, as well as the still more interesting one of Bingley’s being +withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude on the subject which +convinced her, on examination, that she did not consider it entirely +hopeless. It was possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that +his affection might be re-animated, and the influence of his friends +successfully combated by the more natural influence of Jane’s +attractions. + +Miss Bennet accepted her aunt’s invitation with pleasure; and the +Bingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the same time than as she +hoped, by Caroline’s not living in the same house with her brother, she +might occasionally spend a morning with her, without any danger of +seeing him. + +The Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the Philipses, +the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its +engagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment +of her brother and sister, that they did not once sit down to a family +dinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always +made part of it, of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and +on these occasions Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth’s +warm commendation of him, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing +them, from what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their preference +of each other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy; and she +resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before she left +Hertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of encouraging such +an attachment. + +To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure, +unconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago, +before her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very part +of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many +acquaintance in common; and, though Wickham had been little there since +the death of Darcy’s father, five years before, it was yet in his power +to give her fresher intelligence of her former friends than she had been +in the way of procuring. + +Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by +character perfectly well. Here, consequently, was an inexhaustible +subject of discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberley with +the minute description which Wickham could give, and in bestowing her +tribute of praise on the character of its late possessor, she was +delighting both him and herself. On being made acquainted with the +present Mr. Darcy’s treatment of him, she tried to remember something of +that gentleman’s reputed disposition, when quite a lad, which might +agree with it; and was confident, at last, that she recollected having +heard Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy formerly spoken of as a very proud, +ill-natured boy. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “Will you come and see me?” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + + +[Illustration] + +Mrs. Gardiner’s caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given on +the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone: after +honestly telling her what she thought, she thus went on:-- + +“You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because you +are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking +openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve +yourself, or endeavour to involve him, in an affection which the want of +fortune would make so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against +_him_: he is a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune he +ought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is--you +must not let your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all +expect you to use it. Your father would depend on _your_ resolution and +good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father.” + +“My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.” + +“Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.” + +“Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of +myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I +can prevent it.” + +“Elizabeth, you are not serious now.” + +“I beg your pardon. I will try again. At present I am not in love with +Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison, +the most agreeable man I ever saw--and if he becomes really attached to +me--I believe it will be better that he should not. I see the imprudence +of it. Oh, _that_ abominable Mr. Darcy! My father’s opinion of me does +me the greatest honour; and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My +father, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I +should be very sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy; but +since we see, every day, that where there is affection young people are +seldom withheld, by immediate want of fortune, from entering into +engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many +of my fellow-creatures, if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that +it would be wiser to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is +not to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his +first object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In +short, I will do my best.” + +“Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so very +often. At least you should not _remind_ your mother of inviting him.” + +“As I did the other day,” said Elizabeth, with a conscious smile; “very +true, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do not imagine +that he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been +so frequently invited this week. You know my mother’s ideas as to the +necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my +honour, I will try to do what I think to be wisest; and now I hope you +are satisfied.” + +Her aunt assured her that she was; and Elizabeth, having thanked her for +the kindness of her hints, they parted,--a wonderful instance of advice +being given on such a point without being resented. + +Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted +by the Gardiners and Jane; but, as he took up his abode with the +Lucases, his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His +marriage was now fast approaching; and she was at length so far resigned +as to think it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured +tone, that she “_wished_ they might be happy.” Thursday was to be the +wedding-day, and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and +when she rose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother’s +ungracious and reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, +accompanied her out of the room. As they went down stairs together, +Charlotte said,-- + +“I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.” + +“_That_ you certainly shall.” + +“And I have another favour to ask. Will you come and see me?” + +“We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.” + +“I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to +come to Hunsford.” + +Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the +visit. + +“My father and Maria are to come to me in March,” added Charlotte, “and +I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be +as welcome to me as either of them.” + +The wedding took place: the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from +the church door, and everybody had as much to say or to hear on the +subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend, and their +correspondence was as regular and frequent as it ever had been: that it +should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never +address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over; +and, though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the +sake of what had been rather than what was. Charlotte’s first letters +were received with a good deal of eagerness: there could not but be +curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would +like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce herself to +be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte +expressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She +wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing +which she could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and +roads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine’s behaviour was most +friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins’s picture of Hunsford and +Rosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait +for her own visit there, to know the rest. + +Jane had already written a few lines to her sister, to announce their +safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped it +would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys. + +Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience +generally is. Jane had been a week in town, without either seeing or +hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that +her last letter to her friend from Longbourn had by some accident been +lost. + +“My aunt,” she continued, “is going to-morrow into that part of the +town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor Street.” + +She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley. +“I did not think Caroline in spirits,” were her words, “but she was very +glad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming +to London. I was right, therefore; my last letter had never reached her. +I inquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much +engaged with Mr. Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that +Miss Darcy was expected to dinner: I wish I could see her. My visit was +not long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall +soon see them here.” + +Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her that +accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister’s being in town. + +Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to +persuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be +blind to Miss Bingley’s inattention. After waiting at home every morning +for a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the +visitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and, yet +more, the alteration of her manner, would allow Jane to deceive herself +no longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister +will prove what she felt:-- + + “My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in + her better judgment, at my expense, when I confess myself to have + been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley’s regard for me. But, my + dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not think me + obstinate if I still assert that, considering what her behaviour + was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. I do not at + all comprehend her reason for wishing to be intimate with me; but, + if the same circumstances were to happen again, I am sure I should + be deceived again. Caroline did not return my visit till yesterday; + and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the meantime. When she + did come, it was very evident that she had no pleasure in it; she + made a slight, formal apology for not calling before, said not a + word of wishing to see me again, and was, in every respect, so + altered a creature, that when she went away I was perfectly + resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity, though I + cannot help blaming, her. She was very wrong in singling me out as + she did; I can safely say, that every advance to intimacy began on + her side. But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been + acting wrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for her + brother is the cause of it. I need not explain myself farther; and + though _we_ know this anxiety to be quite needless, yet if she + feels it, it will easily account for her behaviour to me; and so + deservedly dear as he is to his sister, whatever anxiety she may + feel on his behalf is natural and amiable. I cannot but wonder, + however, at her having any such fears now, because if he had at all + cared about me, we must have met long, long ago. He knows of my + being in town, I am certain, from something she said herself; and + yet it would seem, by her manner of talking, as if she wanted to + persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Darcy. I cannot + understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should be + almost tempted to say, that there is a strong appearance of + duplicity in all this. I will endeavour to banish every painful + thought, and think only of what will make me happy, your affection, + and the invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear + from you very soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never + returning to Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not + with any certainty. We had better not mention it. I am extremely + glad that you have such pleasant accounts from our friends at + Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir William and Maria. I am + sure you will be very comfortable there. + +“Yours, etc.” + +This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned, as she +considered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister at least. +All expectation from the brother was now absolutely over. She would not +even wish for any renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on every +review of it; and, as a punishment for him, as well as a possible +advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr. +Darcy’s sister, as, by Wickham’s account, she would make him abundantly +regret what he had thrown away. + +Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise +concerning that gentleman, and required information; and Elizabeth had +such to send as might rather give contentment to her aunt than to +herself. His apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over, +he was the admirer of some one else. Elizabeth was watchful enough to +see it all, but she could see it and write of it without material pain. +Her heart had been but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied +with believing that _she_ would have been his only choice, had fortune +permitted it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most +remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering himself +agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in this case than +in Charlotte’s, did not quarrel with him for his wish of independence. +Nothing, on the contrary, could be more natural; and, while able to +suppose that it cost him a few struggles to relinquish her, she was +ready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very +sincerely wish him happy. + +All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and, after relating the +circumstances, she thus went on:--“I am now convinced, my dear aunt, +that I have never been much in love; for had I really experienced that +pure and elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name, +and wish him all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only cordial +towards _him_, they are even impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find +out that I hate her at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to think +her a very good sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My +watchfulness has been effectual; and though I should certainly be a more +interesting object to all my acquaintance, were I distractedly in love +with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance. +Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly. Kitty and Lydia take +his defection much more to heart than I do. They are young in the ways +of the world, and not yet open to the mortifying conviction that +handsome young men must have something to live on as well as the +plain.” + + + + +[Illustration: + + “On the Stairs” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + + +[Illustration] + +With no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise +diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and +sometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take +Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of +going thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on the +plan, and she gradually learned to consider it herself with greater +pleasure as well as greater certainty. Absence had increased her desire +of seeing Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. +There was novelty in the scheme; and as, with such a mother and such +uncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change +was not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would, moreover, give +her a peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have +been very sorry for any delay. Everything, however, went on smoothly, +and was finally settled according to Charlotte’s first sketch. She was +to accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement of +spending a night in London was added in time, and the plan became as +perfect as plan could be. + +The only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss her, +and who, when it came to the point, so little liked her going, that he +told her to write to him, and almost promised to answer her letter. + +The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on +his side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that +Elizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the +first to listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner +of bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of what +she was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their +opinion of her--their opinion of everybody--would always coincide, there +was a solicitude, an interest, which she felt must ever attach her to +him with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced, that, +whether married or single, he must always be her model of the amiable +and pleasing. + +Her fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her think +him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a +good-humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say +that could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much +delight as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but +she had known Sir William’s too long. He could tell her nothing new of +the wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were +worn out, like his information. + +It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early +as to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner’s +door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival: when +they entered the passage, she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth, +looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and +lovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls, +whose eagerness for their cousin’s appearance would not allow them to +wait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her +for a twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and +kindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and +shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres. + +Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first subject was her +sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to +her minute inquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her +spirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however, to +hope that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the +particulars also of Miss Bingley’s visit in Gracechurch Street, and +repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and +herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the +acquaintance. + +Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham’s desertion, and +complimented her on bearing it so well. + +“But, my dear Elizabeth,” she added, “what sort of girl is Miss King? I +should be sorry to think our friend mercenary.” + +“Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs, +between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end, +and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me, +because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a +girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is +mercenary.” + +“If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know +what to think.” + +“She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her.” + +“But he paid her not the smallest attention till her grandfather’s death +made her mistress of this fortune?” + +“No--why should he? 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. Let _our_ first effusions be less +insupportable than those of the generality of travellers.” + + + + +[Illustration: + + “At the door” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + + +[Illustration] + +Every object in the next day’s journey was new and interesting to +Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state of enjoyment; for she had +seen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health, +and the prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight. + +When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was in +search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view. +The paling of Rosings park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth +smiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants. + +At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the +road, the house standing in it, the green pales and the laurel hedge, +everything declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte +appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate, which +led by a short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of +the whole party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing +at the sight of each other. Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the +liveliest pleasure, and Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with +coming, when she found herself so affectionately received. She saw +instantly that her cousin’s manners were not altered by his marriage: +his formal civility was just what it had been; and he detained her some +minutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his inquiries after all her +family. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing out the +neatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as soon as they were +in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time, with ostentatious +formality, to his humble abode, and punctually repeated all his wife’s +offers of refreshment. + +Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help +fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its aspect, +and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her, as if +wishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But though +everything seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to gratify him +by any sigh of repentance; and rather looked with wonder at her friend, +that she could have so cheerful an air with such a companion. When Mr. +Collins said anything of which his wife might reasonably be ashamed, +which certainly was not seldom, she involuntarily turned her eye on +Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a faint blush; but in general +Charlotte wisely did not hear. After sitting long enough to admire +every article of furniture in the room, from the sideboard to the +fender, to give an account of their journey, and of all that had +happened in London, Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the +garden, which was large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of +which he attended himself. To work in his garden was one of his most +respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of countenance +with which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and +owned she encouraged it as much as possible. Here, leading the way +through every walk and cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an +interval to utter the praises he asked for, every view was pointed out +with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind. He could number the +fields in every direction, and could tell how many trees there were in +the most distant clump. But of all the views which his garden, or which +the country or the kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with +the prospect of Rosings, afforded by an opening in the trees that +bordered the park nearly opposite the front of his house. It was a +handsome modern building, well situated on rising ground. + +From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two meadows; +but the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white +frost, turned back; and while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte +took her sister and friend over the house, extremely well pleased, +probably, to have the opportunity of showing it without her husband’s +help. It was rather small, but well built and convenient; and everything +was fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency, of which +Elizabeth gave Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be +forgotten, there was really a great air of comfort throughout, and by +Charlotte’s evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must be often +forgotten. + +She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It +was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining +in, observed,-- + +“Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine +de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will +be delighted with her. She is all affability and condescension, and I +doubt not but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice when +service is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying that she will +include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she +honours us during your stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is +charming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to +walk home. Her Ladyship’s carriage is regularly ordered for us. I +_should_ say, one of her Ladyship’s carriages, for she has several.” + +“Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman, indeed,” added +Charlotte, “and a most attentive neighbour.” + +“Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of +woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference.” + +The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news, and +telling again what had been already written; and when it closed, +Elizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to meditate upon +Charlotte’s degree of contentment, to understand her address in guiding, +and composure in bearing with, her husband, and to acknowledge that it +was all done very well. She had also to anticipate how her visit would +pass, the quiet tenour of their usual employments, the vexatious +interruptions of Mr. Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse +with Rosings. A lively imagination soon settled it all. + +About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready +for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in +confusion; and, after listening a moment, she heard somebody running +upstairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after her. She opened +the door, and met Maria in the landing-place, who, breathless with +agitation, cried out,-- + +[Illustration: + + “In Conversation with the ladies” + +[Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]] + +“Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the dining-room, for +there is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make +haste, and come down this moment.” + +Elizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing more; +and down they ran into the dining-room which fronted the lane, in quest +of this wonder; it was two ladies, stopping in a low phaeton at the +garden gate. + +“And is this all?” cried Elizabeth. “I expected at least that the pigs +were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her +daughter!” + +“La! my dear,” said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, “it is not Lady +Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them. The +other is Miss De Bourgh. Only look at her. She is quite a little +creature. Who would have thought she could be so thin and small!” + +“She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all this wind. +Why does she not come in?” + +“Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours +when Miss De Bourgh comes in.” + +“I like her appearance,” said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas. “She +looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well. She will +make him a very proper wife.” + +Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in conversation +with the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth’s high diversion, was +stationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the greatness +before him, and constantly bowing whenever Miss De Bourgh looked that +way. + +At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on, and +the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw the two +girls than he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, which +Charlotte explained by letting them know that the whole party was asked +to dine at Rosings the next day. + + + + +[Illustration: + + ‘Lady Catherine, said she, you have given me a treasure.’ + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + + +[Illustration] + +Mr. Collins’s triumph, in consequence of this invitation, was complete. +The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to his wondering +visitors, and of letting them see her civility towards himself and his +wife, was exactly what he had wished for; and that an opportunity of +doing it should be given so soon was such an instance of Lady +Catherine’s condescension as he knew not how to admire enough. + +“I confess,” said he, “that I should not have been at all surprised by +her Ladyship’s asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening +at Rosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that +it would happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this? +Who could have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine +there (an invitation, moreover, including the whole party) so +immediately after your arrival?” + +“I am the less surprised at what has happened,” replied Sir William, +“from that knowledge of what the manners of the great really are, which +my situation in life has allowed me to acquire. About the court, such +instances of elegant breeding are not uncommon.” + +Scarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but their +visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in what +they were to expect, that the sight of such rooms, so many servants, and +so splendid a dinner, might not wholly overpower them. + +When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to +Elizabeth,-- + +“Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady +Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us which +becomes herself and daughter. I would advise you merely to put on +whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest--there is no occasion +for anything more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you for +being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank +preserved.” + +While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different +doors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much +objected to be kept waiting for her dinner. Such formidable accounts of +her Ladyship, and her manner of living, quite frightened Maria Lucas, +who had been little used to company; and she looked forward to her +introduction at Rosings with as much apprehension as her father had done +to his presentation at St. James’s. + +As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a mile +across the park. Every park has its beauty and its prospects; and +Elizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she could not be in such +raptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene to inspire, and was but +slightly affected by his enumeration of the windows in front of the +house, and his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally +cost Sir Lewis de Bourgh. + +When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria’s alarm was every moment +increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly calm. +Elizabeth’s courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing of Lady +Catherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary talents or +miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money and rank she +thought she could witness without trepidation. + +From the entrance hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a +rapturous air, the fine proportion and finished ornaments, they followed +the servants through an antechamber to the room where Lady Catherine, +her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. Her Ladyship, with great +condescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins had settled it +with her husband that the office of introduction should be hers, it was +performed in a proper manner, without any of those apologies and thanks +which he would have thought necessary. + +In spite of having been at St. James’s, Sir William was so completely +awed by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage +enough to make a very low bow, and take his seat without saying a word; +and his daughter, frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge +of her chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth found herself +quite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her +composedly. Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked +features, which might once have been handsome. Her air was not +conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them such as to make her +visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered formidable by +silence: but whatever she said was spoken in so authoritative a tone as +marked her self-importance, and brought Mr. Wickham immediately to +Elizabeth’s mind; and, from the observation of the day altogether, she +believed Lady Catherine to be exactly what he had represented. + +When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment +she soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the +daughter, she could almost have joined in Maria’s astonishment at her +being so thin and so small. There was neither in figure nor face any +likeness between the ladies. Miss de Bourgh was pale and sickly: her +features, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very +little, except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance +there was nothing remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening +to what she said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before +her eyes. + +After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows to +admire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point out its beauties, +and Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much better worth +looking at in the summer. + +The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants, +and all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised; and, as he +had likewise foretold, he took his seat at the bottom of the table, by +her Ladyship’s desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish +nothing greater. He carved and ate and praised with delighted alacrity; +and every dish was commended first by him, and then by Sir William, who +was now enough recovered to echo whatever his son-in-law said, in a +manner which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear. But Lady +Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and gave most +gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the table proved a novelty +to them. The party did not supply much conversation. Elizabeth was ready +to speak whenever there was an opening, but she was seated between +Charlotte and Miss de Bourgh--the former of whom was engaged in +listening to Lady Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all +the dinnertime. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how +little Miss de Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish and +fearing she was indisposed. Maria thought speaking out of the question, +and the gentlemen did nothing but eat and admire. + +When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to be +done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any +intermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every +subject in so decisive a manner as proved that she was not used to have +her judgment controverted. She inquired into Charlotte’s domestic +concerns familiarly and minutely, and gave her a great deal of advice as +to the management of them all; told her how everything ought to be +regulated in so small a family as hers, and instructed her as to the +care of her cows and her poultry. Elizabeth found that nothing was +beneath this great lady’s attention which could furnish her with an +occasion for dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse with +Mrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and +Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew +the least, and who, she observed to Mrs. Collins, was a very genteel, +pretty kind of girl. She asked her at different times how many sisters +she had, whether they were older or younger than herself, whether any of +them were likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where they +had been educated, what carriage her father kept, and what had been her +mother’s maiden name? Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of her +questions, but answered them very composedly. Lady Catherine then +observed,-- + +“Your father’s estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think? For your +sake,” turning to Charlotte, “I am glad of it; but otherwise I see no +occasion for entailing estates from the female line. It was not thought +necessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s family. Do you play and sing, Miss +Bennet?” + +“A little.” + +“Oh then--some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our +instrument is a capital one, probably superior to ---- you shall try it +some day. Do your sisters play and sing?” + +“One of them does.” + +“Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned. The Miss +Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an income as yours. Do +you draw?” + +“No, not at all.” + +“What, none of you?” + +“Not one.” + +“That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother +should have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters.” + +“My mother would have no objection, but my father hates London.” + +“Has your governess left you?” + +“We never had any governess.” + +“No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home +without a governess! I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must +have been quite a slave to your education.” + +Elizabeth could hardly help smiling, as she assured her that had not +been the case. + +“Then who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess, you must +have been neglected.” + +“Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as +wished to learn never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to +read, and had all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be +idle certainly might.” + +“Ay, no doubt: but that is what a governess will prevent; and if I had +known your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage +one. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady +and regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is +wonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that +way. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces +of Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and +it was but the other day that I recommended another young person, who +was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite +delighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalfe’s +calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. ‘Lady +Catherine,’ said she, ‘you have given me a treasure.’ Are any of your +younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?” + +“Yes, ma’am, all.” + +“All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the second. The +younger ones out before the elder are married! Your younger sisters must +be very young?” + +“Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps _she_ is full young to be much +in company. But really, ma’am, I think it would be very hard upon +younger sisters that they should not have their share of society and +amusement, because the elder may not have the means or inclination to +marry early. The last born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth +as the first. And to be kept back on _such_ a motive! I think it would +not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind.” + +“Upon my word,” said her Ladyship, “you give your opinion very decidedly +for so young a person. Pray, what is your age?” + +“With three younger sisters grown up,” replied Elizabeth, smiling, “your +Ladyship can hardly expect me to own it.” + +Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer; +and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever +dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence. + +“You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure,--therefore you need not +conceal your age.” + +“I am not one-and-twenty.” + +When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the card tables +were placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat +down to quadrille; and as Miss De Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the +two girls had the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her +party. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was +uttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson +expressed her fears of Miss De Bourgh’s being too hot or too cold, or +having too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the +other table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking--stating the mistakes +of the three others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins +was employed in agreeing to everything her Ladyship said, thanking her +for every fish he won, and apologizing if he thought he won too many. +Sir William did not say much. He was storing his memory with anecdotes +and noble names. + +When Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they chose, +the tables were broken up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins, +gratefully accepted, and immediately ordered. The party then gathered +round the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they were +to have on the morrow. From these instructions they were summoned by the +arrival of the coach; and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr. +Collins’s side, and as many bows on Sir William’s, they departed. As +soon as they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her +cousin to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, +for Charlotte’s sake, she made more favourable than it really was. But +her commendation, though costing her some trouble, could by no means +satisfy Mr. Collins, and he was very soon obliged to take her Ladyship’s +praise into his own hands. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + + +[Illustration] + +Sir William stayed only a week at Hunsford; but his visit was long +enough to convince him of his daughter’s being most comfortably settled, +and of her possessing such a husband and such a neighbour as were not +often met with. While Sir William was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his +mornings to driving him out in his gig, and showing him the country: but +when he went away, the whole family returned to their usual employments, +and Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her +cousin by the alteration; for the chief of the time between breakfast +and dinner was now passed by him either at work in the garden, or in +reading and writing, and looking out of window in his own book room, +which fronted the road. The room in which the ladies sat was backwards. +Elizabeth at first had rather wondered that Charlotte should not prefer +the dining parlour for common use; it was a better sized room, and had a +pleasanter aspect: but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent +reason for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been +much less in his own apartment had they sat in one equally lively; and +she gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement. + +From the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and +were indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what carriages went +along, and how often especially Miss De Bourgh drove by in her phaeton, +which he never failed coming to inform them of, though it happened +almost every day. She not unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and had +a few minutes’ conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever +prevailed on to get out. + +Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to Rosings, and +not many in which his wife did not think it necessary to go likewise; +and till Elizabeth recollected that there might be other family livings +to be disposed of, she could not understand the sacrifice of so many +hours. Now and then they were honoured with a call from her Ladyship, +and nothing escaped her observation that was passing in the room during +these visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work, +and advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement +of the furniture, or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she +accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding +out that Mrs. Collins’s joints of meat were too large for her family. + +Elizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady was not in the +commission of the peace for the county, she was a most active magistrate +in her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were carried to her by +Mr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to be +quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she sallied forth into the +village to settle their differences, silence their complaints, and scold +them into harmony and plenty. + +[Illustration: + + “he never failed to inform them” +] + +The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week; +and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being only one +card-table in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart +of the first. Their other engagements were few, as the style of living +of the neighbourhood in general was beyond the Collinses’ reach. This, +however, was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the whole she spent her time +comfortably enough: there were half hours of pleasant conversation with +Charlotte, and the weather was so fine for the time of year, that she +had often great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where +she frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine, was +along the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was +a nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but herself, and +where she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine’s curiosity. + +In this quiet way the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away. +Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to bring an +addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be +important. Elizabeth had heard, soon after her arrival, that Mr. Darcy +was expected there in the course of a few weeks; and though there were +not many of her acquaintance whom she did not prefer, his coming would +furnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and +she might be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley’s designs on him +were, by his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined +by Lady Catherine, who talked of his coming with the greatest +satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration, and +seemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen by +Miss Lucas and herself. + +His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was walking +the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane, +in order to have + +[Illustration: + +“The gentlemen accompanied him.” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +the earliest assurance of it; and, after making his bow as the carriage +turned into the park, hurried home with the great intelligence. On the +following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his respects. There were +two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for Mr. Darcy had brought +with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of his uncle, Lord ----; +and, to the great surprise of all the party, when Mr. Collins returned, +the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte had seen them from her +husband’s room, crossing the road, and immediately running into the +other, told the girls what an honour they might expect, adding,-- + +“I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy would +never have come so soon to wait upon me.” + +Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment +before their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly +afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam, +who led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and +address most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been +used to look in Hertfordshire, paid his compliments, with his usual +reserve, to Mrs. Collins; and whatever might be his feelings towards her +friend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely +courtesied to him, without saying a word. + +Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly, with the +readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but +his cousin, after having addressed a slight observation on the house and +garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without speaking to anybody. +At length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to inquire of +Elizabeth after the health of her family. She answered him in the usual +way; and, after a moment’s pause, added,-- + +“My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never +happened to see her there?” + +She was perfectly sensible that he never had: but she wished to see +whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed between the +Bingleys and Jane; and she thought he looked a little confused as he +answered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The +subject was pursued no further, and the gentlemen soon afterwards went +away. + + + + +[Illustration: + +“At Church” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + + +[Illustration] + +Colonel Fitzwilliam’s manners were very much admired at the Parsonage, +and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasure of +their engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they +received any invitation thither, for while there were visitors in the +house they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day, +almost a week after the gentlemen’s arrival, that they were honoured by +such an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to +come there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very little +of either Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had called +at the Parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr. Darcy they had +only seen at church. + +The invitation was accepted, of course, and at a proper hour they joined +the party in Lady Catherine’s drawing-room. Her Ladyship received them +civilly, but it was plain that their company was by no means so +acceptable as when she could get nobody else; and she was, in fact, +almost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them, especially to Darcy, +much more than to any other person in the room. + +Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them: anything was a +welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins’s pretty friend had, +moreover, caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by her, and +talked so agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying +at home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so +well entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much +spirit and flow as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself, as +well as of Mr. Darcy. _His_ eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned +towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her Ladyship, after a +while, shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not +scruple to call out,-- + +“What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking +of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.” + +“We were talking of music, madam,” said he, when no longer able to avoid +a reply. + +“Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I +must have my share in the conversation, if you are speaking of music. +There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true +enjoyment of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever +learnt, I should have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her +health had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have +performed delightfully. How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?” + +Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister’s proficiency. + +“I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,” said Lady +Catherine; “and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel, +if she does not practise a great deal.” + +“I assure you, madam,” he replied, “that she does not need such advice. +She practises very constantly.” + +“So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write +to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often +tell young ladies, that no excellence in music is to be acquired without +constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that she will +never play really well, unless she practises more; and though Mrs. +Collins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told +her, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs. +Jenkinson’s room. She would be in nobody’s way, you know, in that part +of the house.” + +Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt’s ill-breeding, and made +no answer. + +When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having +promised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the instrument. He +drew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then +talked, as before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away from +her, and moving with his usual deliberation towards the pianoforte, +stationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer’s +countenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first +convenient pause turned to him with an arch smile, and said,-- + +“You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear +me. But I will not be alarmed, though your sister _does_ play so well. +There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at +the will of others. My courage always rises with every attempt to +intimidate me.” + +“I shall not say that you are mistaken,” he replied, “because you could +not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I +have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know, that you +find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which, in fact, +are not your own.” + +Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to +Colonel Fitzwilliam, “Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of +me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky +in meeting with a person so well able to expose my real character, in a +part of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree +of credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention +all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire--and, give me +leave to say, very impolitic too--for it is provoking me to retaliate, +and such things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.” + +“I am not afraid of you,” said he, smilingly. + +“Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” cried Colonel +Fitzwilliam. “I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.” + +“You shall hear, then--but prepare for something very dreadful. The +first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at +a ball--and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four +dances! I am sorry to pain you, but so it was. He danced only four +dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge, more +than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, +you cannot deny the fact.” + +“I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly +beyond my own party.” + +“True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well, Colonel +Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.” + +“Perhaps,” said Darcy, “I should have judged better had I sought an +introduction, but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.” + +“Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?” said Elizabeth, still +addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Shall we ask him why a man of sense and +education, and who has lived in the world, is ill-qualified to recommend +himself to strangers?” + +“I can answer your question,” said Fitzwilliam, “without applying to +him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.” + +“I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,” said Darcy, +“of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot +catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their +concerns, as I often see done.” + +“My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not move over this instrument in the +masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have not the same +force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I +have always supposed it to be my own fault--because I would not take +the trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe _my_ fingers +as capable as any other woman’s of superior execution.” + +Darcy smiled and said, “You are perfectly right. You have employed your +time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can +think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.” + +Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know +what they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began playing again. +Lady Catherine approached, and, after listening for a few minutes, said +to Darcy,-- + +“Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss if she practised more, and +could have the advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion +of fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne’s. Anne would have +been a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn.” + +Elizabeth looked at Darcy, to see how cordially he assented to his +cousin’s praise: but neither at that moment nor at any other could she +discern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his behaviour to Miss +De Bourgh she derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he might have +been just as likely to marry _her_, had she been his relation. + +Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth’s performance, mixing +with them many instructions on execution and taste. Elizabeth received +them with all the forbearance of civility; and at the request of the +gentlemen remained at the instrument till her Ladyship’s carriage was +ready to take them all home. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to Jane, +while Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village, +when she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain signal of a +visitor. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to be +Lady Catherine; and under that apprehension was putting away her +half-finished letter, that she might escape all impertinent questions, +when the door opened, and to her very great surprise Mr. Darcy, and Mr. +Darcy only, entered the room. + +He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologized for his +intrusion, by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies to +be within. + +They then sat down, and when her inquiries after Rosings were made, +seemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely +necessary, therefore, to think of something; and in this emergency +recollecting _when_ she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and feeling +curious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty +departure, she observed,-- + +“How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy! +It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you +all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day +before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?” + +“Perfectly so, I thank you.” + +She found that she was to receive no other answer; and, after a short +pause, added,-- + +“I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever +returning to Netherfield again?” + +“I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend +very little of his time there in future. He has many friends, and he is +at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually +increasing.” + +“If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the +neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we +might possibly get a settled family there. But, perhaps, Mr. Bingley did +not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as +for his own, and we must expect him to keep or quit it on the same +principle.” + +“I should not be surprised,” said Darcy, “if he were to give it up as +soon as any eligible purchase offers.” + +Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his +friend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the +trouble of finding a subject to him. + +He took the hint and soon began with, “This seems a very comfortable +house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr. +Collins first came to Hunsford.” + +“I believe she did--and I am sure she could not have bestowed her +kindness on a more grateful object.” + +“Mr. Collins appears very fortunate in his choice of a wife.” + +“Yes, indeed; his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one of +the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made +him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding--though +I am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest +thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however; and, in a +prudential light, it is certainly a very good match for her.” + +“It must be very agreeable to her to be settled within so easy a +distance of her own family and friends.” + +“An easy distance do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.” + +“And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day’s +journey. Yes, I call it a very easy distance.” + +“I should never have considered the distance as one of the _advantages_ +of the match,” cried Elizabeth. “I should never have said Mrs. Collins +was settled _near_ her family.” + +“It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond +the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far.” + +As he spoke there was a sort of smile, which Elizabeth fancied she +understood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and +Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered,-- + +“I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her +family. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many +varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expense of +travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the +case _here_. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not +such a one as will allow of frequent journeys--and I am persuaded my +friend would not call herself _near_ her family under less than _half_ +the present distance.” + +Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, “_You_ cannot +have a right to such very strong local attachment. _You_ cannot have +been always at Longbourn.” + +Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of +feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and, +glancing over it, said, in a colder voice,-- + +“Are you pleased with Kent?” + +A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either side +calm and concise--and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte +and her sister, just returned from their walk. The _tête-à-tête_ +surprised them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which had occasioned his +intruding on Miss Bennet, and, after sitting a few minutes longer, +without saying much to anybody, went away. + +[Illustration: “Accompanied by their aunt” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +“What can be the meaning of this?” said Charlotte, as soon as he was +gone. “My dear Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he would never +have called on us in this familiar way.” + +But when Elizabeth told of his silence, it did not seem very likely, +even to Charlotte’s wishes, to be the case; and, after various +conjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from +the difficulty of finding anything to do, which was the more probable +from the time of year. All field sports were over. Within doors there +was Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard table, but gentlemen cannot be +always within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the +pleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the +two cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither +almost every day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes +separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their +aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he +had pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course recommended +him still more; and Elizabeth was reminded by her own satisfaction in +being with him, as well as by his evident admiration, of her former +favourite, George Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw there +was less captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s manners, she +believed he might have the best informed mind. + +But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage it was more difficult +to understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there +ten minutes together without opening his lips; and when he did speak, it +seemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice--a sacrifice to +propriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really +animated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel +Fitzwilliam’s occasionally laughing at his stupidity proved that he was +generally different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told +her; and as she would have liked to believe this change the effect of +love, and the object of that love her friend Eliza, she set herself +seriously to work to find it out: she watched him whenever they were at +Rosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success. He +certainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that +look was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often +doubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it +seemed nothing but absence of mind. + +She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his +being partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs. +Collins did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of +raising expectations which might only end in disappointment; for in her +opinion it admitted not of a doubt, that all her friend’s dislike would +vanish, if she could suppose him to be in her power. + +In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying +Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was, beyond comparison, the pleasantest man: he +certainly admired her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but, +to counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had considerable patronage +in the church, and his cousin could have none at all. + + + + +[Illustration: “On looking up”] + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. + + +[Illustration] + +More than once did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the park, +unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the +mischance that should bring him where no one else was brought; and, to +prevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him, at first, +that it was a favourite haunt of hers. How it could occur a second time, +therefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and even the third. It seemed like +wilful ill-nature, or a voluntary penance; for on these occasions it was +not merely a few formal inquiries and an awkward pause and then away, +but he actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He +never said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking +or of listening much; but it struck her in the course of their third +encounter that he was asking some odd unconnected questions--about her +pleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her +opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins’s happiness; and that in speaking of +Rosings, and her not perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to +expect that whenever she came into Kent again she would be staying +_there_ too. His words seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel +Fitzwilliam in his thoughts? She supposed, if he meant anything, he must +mean an allusion to what might arise in that quarter. It distressed her +a little, and she was quite glad to find herself at the gate in the +pales opposite the Parsonage. + +She was engaged one day, as she walked, in re-perusing Jane’s last +letter, and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not +written in spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy, +she saw, on looking up, that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her. +Putting away the letter immediately, and forcing a smile, she said,-- + +“I did not know before that you ever walked this way.” + +“I have been making the tour of the park,” he replied, “as I generally +do every year, and intended to close it with a call at the Parsonage. +Are you going much farther?” + +“No, I should have turned in a moment.” + +And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage +together. + +“Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?” said she. + +“Yes--if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He +arranges the business just as he pleases.” + +“And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least +great pleasure in the power of choice. I do not know anybody who seems +more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy.” + +“He likes to have his own way very well,” replied Colonel Fitzwilliam. +“But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it than +many others, because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak +feelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and +dependence.” + +“In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of +either. Now, seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and +dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going +wherever you chose or procuring anything you had a fancy for?” + +“These are home questions--and perhaps I cannot say that I have +experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater +weight, I may suffer from the want of money. Younger sons cannot marry +where they like.” + +“Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often +do.” + +“Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not many in +my rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to +money.” + +“Is this,” thought Elizabeth, “meant for me?” and she coloured at the +idea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, “And pray, what is +the usual price of an earl’s younger son? Unless the elder brother is +very sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds.” + +He answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt +a silence which might make him fancy her affected with what had passed, +she soon afterwards said,-- + +“I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of +having somebody at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a +lasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps, his sister does as well +for the present; and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he +likes with her.” + +“No,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “that is an advantage which he must +divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy.” + +“Are you, indeed? And pray what sort of a guardian do you make? Does +your charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes +a little difficult to manage; and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she +may like to have her own way.” + +As she spoke, she observed him looking at her earnestly; and the manner +in which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to +give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other +got pretty near the truth. She directly replied,-- + +“You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare +say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a +very great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and +Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them.” + +“I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant, gentlemanlike +man--he is a great friend of Darcy’s.” + +“Oh yes,” said Elizabeth drily--“Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr. +Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.” + +“Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ take care of him in +those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me +in our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted +to him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose +that Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture.” + +“What is it you mean?” + +“It is a circumstance which Darcy of course could not wish to be +generally known, because if it were to get round to the lady’s family it +would be an unpleasant thing.” + +“You may depend upon my not mentioning it.” + +“And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be +Bingley. What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated himself +on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most +imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other +particulars; and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him +the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from +knowing them to have been together the whole of last summer.” + +“Did Mr. Darcy give you his reasons for this interference?” + +“I understood that there were some very strong objections against the +lady.” + +“And what arts did he use to separate them?” + +“He did not talk to me of his own arts,” said Fitzwilliam, smiling. “He +only told me what I have now told you.” + +Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with +indignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she +was so thoughtful. + +“I am thinking of what you have been telling me,” said she. “Your +cousin’s conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the +judge?” + +“You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?” + +“I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his +friend’s inclination; or why, upon his own judgment alone, he was to +determine and direct in what manner that friend was to be happy. But,” +she continued, recollecting herself, “as we know none of the +particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed +that there was much affection in the case.” + +“That is not an unnatural surmise,” said Fitzwilliam; “but it is +lessening the honour of my cousin’s triumph very sadly.” + +This was spoken jestingly, but it appeared to her so just a picture of +Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an answer; and, +therefore, abruptly changing the conversation, talked on indifferent +matters till they reached the Parsonage. There, shut into her own room, +as soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption +of all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other +people could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There +could not exist in the world _two_ men over whom Mr. Darcy could have +such boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures +taken to separate Mr. Bingley and Jane, she had never doubted; but she +had always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and +arrangement of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him, +_he_ was the cause--his pride and caprice were the cause--of all that +Jane had suffered, and still continued to suffer. He had ruined for a +while every hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart +in the world; and no one could say how lasting an evil he might have +inflicted. + +“There were some very strong objections against the lady,” were Colonel +Fitzwilliam’s words; and these strong objections probably were, her +having one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in +business in London. + +“To Jane herself,” she exclaimed, “there could be no possibility of +objection,--all loveliness and goodness as she is! Her understanding +excellent, her mind improved, and her manners captivating. Neither could +anything be urged against my father, who, though with some +peculiarities, has abilities which Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain, +and respectability which he will probably never reach.” When she thought +of her mother, indeed, her confidence gave way a little; but she would +not allow that any objections _there_ had material weight with Mr. +Darcy, whose pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from +the want of importance in his friend’s connections than from their want +of sense; and she was quite decided, at last, that he had been partly +governed by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of +retaining Mr. Bingley for his sister. + +The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned brought on a +headache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening that, added to +her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her +cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins, +seeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go, and as much +as possible prevented her husband from pressing her; but Mr. Collins +could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine’s being rather +displeased by her staying at home. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. + + +[Illustration] + +When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as +much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the +examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her +being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any +revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering. +But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that +cheerfulness which had been used to characterize her style, and which, +proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself, and kindly +disposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth +noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an +attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy’s +shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict gave her a +keener sense of her sister’s sufferings. It was some consolation to +think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next, +and a still greater that in less than a fortnight she should herself be +with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her +spirits, by all that affection could do. + +She could not think of Darcy’s leaving Kent without remembering that his +cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear +that he had no intentions at all, and, agreeable as he was, she did not +mean to be unhappy about him. + +While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the +door-bell; and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its +being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in +the evening, and might now come to inquire particularly after her. But +this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently +affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the +room. In a hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her +health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better. +She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and +then getting up walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but +said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her +in an agitated manner, and thus began:-- + +“In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be +repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love +you.” + +Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured, +doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement, +and the avowal of all that he felt and had long felt for her immediately +followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides those of the +heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the subject of +tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority, of its being a +degradation, of the family obstacles which judgment had always opposed +to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the +consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his +suit. + +In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to +the compliment of such a man’s affection, and though her intentions did +not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to +receive; till roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost +all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to +answer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with +representing to her the strength of that attachment which in spite of +all his endeavours he had found impossible to conquer; and with +expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of +his hand. As he said this she could easily see that he had no doubt of a +favourable answer. He _spoke_ of apprehension and anxiety, but his +countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only +exasperate farther; and when he ceased the colour rose into her cheeks +and she said,-- + +“In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to +express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however +unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be +felt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude, I would now thank you. But I +cannot--I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly +bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to +anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be +of short duration. The feelings which you tell me have long prevented +the acknowledgment of your regard can have little difficulty in +overcoming it after this explanation.” + +Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantel-piece with his eyes fixed +on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than +surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of +his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the +appearance of composure, and would not open his lips till he believed +himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth’s feelings +dreadful. At length, in a voice of forced calmness, he said,-- + +“And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I +might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little _endeavour_ at +civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.” + +“I might as well inquire,” replied she, “why, with so evident a design +of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me +against your will, against your reason, and even against your character? +Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I _was_ uncivil? But I have +other provocations. You know I have. Had not my own feelings decided +against you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been +favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept +the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the +happiness of a most beloved sister?” + +As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion +was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she +continued,-- + +“I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can +excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You dare not, +you cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not the only means +of dividing them from each other, of exposing one to the censure of the +world for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for +disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest +kind.” + +She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening +with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse. +He even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity. + +“Can you deny that you have done it?” she repeated. + +With assumed tranquillity he then replied, “I have no wish of denying +that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your +sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_ I have been +kinder than towards myself.” + +Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection, +but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her. + +“But it is not merely this affair,” she continued, “on which my dislike +is founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was +decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received +many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to +say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself? +or under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others?” + +“You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns,” said Darcy, +in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour. + +“Who that knows what his misfortunes have been can help feeling an +interest in him?” + +“His misfortunes!” repeated Darcy, contemptuously,--“yes, his +misfortunes have been great indeed.” + +“And of your infliction,” cried Elizabeth, with energy; “You have +reduced him to his present state of poverty--comparative poverty. You +have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed +for him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that +independence which was no less his due than his desert. You have done +all this! and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with +contempt and ridicule.” + +“And this,” cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room, +“is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I +thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this +calculation, are heavy indeed! But, perhaps,” added he, stopping in his +walk, and turning towards her, “these offences might have been +overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the +scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These +bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater +policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my +being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by +reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. +Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. +Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your +connections?--to congratulate myself on the hope of relations whose +condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?” + +Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to +the utmost to speak with composure when she said,-- + +“You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your +declaration affected me in any other way than as it spared me the +concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a +more gentlemanlike manner.” + +She saw him start at this; but he said nothing, and she continued,-- + +“You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way +that would have tempted me to accept it.” + +Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an +expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on,-- + +“From the very beginning, from the first moment, I may almost say, of my +acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest +belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the +feelings of others, were such as to form that groundwork of +disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immovable a +dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the +last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.” + +“You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your +feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. +Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best +wishes for your health and happiness.” + +And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him +the next moment open the front door and quit the house. The tumult of +her mind was now painfully great. She knew not how to support herself, +and, from actual weakness, sat down and cried for half an hour. Her +astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was increased by +every review of it. That she should receive an offer of marriage from +Mr. Darcy! that he should have been in love with her for so many months! +so much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all the objections +which had made him prevent his friend’s marrying her sister, and which +must appear at least with equal force in his own case, was almost +incredible! it was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so strong +an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride, his shameless avowal +of what he had done with respect to Jane, his unpardonable assurance in +acknowledging, though he could not justify it, and the unfeeling manner +which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not +attempted to deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration of his +attachment had for a moment excited. + +She continued in very agitating reflections till the sound of Lady +Catherine’s carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter +Charlotte’s observation, and hurried her away to her room. + + + + +[Illustration: + +“Hearing herself called” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. + + +[Illustration] + +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 +surprise of what had happened: it was impossible to think of anything +else; and, totally indisposed for employment, she resolved soon after +breakfast to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding +directly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy’s +sometimes coming 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. + +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, 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. He had by that time reached it also; and, holding out +a letter, which she instinctively took, said, with a look of haughty +composure, “I have been walking in the grove some time, in the hope of +meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?” and +then, with a slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon +out of sight. + +With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity, +Elizabeth opened the letter, and to her still increasing wonder, +perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter paper, written +quite through, in a very close hand. The envelope itself was likewise +full. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated +from Rosings, at eight o’clock in the morning, and was as follows:-- + +“Be not alarmed, madam, 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 disgusting to you. I write without any +intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes, +which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and 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. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand +your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I +demand it of your justice. + +“Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal +magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was, +that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley +from your sister,--and the other, that I had, in defiance of various +claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate +prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. Wilfully and +wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged +favourite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other +dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect +its exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two young +persons whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could +bear no comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was last +night so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope +to be in future secured, when the following account of my actions and +their motives has been read. If, in the explanation of them which is due +to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be +offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must +be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd. I had not been long in +Hertfordshire before I saw, in common with others, that Bingley +preferred your elder sister to any other young woman in the country. But +it was not till the evening of the dance at Netherfield that I had any +apprehension of his feeling a serious attachment. I had often seen him +in love before. At that ball, while I had the honour of dancing with +you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas’s accidental +information, that Bingley’s attentions to your sister had given rise to +a general expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it as a certain +event, of which the time alone could be undecided. From that moment I +observed my friend’s behaviour attentively; and I could then perceive +that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed +in him. Your sister I also watched. Her look and manners were open, +cheerful, and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar +regard; and I remained convinced, from the evening’s scrutiny, that +though she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite +them by any participation of sentiment. If _you_ have not been mistaken +here, _I_ must have been in an error. Your superior knowledge of your +sister must make the latter probable. If it be so, if I have been misled +by such error to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been +unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert, that the serenity of +your sister’s countenance and air was such as might have given the most +acute observer a conviction that, however amiable her temper, her heart +was not likely to be easily touched. That I was desirous of believing +her indifferent is certain; but I will venture to say that my +investigations and decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or +fears. I did not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it; I +believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. +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 +in my own case; the want of connection could not be so great an evil to +my friend as to me. But there were other causes of repugnance; causes +which, though still existing, and existing to an equal degree in both +instances, I had myself endeavoured to forget, because they were not +immediately before me. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The +situation of your mother’s family, though objectionable, 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 before to preserve my +friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. He left +Netherfield for London on the day following, as you, I am certain, +remember, with the design of soon returning. The part which I acted is +now to be explained. His sisters’ uneasiness had been equally excited +with my own: our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered; and, alike +sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we +shortly resolved on joining him directly in London. We accordingly +went--and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my +friend the certain evils of such a choice. I described and enforced them +earnestly. But however this remonstrance might have staggered or delayed +his determination, I do not suppose that it would ultimately have +prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded by the assurance, which +I hesitated not in giving, of your sister’s indifference. He had before +believed her to return his affection with sincere, if not with equal, +regard. But Bingley has great natural modesty, with a stronger +dependence on my judgment than on his own. To convince him, therefore, +that he had deceived himself was no very difficult point. To persuade +him against returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been +given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for +having done thus much. There is but one part of my conduct, in the whole +affair, on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is that I +condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him +your sister’s being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss +Bingley; but her brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might +have met without ill consequence is, perhaps, probable; but his regard +did not appear to me enough extinguished for him to see her without some +danger. Perhaps this concealment, this disguise, was beneath me. It is +done, however, and it was done for the best. On this subject I have +nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your +sister’s 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.--With respect to that other, more weighty +accusation, of having injured Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by +laying before you the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he +has _particularly_ accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what I +shall relate I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity. +Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years +the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good conduct in +the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service +to him; and on George Wickham, who was his godson, his kindness was +therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and +afterwards at Cambridge; most important assistance, as his own father, +always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to +give him a gentleman’s education. My father was not only fond of this +young man’s society, whose manners were always engaging, he had also the +highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be his profession, +intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is many, many years +since I first began to think of him in a very different manner. The +vicious propensities, the want of principle, which he was careful to +guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape the +observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself, and who +had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy +could not have. Here again I shall give you pain--to what degree you +only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has +created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding +his real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father +died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the +last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it to me to +promote his advancement in the best manner that his profession might +allow, and if he took orders, desired that a valuable family living +might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was also a legacy of +one thousand pounds. His own father did not long survive mine; and +within half a year from these events Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me +that, having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should +not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate +pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be +benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law, and I +must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very +insufficient support therein. I rather wished than believed him to be +sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his +proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman. The +business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all claim to assistance +in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to +receive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. 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 dropped. How he lived, I +know not. But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my +notice. I must now mention 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. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of +your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left +to the guardianship of my mother’s nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and +myself. About a year ago, she 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. This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in +which we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely +reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty +towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of +falsehood, he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be +wondered at, ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning +either. Detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly +not in your inclination. You may possibly wonder why all this was not +told you last night. But I was not then master enough of myself to know +what could or ought to be revealed. For the truth of everything here +related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel +Fitzwilliam, who, from our near relationship and constant intimacy, and +still more as one of the executors of my father’s will, has been +unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions. If +your abhorrence of _me_ should make _my_ assertions valueless, you +cannot be prevented by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and +that there may be the possibility of consulting him, 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.” + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to +contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of +its contents. But such as they were, it may be well supposed how eagerly +she went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited. +Her feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did +she first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power; +and steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could have no explanation to +give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong +prejudice against everything he might say, she began his account of +what had happened at Netherfield. She read with an eagerness which +hardly left her power of comprehension; and from impatience of knowing +what the next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the +sense of the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister’s +insensibility she instantly resolved to be false; and his account of the +real, the worst objections to the match, made her too angry to have any +wish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done +which satisfied her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all +pride and insolence. + +But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham--when +she read, with somewhat clearer attention, a relation of events which, +if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which +bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself--her feelings +were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition. +Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished +to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, “This must be false! +This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!”--and when she had +gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the +last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not +regard it, that she would never look in it again. + +In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on +nothing, she walked on; but it would not do: in half a minute the letter +was unfolded again; and collecting herself as well as she could, she +again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and +commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence. +The account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly +what he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, +though she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his +own words. So far each recital confirmed the other; but when she came to +the will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living +was fresh in her memory; and as she recalled his very words, it was +impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the +other, and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did +not err. But when she read and re-read, with the closest attention, the +particulars immediately following of Wickham’s resigning all pretensions +to the living, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three +thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down the +letter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be +impartiality--deliberated on the probability of each statement--but with +little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read on. +But every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had +believed it impossible that any contrivance could so represent as to +render Mr. Darcy’s conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a +turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole. + +The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay to +Mr. Wickham’s charge exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could +bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his +entrance into the ----shire militia, in which he had engaged at the +persuasion of the young man, who, on meeting him accidentally in town, +had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life, +nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told + +[Illustration: + + “Meeting accidentally in Town” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +himself. As to his real character, had information been in her power, +she had never felt a wish of inquiring. His countenance, voice, and +manner, had established him at once in the possession of every virtue. +She tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished +trait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the +attacks of Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone +for those casual errors, under which she would endeavour to class what +Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many years’ +continuance. But no such recollection befriended her. She could see him +instantly before her, in every charm of air and address, but she could +remember no more substantial good than the general approbation of the +neighbourhood, and the regard which his social powers had gained him in +the mess. After pausing on this point a considerable while, she once +more continued to read. But, alas! the story which followed, of his +designs on Miss Darcy, received some confirmation from what had passed +between Colonel Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at +last she was referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel +Fitzwilliam himself--from whom she had previously received the +information of his near concern in all his cousin’s affairs and whose +character she had no reason to question. At one time she had almost +resolved on applying to him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness +of the application, and at length wholly banished by the conviction that +Mr. Darcy would never have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been +well assured of his cousin’s corroboration. + +She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation +between Wickham and herself in their first evening at Mr. Philips’s. +Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was _now_ +struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and +wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting +himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions +with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear +of seeing Mr. Darcy--that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that +_he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball +the very next week. She remembered, also, that till the Netherfield +family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but +herself; but that after their removal, it had been everywhere discussed; +that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy’s +character, though he had assured her that respect for the father would +always prevent his exposing the son. + +How differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned! His +attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and +hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer +the moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at anything. +His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive: he had +either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying +his vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most +incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter +and fainter; and in further justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not +but allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago +asserted his blamelessness in the affair;--that, proud and repulsive as +were his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their +acquaintance--an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much +together, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways--seen anything +that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust--anything that spoke him +of irreligious or immoral habits;--that among his own connections he was +esteemed and valued;--that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a +brother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his +sister as to prove him capable of some amiable feeling;--that had his +actions been what Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of +everything right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and +that friendship between a person capable of it and such an amiable man +as Mr. Bingley was incomprehensible. + +She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham +could she think, without feeling that she had been blind, partial, +prejudiced, absurd. + +“How despicably have I acted!” she cried. “I, who have prided myself on +my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have +often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my +vanity in useless or blameless distrust. How humiliating is this +discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not +have been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has been my +folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect +of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted +prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away where either were +concerned. Till this moment, I never knew myself.” + +From herself to Jane, from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line +which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy’s explanation +_there_ had appeared very insufficient; and she read it again. Widely +different was the effect of a second perusal. How could she deny that +credit to his assertions, in one instance, which she had been obliged to +give in the other? He declared himself to have been totally unsuspicious +of her sister’s attachment; and she could not help remembering what +Charlotte’s opinion had always been. Neither could she deny the justice +of his description of Jane. She felt that Jane’s feelings, though +fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a constant +complacency in her air and manner, not often united with great +sensibility. + +When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were +mentioned, in tones 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 +Jane’s disappointment had, in fact, been the work of her nearest +relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt +by such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything she +had ever known before. + +After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every +variety of thought, reconsidering events, determining probabilities, and +reconciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and so +important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made her at +length return home; and she entered the house with the wish of appearing +cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such reflections as +must make her unfit for conversation. + +She was immediately told, that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each +called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes, to take +leave, but that Colonel Fitzwilliam 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 could but just _affect_ concern in +missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no +longer an object. She could think only of her letter. + + + + +[Illustration: + +“His parting obeisance” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. + + +[Illustration] + +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 a smile, of what her +Ladyship’s indignation would have been. “What would she have said? how +would she have behaved?” were the questions with which she amused +herself. + +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.” + +Mr. Collins had a compliment and an allusion to throw in here, which +were kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter. + +Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed out of +spirits; and immediately accounting for it herself, by supposing that +she did not like to go home again so soon, she added,-- + +“But if that is the case, you must write to your mother to beg that you +may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your +company, I am sure.” + +“I am much obliged to your Ladyship for your kind invitation,” replied +Elizabeth; “but it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town +next Saturday.” + +“Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I expected +you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There +can be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly +spare you for another fortnight.” + +“But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return.” + +[Illustration: + +“Dawson” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +“Oh, your father, of course, may spare you, if your mother can. +Daughters are never of so much consequence to a father. And if you will +stay another _month_ complete, it will be in my power to take one of you +as far as London, for I am going there early in June, for a week; and +as Dawson does not object to the barouche-box, there will be very good +room for one of you--and, indeed, if the weather should happen to be +cool, I should not object to taking you both, as you are neither of you +large.” + +“You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our +original plan.” + +Lady Catherine seemed resigned. “Mrs. Collins, you must send a servant +with them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea +of two young women travelling post by themselves. It is highly improper. +You must contrive to send somebody. I have the greatest dislike in the +world to that sort of thing. Young women should always be properly +guarded and attended, according to their situation in life. When my +niece Georgiana went to Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her +having two men-servants go with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter of Mr. +Darcy of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have appeared with +propriety in a different manner. I am excessively attentive to all those +things. You must send John with the young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I am +glad it occurred to me to mention it; for it would really be +discreditable to _you_ to let them go alone.” + +“My uncle is to send a servant for us.” + +“Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad you +have somebody who thinks of those things. Where shall you change horses? +Oh, Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at the Bell, you will be +attended to.” + +Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their journey; +and as she did not answer them all herself attention was +necessary--which Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or, with a +mind so occupied, she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection +must be reserved for solitary hours: whenever she was alone, she gave +way to it as the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a +solitary walk, in which she might indulge in all the delight of +unpleasant recollections. + +Mr. Darcy’s letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She +studied every sentence; and her feelings towards its writer were at +times widely different. When she remembered the style of his address, +she was still full of indignation: but when she considered how unjustly +she had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned against +herself; and his disappointed feelings became the object of compassion. +His attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect: but she +could not approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal, or +feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past +behaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and regret: and in +the unhappy defects of her family, a subject of yet heavier chagrin. +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 had frequently +united with Jane in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine +and Lydia; but 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 their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless, would +scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While +there was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt with him; and while +Meryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they would be going there for +ever. + +Anxiety on Jane’s behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr. Darcy’s +explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good opinion, +heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was proved to +have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame, unless any +could attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his friend. How +grievous then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every +respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had +been deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family! + +When to these recollections was added the development of Wickham’s +character, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had +seldom been depressed before were now so much affected as to make it +almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful. + +Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of +her stay as they had been at first. The very last evening was spent +there; and her Ladyship again inquired minutely into the particulars of +their journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing, +and was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right +way, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the +work of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh. + +When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, wished them +a good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford again next year; +and Miss de Bourgh exerted herself so far as to courtesy and hold out +her hand to both. + + + + +[Illustration: + +“The elevation of his feelings.” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. + + +[Illustration] + +On Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few +minutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of +paying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary. + +“I know not, Miss Elizabeth,” said he, “whether Mrs. Collins has yet +expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I am very +certain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for +it. The favour of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We know +how little there is to tempt anyone to our humble abode. Our plain +manner of living, our small rooms, and few domestics, and the little we +see of the world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like +yourself; but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension, +and that we have done everything in our power to prevent you spending +your time unpleasantly.” + +Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. 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. Poor Charlotte! it was melancholy to leave her to such +society! But she had chosen it with her eyes open; and though evidently +regretting that her visitors were to go, she did not seem to ask for +compassion. Her home and her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, +and all their dependent concerns, had not yet lost their charms. + +At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels +placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate +parting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by +Mr. Collins; and as they walked down the garden, he was commissioning +her with his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his thanks +for the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his +compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed +her in, Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed, +when he suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had +hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies of Rosings. + +[Illustration: + +“They had forgotten to leave any message” +] + +“But,” he added, “you will of course wish to have your humble respects +delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you +while you have been here.” + +Elizabeth made no objection: the door was then allowed to be shut, and +the carriage drove off. + +“Good gracious!” cried Maria, after a few minutes’ silence, “it seems +but a day or two since we first came! and yet how many things have +happened!” + +“A great many indeed,” said her companion, with a sigh. + +“We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there twice! +How much I shall have to tell!” + +Elizabeth privately added, “And how much I shall have to conceal!” + +Their journey was performed without much conversation, or any alarm; and +within four hours of their leaving Hunsford they reached Mr. Gardiner’s +house, where they were to remain a few days. + +Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her +spirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her aunt +had reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at +Longbourn there would be leisure enough for observation. + +It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even for +Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy’s proposals. To know +that she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish +Jane, and must, at the same time, so highly gratify whatever of her own +vanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such a temptation +to openness as nothing could have conquered, but the state of indecision +in which she remained as to the extent of what she should communicate, +and her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried into +repeating something of Bingley, which might only grieve her sister +further. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “How nicely we are crammed in” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. + + +[Illustration] + +It was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies set out +together from Gracechurch Street for the town of ----, in Hertfordshire; +and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet’s carriage was +to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman’s +punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room upstairs. +These two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily employed +in visiting an opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on guard, and +dressing a salad and cucumber. + +After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set +out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming, +“Is not this nice? is not this an agreeable surprise?” + +“And we mean to treat you all,” added Lydia; “but you must lend us the +money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there.” Then showing +her purchases,--“Look here, I have bought this bonnet. I do not think it +is very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall +pull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any +better.” + +And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect +unconcern, “Oh, but there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and +when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I +think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what +one wears this summer, after the ----shire have left Meryton, and they +are going in a fortnight.” + +“Are they, indeed?” cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction. + +“They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to +take us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme, +and I dare say would hardly cost anything at all. Mamma would like to +go, too, of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall +have!” + +“Yes,” thought Elizabeth; “_that_ would be a delightful scheme, indeed, +and completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton and a whole +campful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset already by one poor +regiment of militia, and the monthly balls of Meryton!” + +“Now I have got some news for you,” said Lydia, as they sat down to +table. “What do you think? It is excellent news, capital news, and about +a certain person that we all like.” + +Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told that he +need not stay. Lydia laughed, and said,-- + +“Ay, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the +waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse +things said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I am glad +he is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for +my news: it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is not it? +There is no danger of Wickham’s marrying Mary King--there’s for you! She +is gone down to her uncle at Liverpool; gone to stay. Wickham is safe.” + +“And Mary King is safe!” added Elizabeth; “safe from a connection +imprudent as to fortune.” + +“She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.” + +“But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,” said Jane. + +“I am sure there is not on _his_. I will answer for it, he never cared +three straws about her. Who _could_ about such a nasty little freckled +thing?” + +Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such +coarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the _sentiment_ +was little other than her own breast had formerly harboured and fancied +liberal! + +As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was +ordered; and, after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their +boxes, workbags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty’s and +Lydia’s purchases, were seated in it. + +“How nicely we are crammed in!” cried Lydia. “I am glad I brought my +bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another band-box! Well, now +let us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way +home. And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all +since you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any +flirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband +before you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare. +She is almost three-and-twenty! Lord! how ashamed I should be of not +being married before three-and-twenty! My aunt Philips wants you so to +get husbands you can’t think. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr. +Collins; but _I_ do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord! +how I should like to be married before any of you! and then I would +_chaperon_ you about to all the balls. Dear me! we had such a good piece +of fun the other day at Colonel Forster’s! Kitty and me were to spend +the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the +evening; (by-the-bye, Mrs. Forster and me are _such_ friends!) and so +she asked the two Harringtons to come: but Harriet was ill, and so Pen +was forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We +dressed up Chamberlayne in woman’s clothes, on purpose to pass for a +lady,--only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Colonel and Mrs. +Forster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were forced to borrow +one of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny, +and Wickham, and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in, they +did not know him in the least. Lord! how I laughed! and so did Mrs. +Forster. I thought I should have died. And _that_ made the men suspect +something, and then they soon found out what was the matter.” + +With such kind of histories of their parties and good jokes did Lydia, +assisted by Kitty’s hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her +companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she +could, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham’s name. + +Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane +in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet +say voluntarily to Elizabeth,---- + +“I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.” + +Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases +came to meet Maria and hear the news; and various were the subjects +which occupied them: Lady Lucas was inquiring of Maria, across the +table, after the welfare and poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet +was doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of the present +fashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and on the other, +retailing them all to the younger Miss Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice +rather louder than any other person’s, was enumerating the various +pleasures of the morning to anybody who would hear her. + +“Oh, Mary,” said she, “I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun! +as we went along Kitty and me drew up all the blinds, and pretended +there was nobody in the coach; and I should have gone so all the way, if +Kitty had not been sick; and when we got to the George, I do think we +behaved very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest +cold luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have +treated you too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought +we never should have got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. +And then we were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so +loud, that anybody might have heard us ten miles off!” + +To this, Mary very gravely replied, “Far be it from me, my dear sister, +to depreciate such pleasures. They would doubtless be congenial with the +generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms for +_me_. I should infinitely prefer a book.” + +But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to +anybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all. + +In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk to +Meryton, and see how everybody went on; but Elizabeth steadily opposed +the scheme. It should not be said, that the Miss Bennets could not be at +home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was +another reason, too, for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Wickham +again, and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The comfort to +_her_, of the regiment’s approaching removal, was indeed beyond +expression. In a fortnight they were to go, and once gone, she hoped +there could be nothing more to plague her on his account. + +She had not been many hours at home, before she found that the Brighton +scheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under +frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her +father had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were +at the same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though often +disheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at last. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XL. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth’s impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could no +longer be overcome; and at length resolving to suppress every particular +in which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be surprised, +she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene between Mr. +Darcy and herself. + +Miss Bennet’s astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly +partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly +natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was +sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so +little suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved for the +unhappiness which her sister’s refusal must have given him. + +“His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,” said she, “and certainly +ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his +disappointment.” + +“Indeed,” replied Elizabeth, “I am heartily sorry for him; but he has +other feelings which will probably soon drive away his regard for me. +You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?” + +“Blame you! Oh, no.” + +“But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?” + +“No--I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.” + +“But you _will_ know it, when I have told you what happened the very +next day.” + +She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far +as they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this for poor Jane, +who would willingly have gone through the world without believing that +so much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind as was here +collected in one individual! Nor was Darcy’s vindication, though +grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery. +Most earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and +seek to clear one, without involving the other. + +“This will not do,” said Elizabeth; “you never will be able to make both +of them good for anything. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied +with only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just +enough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting +about pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Mr. +Darcy’s, but you shall do as you choose.” + +It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane. + +“I do not know when I have been more shocked,” said she. “Wickham so +very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! dear Lizzy, +only consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and +with the knowledge of your ill opinion too! and having to relate such a +thing of his sister! It is really too distressing, I am sure you must +feel it so.” + +“Oh no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so full +of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am growing +every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion makes me +saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will be as +light as a feather.” + +“Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness in his +countenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner.” + +“There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those +two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the +appearance of it.” + +“I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it as you +used to do.” + +“And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike +to him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one’s genius, such an +opening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually +abusive without saying anything just; but one cannot be always laughing +at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty.” + +“Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat +the matter as you do now.” + +“Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I was very +uncomfortable--I may say unhappy. And with no one to speak to of what I +felt, no Jane to comfort me, and say that I had not been so very weak, +and vain, and nonsensical, as I knew I had! Oh, how I wanted you!” + +“How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions +in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they _do_ appear wholly +undeserved.” + +“Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most +natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There is +one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I +ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintance in general understand +Wickham’s character.” + +Miss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, “Surely there can be no +occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your own opinion?” + +“That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorized me to +make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular +relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to +myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his +conduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is +so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in +Meryton, to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal to +it. Wickham will soon be gone; and, therefore, it will not signify to +anybody here what he really is. Some time hence it will be all found +out, and then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. +At present I will say nothing about it.” + +“You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for +ever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and anxious to +re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate.” + +The tumult of Elizabeth’s mind was allayed by this conversation. She +had got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a +fortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she +might wish to talk again of either. But there was still something +lurking behind, of which prudence forbade the disclosure. She dared not +relate the other half of Mr. Darcy’s letter, nor explain to her sister +how sincerely she had been valued by his friend. Here was knowledge in +which no one could partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than +a perfect understanding between the parties could justify her in +throwing off this last encumbrance of mystery. “And then,” said she, “if +that very improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be +able to tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner +himself. The liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost +all its value!” + +She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real +state of her sister’s spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a +very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself in +love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and from +her age and disposition, greater steadiness than first attachments often +boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to +every other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the +feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those +regrets which must have been injurious to her own health and their +tranquillity. + +“Well, Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet, one day, “what is your opinion _now_ of +this sad business of Jane’s? For my part, I am determined never to speak +of it again to anybody. I told my sister Philips so the other day. But I +cannot find out that Jane saw anything of him in London. Well, he is a +very undeserving young man--and I do not suppose there is the least +chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his +coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have inquired of +everybody, too, who is likely to know.” + +[Illustration: + + “I am determined never to speak of it again” +] + +“I do not believe that he will ever live at Netherfield any more.” + +“Oh, well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come; though I +shall always say that he used my daughter extremely ill; and, if I was +her, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure +Jane will die of a broken heart, and then he will be sorry for what he +has done.” + +But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation she +made no answer. + +“Well, Lizzy,” continued her mother, soon afterwards, “and so the +Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it +will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an +excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her mother, +she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in _their_ +housekeeping, I dare say.” + +“No, nothing at all.” + +“A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes. _They_ will +take care not to outrun their income. _They_ will never be distressed +for money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often +talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it +quite as their own, I dare say, whenever that happens.” + +“It was a subject which they could not mention before me.” + +“No; it would have been strange if they had. But I make no doubt they +often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an +estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. _I_ should be +ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me.” + + + + +[Illustration: + +“When Colonel Miller’s regiment went away” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. + + +[Illustration] + +The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was +the last of the regiment’s stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies in +the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost +universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink, +and sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very +frequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and +Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such +hard-heartedness in any of the family. + +“Good Heaven! What is to become of us? What are we to do?” would they +often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. “How can you be smiling so, +Lizzy?” + +Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what +she had herself endured on a similar occasion five-and-twenty years ago. + +“I am sure,” said she, “I cried for two days together when Colonel +Miller’s regiment went away. I thought I should have broke my heart.” + +“I am sure I shall break _mine_,” said Lydia. + +“If one could but go to Brighton!” observed Mrs. Bennet. + +“Oh yes!--if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so disagreeable.” + +“A little sea-bathing would set me up for ever.” + +“And my aunt Philips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of good,” +added Kitty. + +Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through +Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense +of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy’s +objections; and never had she before been so much disposed to pardon his +interference in the views of his friend. + +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 ecstasy, 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. + +“I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as Lydia,” +said she, “though I am _not_ her particular friend. I have just as much +right to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am two years older.” + +In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make +her resigned. 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.” + +“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 anybody. 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.” + +With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion +continued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not +in her nature, however, to increase her vexations by dwelling on them. +She was confident of having performed her duty; and to fret over +unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her +disposition. + +Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her +father, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their +united volubility. In Lydia’s imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised +every possibility of earthly happiness. She saw, with the creative eye +of fancy, the streets of that gay bathing-place covered with officers. +She saw herself the object of attention to tens and to scores of them at +present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp: its tents +stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young +and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the view, she +saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six +officers at once. + +[Illustration: + +“Tenderly flirting” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +Had she known that her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and +such realities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could +have been understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly the +same. Lydia’s going to Brighton was all that consoled her for the +melancholy conviction of her husband’s never intending to go there +himself. + +But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures +continued, with little intermission, to the very day of Lydia’s leaving +home. + +Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been +frequently in company with him since her return, agitation was pretty +well over; the agitations of former partiality entirely so. She had even +learnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted her, +an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present +behaviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure; +for the inclination he soon testified of renewing those attentions which +had marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve, after +what had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern for him in +finding herself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous +gallantry; and while she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the +reproof contained in his believing, that however long, and for whatever +cause, his attentions had been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified, +and her preference secured, at any time, by their renewal. + +On the very last day of the regiment’s remaining in Meryton, he dined, +with others of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth +disposed to part from him in good-humour, that, on his making some +inquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she +mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam’s and Mr. Darcy’s having both spent three +weeks at Rosings, and asked him if he were acquainted with the former. + +He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but, with a moment’s +recollection, and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen +him often; and, after observing that he was a very gentlemanlike man, +asked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour. +With an air of indifference, he soon afterwards added, “How long did you +say that he was at Rosings?” + +“Nearly three weeks.” + +“And you saw him frequently?” + +“Yes, almost every day.” + +“His manners are very different from his cousin’s.” + +“Yes, very different; but I think Mr. Darcy improves on acquaintance.” + +“Indeed!” cried Wickham, with a look which did not escape her. “And pray +may I ask--” but checking himself, he added, in a gayer tone, “Is it in +address that he improves? Has he deigned to add aught of civility to his +ordinary style? for I dare not hope,” he continued, in a lower and more +serious tone, “that he is improved in essentials.” + +“Oh, no!” said Elizabeth. “In essentials, I believe, he is very much +what he ever was.” + +While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to +rejoice over her words or to distrust their meaning. There was a +something in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive +and anxious attention, while she added,-- + +“When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that +either his mind or manners were in a state of improvement; but that, +from knowing him better, his disposition was better understood.” + +Wickham’s alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated +look; for a few minutes he was silent; till, shaking off his +embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of +accents,-- + +“You, who so well know my feelings towards Mr. Darcy, will readily +comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume +even the _appearance_ of what is right. His pride, in that direction, +may be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must deter +him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only fear that +the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been alluding, is +merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and +judgment he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I +know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his +wish of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I am certain he +has very much at heart.” + +Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a +slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on +the old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge +him. The rest of the evening passed with the _appearance_, on his side, +of usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to distinguish +Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a +mutual desire of never meeting again. + +When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton, +from whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation +between her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the +only one who shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs. +Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter, +and impressive in her injunctions that she would not miss the +opportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible,--advice which there +was every reason to believe would be attended to; and, in the clamorous +happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle adieus +of her sisters were uttered without being heard. + + + + +[Illustration: + +The arrival of the +Gardiners +] + + + + +CHAPTER XLII. + + +[Illustration] + +Had Elizabeth’s opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could +not have formed a very pleasing picture of conjugal felicity or domestic +comfort. Her father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance +of good-humour which youth and beauty generally give, had married a +woman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind had very early in +their marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect, +esteem, and confidence had vanished for ever; and all his views of +domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a +disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own +imprudence had brought on in any of those pleasures which too often +console the unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of +the country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his principal +enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted than as +her ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not +the sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his +wife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true +philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given. + +Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her +father’s behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but +respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of +herself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to +banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation +and decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own +children, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so +strongly as now the disadvantages which must attend the children of so +unsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising +from so ill-judged a direction of talents--talents which, rightly used, +might at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters, even +if incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife. + +When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham’s departure, she found little +other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties +abroad were less varied than before; and at home she had a mother and +sister, whose constant repinings at the dulness of everything around +them threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty +might in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbers +of her brain were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition +greater evil might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all her +folly and assurance, by a situation of such double danger as a +watering-place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what +has been sometimes found before, that an event to which she had looked +forward with impatient desire, did not, in taking place, bring all the +satisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to +name some other period for the commencement of 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. 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 of her mother +and Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included Jane in the +scheme, every part of it would have been perfect. + +“But it is fortunate,” thought she, “that I have something to wish for. +Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain. +But here, by carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret in my +sister’s absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of +pleasure realized. A scheme of which every part promises delight can +never be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by +the defence of some little peculiar vexation.” + +When Lydia went away she promised to write very often and very minutely +to her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and +always very short. Those to her mother contained little else than that +they were just returned from the library, where such and such officers +had attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as +made her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which +she would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a +violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going to the +camp; and from her correspondence with her sister there was still less +to be learnt, for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were much +too full of lines under the words to be made public. + +After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, +good-humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn. Everything +wore a happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter +came back again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs. +Bennet was restored to her usual querulous serenity; and by the middle +of June Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton +without tears,--an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth +hope, that by the following Christmas she might be so tolerably +reasonable as not to mention an officer above once a day, unless, by +some cruel and malicious arrangement at the War Office, another regiment +should be quartered in Meryton. + +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: she had set her heart on seeing +the Lakes; and still thought there might have been time enough. But it +was her business to be satisfied--and certainly her temper to be happy; +and all was soon right again. + +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.” + +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. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two +younger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their cousin +Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and +sweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every +way--teaching them, playing with them, and loving them. + +The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the next +morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement. 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. + +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, Kenilworth, Birmingham, etc., 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. 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. Wickham passed all his youth there, you +know.” + +Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at +Pemberley, 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.” + +Elizabeth said no more; but her mind could not acquiesce. The +possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly +occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea; and +thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt, than to run such +a risk. But against this there were objections; and she finally resolved +that it could be the last resource, if her private inquiries as to the +absence of the family were unfavourably answered. + +Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid +whether Pemberley were not a very fine place, what was the name of its +proprietor, and, with no little alarm, whether the family were down for +the summer? A most welcome negative followed the last question; and her +alarms being now removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of +curiosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the +next morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and +with a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike +to the scheme. + +To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “Conjecturing as to the date” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of +Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; 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 the 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 at that moment she felt that +to be mistress of Pemberley might be something! + +They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and, +while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehension of +meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been +mistaken. 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 woman, much less +fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. 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. + +“And of this place,” thought she, “I might have been mistress! With +these rooms I might have now 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. But, no,” recollecting +herself, “that could never be; my uncle and aunt would have been lost to +me; I should not have been allowed to invite them.” + +This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret. + +She longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master were really +absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was +asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds +replied, that he was; adding, “But we expect him to-morrow, with a large +party of friends.” How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had +not by any circumstance been delayed a day! + +Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw +the likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other +miniatures, over the mantel-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how +she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the +picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master’s steward, who +had been brought up by him at his own expense. “He is now gone into the +army,” she added; “but I am afraid he has turned out very wild.” + +Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not +return it. + +“And that,” said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, +“is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the +other--about eight years ago.” + +“I have heard much of your master’s fine person,” said Mrs. Gardiner, +looking at the picture; “it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell +us whether it is like or not.” + +Mrs. Reynolds’ respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this +intimation of her knowing her master. + +“Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?” + +Elizabeth coloured, and said, “A little.” + +“And 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 upstairs 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.” + +This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham’s being among them. + +Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn +when she was only eight years old. + +“And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?” 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: she +comes here to-morrow with him.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Except,” thought Elizabeth, “when she goes to Ramsgate.” + +“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.” + +Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. 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 everybody will say that knows +him,” replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; +and she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, +“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 her +ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been her firmest opinion. +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 were 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.” + +Elizabeth almost stared at her. “Can this be Mr. Darcy?” thought she. + +“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, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs. +Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subjects +of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the +furniture in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family +prejudice, to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her +master, 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 anything 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. + +“This fine account of him,” whispered her aunt as they walked, “is not +quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend.” + +“Perhaps we might be deceived.” + +“That is not very likely; our authority was too good.” + +On reaching the spacious lobby above, they were shown into a very pretty +sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than +the apartments below; and were informed that it was but just done to +give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room, when +last at Pemberley. + +“He is certainly a good brother,” said Elizabeth, as she walked towards +one of the windows. + +Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy’s delight, when she should enter +the room. “And this is always the way with him,” she added. “Whatever +can give his sister any pleasure, is sure to be done in a moment. There +is nothing he would not do for her.” + +The picture gallery, and two or three of the principal bed-rooms, 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 sometimes 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 lifetime. + +There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth’s mind, a more gentle +sensation towards the original than she had ever felt in the height of +their acquaintance. 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 a deeper sentiment of gratitude +than it had ever raised before: she remembered its warmth, and 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, +and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least +of perfect civility. + +She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach, +received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be +overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture +they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two +that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener’s expression of surprise, on +beholding his master, must immediately have told it. They stood a little +aloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused, +scarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she +returned to his civil inquiries after her family. Amazed at the +alteration of his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he +uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the +impropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the few +minutes in which they continued together were some of the most +uncomfortable of her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he +spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his +inquiries as to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her stay +in Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the +distraction of his thoughts. + +At length, every idea seemed to fail him; and after standing a few +moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took +leave. + +The others then joined her, and expressed their admiration of his +figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and, wholly engrossed by her own +feelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and +vexation. Her coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged +thing in the world! How strange must it appear to him! In what a +disgraceful light might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if +she had purposely thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she come? +or, why did he thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been +only ten minutes sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his +discrimination; for it was plain that he was that moment arrived, that +moment alighted from his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and +again over the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so +strikingly altered,--what could it mean? That he should even speak to +her was amazing!--but to speak with such civility, to inquire after her +family! Never in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified, +never had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. +What a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when +he put his letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, or how to +account for it. + +They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and +every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer +reach of the woods to which they were approaching: but it was some time +before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered +mechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and seemed +to direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she +distinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that +one spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then +was. She longed to know what at that moment was passing in his mind; in +what manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything, +she was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he +felt himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice, which was +not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in seeing +her, she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with +composure. + +At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind +roused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself. + +They entered the woods, and, bidding adieu to the river for a while, +ascended some of the higher grounds; whence, in spots where the opening +of the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of +the valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods +overspreading many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner +expressed a wish of going round the whole park, but feared it might be +beyond a walk. With a triumphant smile, they were told, that it was ten +miles round. It settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed +circuit; which brought them again, after some time, in a descent among +hanging woods, to the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. +They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of +the scene: it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and +the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the +stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered +it. Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed +the bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner, +who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only of +returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was, +therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house +on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their +progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the +taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the +occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man +about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this +slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth’s astonishment was +quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy +approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here less +sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they +met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an +interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with +calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed, +she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. The idea +lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the +turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance she saw that +he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, +she began as they met to admire the beauty of the place; but she had not +got beyond the words “delightful,” and “charming,” when some unlucky +recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from +her might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said +no more. + +Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked +her if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends. +This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and +she could hardly suppress a smile at his being now seeking the +acquaintance of some of those very people, against whom his pride had +revolted, in his offer to herself. “What will be his surprise,” thought +she, “when he knows who they are! He takes them now for people of +fashion.” + +The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their +relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore +it; and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he +could from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the +connection was evident: he sustained it, however, with fortitude: and, +so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into +conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, +could not but triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had some +relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most +attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every +expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence, +his taste, or his good manners. + +The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr. Darcy +invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he +chose, while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same +time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of +the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was +walking arm in arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of her +wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the +compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was +extreme; and continually was she repeating, “Why is he so altered? From +what can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_, it cannot be for _my_ sake +that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not +work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love +me.” + +After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two +gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the +brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious +water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in +Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found +Elizabeth’s arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred +her husband’s. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on +together. After a short silence the lady first spoke. She wished him to +know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the +place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been +very unexpected--“for your housekeeper,” she added, “informed us that +you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and, indeed, before we +left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in +the country.” He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that +business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours +before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. “They +will join me early to-morrow,” he continued, “and among them are some +who will claim an acquaintance with you,--Mr. Bingley and his sisters.” + +Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly +driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley’s name had been last mentioned +between them; and if she might judge from his complexion, _his_ mind was +not very differently engaged. + +“There is also one other person in the party,” he continued after a +pause, “who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow +me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance +during your stay at Lambton?” + +The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great +for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt +that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her, +must be the work of her brother, and without looking farther, it was +satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made +him think really ill of her. + +They now walked on in silence; each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth +was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and +pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her was a compliment of +the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others; and when they had +reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a +mile behind. + +He then asked her to walk into the house--but she declared herself not +tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time much might +have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but +there seemed an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected that +she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dovedale with +great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly--and her patience +and her ideas were nearly worn out before the _tête-à-tête_ was over. + +On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s coming up they were all pressed to go into +the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they +parted on each side with the utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the +ladies into the carriage; and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him +walking slowly towards the house. + +The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them +pronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they had expected. + +“He is perfectly well-behaved, polite, and unassuming,” said her uncle. + +“There _is_ something a little stately in him, to be sure,” replied her +aunt; “but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now +say with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud, +_I_ have seen nothing of it.” + +“I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more +than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such +attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling.” + +“To be sure, Lizzy,” said her aunt, “he is not so handsome as Wickham; +or rather he has not Wickham’s countenance, for his features are +perfectly good. But how came you to tell us that he was so +disagreeable?” + +Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could: said that she had liked +him better when they met in Kent than before, and that she had never +seen him so pleasant as this morning. + +“But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,” replied +her uncle. “Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him +at his word about fishing, as he might change his mind another day, and +warn me off his grounds.” + +Elizabeth felt that they had entirely mistaken his character, but said +nothing. + +“From what we have seen of him,” continued Mrs. Gardiner, “I really +should not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by +anybody as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look. +On the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when he +speaks. And there is something of dignity in his countenance, that would +not give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But, to be sure, the +good lady who showed us the house did give him a most flaming character! +I could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal +master, I suppose, and _that_, in the eye of a servant, comprehends +every virtue.” + +Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of +his behaviour to Wickham; and, therefore, gave them to understand, in as +guarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from his +relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different +construction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor +Wickham’s so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In +confirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary +transactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming +her authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on. + +Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned: but as they were now +approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to +the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out +to her husband all the interesting spots in its environs, to think of +anything else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning’s walk, they had +no sooner dined than she set off again in quest of her former +acquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of an +intercourse renewed after many years’ discontinuance. + +The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth +much attention for any of these new friends; and she could do nothing +but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy’s civility, and, above +all, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit +her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was, consequently, +resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning. +But her conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their own +arrival at Lambton these visitors came. They had been walking about the +place with some of their new friends, and were just returned to the inn +to dress themselves for dining with the same family, when the sound of a +carriage drew them to a window, and they saw a gentleman and lady in a +curricle driving up the street. Elizabeth, immediately recognizing the +livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of surprise +to her relations, by acquainting them with the honour which she +expected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and the embarrassment +of her manner as she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many +of the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a new idea on +the business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they now felt +that there was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such +a quarter than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these +newly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of +Elizabeth’s feelings was every moment increasing. She was quite amazed +at her own discomposure; but, amongst other causes of disquiet, she +dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much in +her favour; and, more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally +suspected that every power of pleasing would fail her. + +She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she walked +up and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw such looks of +inquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made everything worse. + +Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction +took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see that her new +acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself. Since her +being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud; +but the observation of a very few minutes convinced her that she was +only exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain even a word from +her beyond a monosyllable. + +Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and, though +little more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance +womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother, but there +was sense and good-humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly +unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her as +acute and unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much +relieved by discerning such different feelings. + +They had not been long together before Darcy told her that Bingley was +also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time to express her +satisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when Bingley’s quick step +was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the room. All +Elizabeth’s anger against him had been long done away; but had she still +felt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected +cordiality with which he expressed himself on seeing her again. He +inquired in a friendly, though general, way, after her family, and +looked and spoke with the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done. + +To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting personage +than to herself. They had long wished to see him. The whole party before +them, indeed, excited a lively attention. The suspicions which had just +arisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece, directed their observation towards +each with an earnest, though guarded, inquiry; and they soon drew from +those inquiries the full conviction that one of them at least knew what +it was to love. Of the lady’s sensations they remained a little in +doubt; but that the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was +evident enough. + +Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain the +feelings of each of her visitors, she wanted to compose her own, and to +make herself agreeable to all; and in the latter object, where she +feared most to fail, she was most sure of success, for those to whom +she endeavoured to give pleasure were pre-possessed in her favour. +Bingley was ready, Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined, to be +pleased. + +[Illustration: + + “To make herself agreeable to all” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister; and oh! +how ardently did she long to know whether any of his were directed in a +like manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he talked less than on +former occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with the notion +that, as he looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But, +though this might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his +behaviour to Miss Darcy, who had been set up as a rival to Jane. No +look appeared on either side that spoke particular regard. Nothing +occurred between them that could justify the hopes of his sister. On +this point she was soon satisfied; and two or three little circumstances +occurred ere they parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted +a recollection of Jane, not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of +saying more that might lead to the mention of her, had he dared. He +observed to her, at a moment when the others were talking together, and +in a tone which had something of real regret, that it “was a very long +time since he had had the pleasure of seeing her;” and, before she could +reply, he added, “It is above eight months. We have not met since the +26th of November, when we were all dancing together at Netherfield.” + +Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he afterwards +took occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of the rest, whether +_all_ her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the question, +nor in the preceding remark; but there was a look and a manner which +gave them meaning. + +It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself; but +whenever she did catch a glimpse she saw an expression of general +complaisance, and in all that he said, she heard an accent so far +removed from _hauteur_ or disdain of his companions, as convinced her +that the improvement of manners which she had yesterday witnessed, +however temporary its existence might prove, had at least outlived one +day. When she saw him thus seeking the acquaintance, and courting the +good opinion of people with whom any intercourse a few months ago would +have been a disgrace; when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, +but to the very relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected +their last lively scene in Hunsford Parsonage, the difference, the +change was so great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she could +hardly restrain her astonishment from being visible. Never, even in the +company of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations +at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please, so free from +self-consequence or unbending reserve, as now, when no importance could +result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the +acquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed, would draw +down the ridicule and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and +Rosings. + +Their visitors stayed with them above half an hour; and when they arose +to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing +their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner +at Pemberley, before they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a +diffidence which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations, +readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing +how _she_, whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its +acceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming, however, +that this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment than +any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of +society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for +her attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on. + +Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Elizabeth +again, having still a great deal to say to her, and many inquiries to +make after all their Hertfordshire friends. Elizabeth, construing all +this into a wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was pleased; and +on this account, as well as some others, found herself, when their +visitors left them, capable of considering the last half hour with some +satisfaction, though while it was passing the enjoyment of it had been +little. Eager to be alone, and fearful of inquiries or hints from her +uncle and aunt, she stayed with them only long enough to hear their +favourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress. + +But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s curiosity; it was +not their wish to force her communication. It was evident that she was +much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had before any idea of; +it was evident that he was very much in love with her. They saw much to +interest, but nothing to justify inquiry. + +Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far +as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They could +not be untouched by his politeness; and had they drawn his character +from their own feelings and his servant’s report, without any reference +to any other account, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known +would not have recognized it for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest, +however, in believing the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible +that the authority of a servant, who had known him since he was four +years old, and whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be +hastily rejected. Neither had anything occurred in the intelligence of +their Lambton friends that could materially lessen its weight. They had +nothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably had, and if not, +it would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants of a small market town +where the family did not visit. It was acknowledged, however, that he +was a liberal man, and did much good among the poor. + +With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was not held +there in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns with the +son of his patron were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well-known +fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind +him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged. + +As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening more than +the last; and the evening, though as it passed it seemed long, was not +long enough to determine her feelings towards _one_ in that mansion; and +she lay awake two whole hours, endeavouring to make them out. She +certainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she +had almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him, +that could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his +valuable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some +time ceased to be repugnant to her feelings; and it was now heightened +into somewhat of a friendlier nature by the testimony so highly in his +favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light, +which yesterday had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem, +there was a motive within her of good-will which could not be +overlooked. It was gratitude;--gratitude, not merely for having once +loved her, but for loving her still well enough to forgive all the +petulance and acrimony of her manner in rejecting him, and all the +unjust accusations accompanying her rejection. He who, she had been +persuaded, would avoid her as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this +accidental meeting, most eager to preserve the acquaintance; and +without any indelicate display of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, +where their two selves only were concerned, was soliciting the good +opinion of her friends, and bent on making her known to his sister. Such +a change in a man of so much pride excited not only astonishment but +gratitude--for to love, ardent love, it must be attributed; and, as +such, its impression on her was of a sort to be encouraged, as by no +means unpleasing, though it could not be exactly defined. She respected, +she esteemed, she was grateful to him, she felt a real interest in his +welfare; and she only wanted to know how far she wished that welfare to +depend upon herself, and how far it would be for the happiness of both +that she should employ the power, which her fancy told her she still +possessed, of bringing on the renewal of his addresses. + +It had been settled in the evening, between the aunt and niece, that +such a striking civility as Miss Darcy’s, in coming to them on the very +day of her arrival at Pemberley--for she had reached it only to a late +breakfast--ought to be imitated, though it could not be equalled, by +some exertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that it +would be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following +morning. They were, therefore, to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though when +she asked herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply. + +Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme had been +renewed the day before, and a positive engagement made of his meeting +some of the gentlemen at Pemberley by noon. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “Engaged by the river” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XLV. + + +[Illustration] + +Convinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley’s dislike of her had +originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how very unwelcome +her appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know +with how much civility on that lady’s side the acquaintance would now +be renewed. + +On reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the saloon, +whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows, +opening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody +hills behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts +which were scattered over the intermediate lawn. + +In this room they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting there +with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived in +London. Georgiana’s reception of them was very civil, but attended with +all that embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the +fear of doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves +inferior the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and +her niece, however, did her justice, and pitied her. + +By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only by a courtesy; and +on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be, +succeeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a +genteel, agreeable-looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind +of discourse proved her to be more truly well-bred than either of the +others; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from +Elizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she +wished for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a +short sentence, when there was least danger of its being heard. + +Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss Bingley, +and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without +calling her attention. This observation would not have prevented her +from trying to talk to the latter, had they not been seated at an +inconvenient distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity +of saying much: her own thoughts were employing her. She expected every +moment that some of the gentlemen would enter the room: she wished, she +feared, that the master of the house might be amongst them; and whether +she wished or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After +sitting in this manner a quarter of an hour, without hearing Miss +Bingley’s voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold +inquiry after the health of her family. She answered with equal +indifference and brevity, and the other said no more. + +The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the +entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the +finest fruits in season; but this did not take place till after many a +significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been +given, to remind her of her post. There was now employment for the whole +party; for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the +beautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches, soon collected +them round the table. + +While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding whether +she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by the +feelings which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but +a moment before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to +regret that he came. + +He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three other +gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river; and had left him +only on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to +Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear, than Elizabeth wisely +resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed;--a resolution the more +necessary to be made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she +saw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them, +and that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour +when he first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive +curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley’s, in spite of the +smiles which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its +objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attentions +to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother’s +entrance, exerted herself much more to talk; and Elizabeth saw that he +was anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded, +as much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss +Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the +first opportunity of saying, with sneering civility,-- + +“Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ----shire militia removed from Meryton? +They must be a great loss to _your_ family.” + +In Darcy’s presence she dared not mention Wickham’s name: but Elizabeth +instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and the +various recollections connected with him gave her a moment’s distress; +but, exerting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she +presently answered the question in a tolerably disengaged tone. While +she spoke, an involuntary glance showed her Darcy with a heightened +complexion, earnestly looking at her, and his sister overcome with +confusion, and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what +pain she was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would have +refrained from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose +Elizabeth, by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she believed +her partial, to make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in +Darcy’s opinion, and, perhaps, to remind the latter of all the follies +and absurdities by which some part of her family were connected with +that corps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss Darcy’s +meditated elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where secrecy +was possible, except to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley’s connections +her brother was particularly anxious to conceal it, from that very wish +which Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming +hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan; and without +meaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate him from Miss +Bennet, it is probable that it might add something to his lively concern +for the welfare of his friend. + +Elizabeth’s collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion; and +as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to +Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able +to speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely +recollected her interest in the affair; and the very circumstance which +had been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth, seemed to have +fixed them on her more and more cheerfully. + +Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer above +mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their carriage, +Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth’s +person, behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join her. Her +brother’s recommendation was enough to insure her favour: his judgment +could not err; and he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth, as to leave +Georgiana without the power of finding her otherwise than lovely and +amiable. When Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help +repeating to him some part of what she had been saying to his sister. + +“How very ill Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy,” she cried: “I +never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she is since the winter. +She is grown so brown and coarse! 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. The looks and behaviour of everybody they had seen were discussed, +except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked +of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit, of everything but +himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of +him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece’s +beginning the subject. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter XLVI. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from +Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been +renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but on +the third her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the +receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that +it had been mis-sent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as +Jane had written the direction remarkably ill. + +They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and her +uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by +themselves. The one mis-sent must be first attended to; it had been +written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their +little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded; +but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident +agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect:-- + +“Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a +most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you--be +assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia. +An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed, +from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland +with one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our +surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am +very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing +to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood. +Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step (and +let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is +disinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing. +Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How +thankful am I, that we never let them know what has been said against +him; we must forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about +twelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at +eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have +passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect +him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of +their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor +mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly +know what I have written.” + +Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing +what she felt, Elizabeth, on finishing this letter, instantly seized the +other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it +had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first. + +“By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter; I +wish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my +head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest +Lizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you, +and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as a marriage between Mr. Wickham +and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has +taken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone +to Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the +day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia’s short +letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna +Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that W. +never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was repeated +to Colonel F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B., +intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham, but +no farther; for on entering that place, they removed into a +hackney-coach, and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. +All that is known after this is, that they were seen to continue the +London road. I know not what to think. After making every possible +inquiry on that side of London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, +anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet +and Hatfield, but without any success,--no such people had been seen to +pass through. With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and +broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. +I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F.; but no one can throw any +blame on them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and +mother believe the worst, but I cannot think so ill of him. Many +circumstances might make it more eligible for them to be married +privately in town than to pursue their first plan; and even if _he_ +could form such a design against a young woman of Lydia’s connections, +which is not likely, can I suppose her so lost to everything? +Impossible! I grieve to find, however, that Colonel F. is not disposed +to depend upon their marriage: he shook his head when I expressed my +hopes, and said he feared W. was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother +is really ill, and keeps her room. Could she exert herself, it would be +better, but this is not to be expected; and as to my father, I never in +my life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having concealed +their attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence, one cannot +wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have been spared +something of these distressing scenes; but now, as the first shock is +over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not so selfish, +however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu! I take up my pen +again to do, what I have just told you I would not; but circumstances +are such, that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as +soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well, that I am not +afraid of requesting it, though I have still something more to ask of +the former. My father is going to London with Colonel Forster instantly, +to try to discover her. What he means to do, I am sure I know not; but +his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any measure in the +best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton +again to-morrow evening. In such an exigence my uncle’s advice and +assistance would be everything in the world; he will immediately +comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.” + +“Oh! where, where is my uncle?” cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat +as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing a +moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door, it was +opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and +impetuous manner made him start, and before he could recover himself +enough to speak, she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia’s +situation, hastily exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. +I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment on business that cannot be delayed; +I have not an instant to lose.” + +“Good God! what is the matter?” cried he, with more feeling than +politeness; then recollecting himself, “I will not detain you a minute; +but let me, or let the servant, go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are +not well enough; you cannot go yourself.” + +Elizabeth hesitated; but her knees trembled under her, and she felt how +little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back +the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an +accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and +mistress home instantly. + +On his quitting the room, she sat down, unable to support herself, and +looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her, +or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration, +“Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you +present relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill.” + +“No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. “There +is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well, I am only distressed by +some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn.” + +She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could +not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say +something indistinctly of his + +[Illustration: + + “I have not an instant to lose” +] + +concern, and observe her in compassionate silence. At length she spoke +again. “I have just had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful news. It +cannot be concealed from anyone. My youngest sister has left all her +friends--has eloped; has thrown herself into the power of--of Mr. +Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. _You_ know him too +well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections, nothing that +can tempt him to--she is lost for ever.” + +Darcy was fixed in astonishment. + +“When I consider,” she added, in a yet more agitated voice, “that _I_ +might have prevented it! _I_ who knew what he was. Had I but explained +some part of it only--some part of what I learnt, to my own family! Had +his character been known, this could not have happened. But it is all, +all too late now.” + +“I am grieved, indeed,” cried Darcy: “grieved--shocked. But is it +certain, absolutely certain?” + +“Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced +almost to London, but not beyond: they are certainly not gone to +Scotland.” + +“And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?” + +“My father has gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle’s +immediate assistance, and we shall be off, I hope, in half an hour. But +nothing can be done; I know very well that nothing can be done. How is +such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have +not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!” + +Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence. + +“When _my_ eyes were opened to his real character, oh! had I known what +I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not--I was afraid of doing too +much. Wretched, wretched mistake!” + +Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking up +and down the room in earnest meditation; his brow contracted, his air +gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. Her power +was sinking; everything _must_ sink under such a proof of family +weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither +wonder nor condemn; but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing +consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It +was, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own +wishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved +him, as now, when all love must be vain. + +But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia--the +humiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all--soon swallowed up +every private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief, +Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else; and, after a pause of +several minutes, was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the +voice of her companion, who, in a manner which, though it spoke +compassion, spoke likewise restraint, said,-- + +“I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence, nor have I anything +to plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing concern. +Would to Heaven that anything could be either said or done on my part, +that might offer consolation to such distress! But I will not torment +you with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. +This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister’s having the +pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley to-day.” + +“Oh, yes! Be so kind as to apologize for us to Miss Darcy. Say that +urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as +long as it is possible. I know it cannot be long.” + +He readily assured her of his secrecy, again expressed his sorrow for +her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present +reason to hope, and, leaving his compliments for her relations, with +only one serious parting look, went away. + +As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they +should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as had +marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a +retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of +contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those +feelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would +formerly have rejoiced in its termination. + +If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth’s +change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if +otherwise, if the regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or +unnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on a +first interview with its object, and even before two words have been +exchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she had given +somewhat of a trial to the latter method, in her partiality for Wickham, +and that its ill success might, perhaps, authorize her to seek the other +less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go +with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia’s infamy must +produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched +business. Never since reading Jane’s second letter had she entertained a +hope of Wickham’s meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought, +could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least +of all her feelings on this development. While the contents of the first +letter remained on her mind, she was all surprise, all astonishment, +that Wickham should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry +for money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared +incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment +as this, she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not +suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement, without the +intention of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither +her virtue nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy +prey. + +She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that +Lydia had any partiality for him; but she was convinced that Lydia had +wanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one +officer, sometimes another, had been her favourite, as their attentions +raised them in her opinion. Her affections had been continually +fluctuating, but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and +mistaken indulgence towards such a girl--oh! how acutely did she now +feel it! + +She was wild to be at home--to hear, to see, to be upon the spot to +share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a +family so deranged; a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and +requiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing +could be done for Lydia, her uncle’s interference seemed of the utmost +importance, and till he entered the room the misery of her impatience +was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing, +by the servant’s account, that their niece was taken suddenly ill; but +satisfying them instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the +cause of their summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on +the postscript of the last with trembling energy. Though Lydia had never +been a favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be +deeply affected. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after +the first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner readily +promised every assistance in his power. Elizabeth, though expecting no +less, thanked him with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated +by one spirit, everything relating to their journey was speedily +settled. They were to be off as soon as possible. “But what is to be +done about Pemberley?” cried Mrs. Gardiner. “John told us Mr. Darcy was +here when you sent for us;--was it so?” + +“Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement. +_That_ is all settled.” + +“What is all settled?” repeated the other, as she ran into her room to +prepare. “And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real +truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!” + +But wishes were vain; or, at best, could serve only to amuse her in the +hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure +to be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was +impossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of +business as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to +be written to all their friends at Lambton, with false excuses for their +sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr. +Gardiner, meanwhile, having settled his account at the inn, nothing +remained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of +the morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could +have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “The first pleasing earnest of their welcome” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII. + + +[Illustration] + +“I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth,” said her uncle, as they +drove from the town; “and really, upon serious consideration, I am much +more inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does of the +matter. It appears to me so very unlikely that any young man should form +such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or +friendless, and who was actually staying in his Colonel’s family, that I +am strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends +would not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the +regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is +not adequate to the risk.” + +“Do you really think so?” cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment. + +“Upon my word,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “I begin to be of your uncle’s +opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and +interest, for him to be guilty of it. I cannot think so very ill of +Wickham. Can you, yourself, Lizzie, so wholly give him up, as to believe +him capable of it?” + +“Not perhaps of neglecting his own interest. But of every other neglect +I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I dare not +hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland, if that had been the +case?” + +“In the first place,” replied Mr. Gardiner, “there is no absolute proof +that they are not gone to Scotland.” + +“Oh, but their removing from the chaise into a hackney coach is such a +presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be found on the +Barnet road.” + +“Well, then,--supposing them to be in London--they may be there, though +for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptionable purpose. It is +not likely that money should be very abundant on either side; and it +might strike them that they could be more economically, though less +expeditiously, married in London, than in Scotland.” + +“But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their +marriage be private? Oh, no, no--this is not likely. His most particular +friend, you see by Jane’s account, was persuaded of his never intending +to marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some money. He +cannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia, what attractions has she +beyond youth, health, and good humour, that could make him for her sake +forego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what +restraint the apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on a +dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I know +nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But as to your +other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Lydia has no +brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from my father’s +behaviour, from his indolence and the little attention he has ever +seemed to give to what was going forward in his family, that _he_ would +do as little and think as little about it, as any father could do, in +such a matter.” + +“But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love of him, +as to consent to live with him on any other terms than marriage?” + +“It does seem, and it is most shocking, indeed,” replied Elizabeth, with +tears in her eyes, “that a sister’s sense of decency and virtue in such +a point should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say. +Perhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young: she has never +been taught to think on serious subjects; and for the last half year, +nay, for a twelvemonth, she has been given up to nothing but amusement +and vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle +and frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in her way. +Since the ----shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love, +flirtation, and officers, have been in her head. She has been doing +everything in her power, by thinking and talking on the subject, to give +greater--what shall I call it?--susceptibility to her feelings; which +are naturally lively enough. And we all know that Wickham has every +charm of person and address that can captivate a woman.” + +“But you see that Jane,” said her aunt, “does not think so ill of +Wickham, as to believe him capable of the attempt.” + +“Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be +their former conduct, that she would believe capable of such an attempt, +till it were proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what +Wickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every +sense of the word; that he has neither integrity nor honour; that he is +as false and deceitful as he is insinuating.” + +“And do you really know all this?” cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity +as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive. + +“I do, indeed,” replied Elizabeth, colouring. “I told you the other day +of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you, yourself, when last at +Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man who had behaved with +such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other +circumstances which I am not at liberty--which it is not worth while to +relate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From +what he said of Miss Darcy, I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud, +reserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He +must know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found +her.” + +“But does Lydia know nothing of this? can she be ignorant of what you +and Jane seem so well to understand?” + +“Oh, yes!--that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw +so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was +ignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home the ----shire +was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight’s time. As that was the +case, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it +necessary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could it +apparently be to anyone, that the good opinion, which all the +neighbourhood had of him, should then be overthrown? And even when it +was settled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of +opening her eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could +be in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such a +consequence as _this_ should ensue, you may easily believe was far +enough from my thoughts.” + +“When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I +suppose, to believe them fond of each other?” + +“Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either +side; and had anything of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware +that ours is not a family on which it could be thrown away. When first +he entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all +were. Every girl in or near Meryton was out of her senses about him for +the first two months: but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular +attention; and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and +wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment, +who treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites.” + +It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added +to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject by +its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during +the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth’s thoughts it was never absent. +Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could +find no interval of ease or forgetfulness. + +They travelled as expeditiously as possible; and sleeping one night on +the road, reached Longbourn by dinnertime the next day. It was a comfort +to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied by long +expectations. + +The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing +on the steps of the house, as they entered the paddock; and when the +carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their +faces and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of +capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome. + +Elizabeth jumped out; and after giving each of them a hasty kiss, +hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running downstairs from +her mother’s apartment, immediately met her. + +Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the +eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether anything had been +heard of the fugitives. + +“Not yet,” replied Jane. “But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope +everything will be well.” + +“Is my father in town?” + +“Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word.” + +“And have you heard from him often?” + +“We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday, to say +that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I +particularly begged him to do. He merely added, that he should not write +again, till he had something of importance to mention.” + +“And my mother--how is she? How are you all?” + +“My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly +shaken. She is upstairs, and will have great satisfaction in seeing you +all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank +Heaven! are quite well.” + +“But you--how are you?” cried Elizabeth. “You look pale. How much you +must have gone through!” + +Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well; and their +conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were +engaged with their children, was now put an end to by the approach of +the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and +thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears. + +When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth +had already asked were of course repeated by the others, and they soon +found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good, +however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested, had not yet +deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that +every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father, +to explain their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce the marriage. + +Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes’ +conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with +tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous +conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill-usage; +blaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the +errors of her daughter must be principally owing. + +“If I had been able,” said she, “to carry my point in going to Brighton +with all my family, _this_ would not have happened: but poor dear Lydia +had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out +of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their +side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing, if she had +been well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have +the charge of her; but I was over-ruled, as I always am. Poor, dear +child! And now here’s Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight +Wickham, wherever he meets him, and then he will be killed, and what is +to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out, before he is cold +in his grave; and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what +we shall do.” + +They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after +general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her +that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr. +Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia. + +“Do not give way to useless alarm,” added he: “though it is right to be +prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain. +It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more, we +may gain some news of them; and till we know that they are not married, +and have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as +lost. As soon as I get to town, I shall go to my brother, and make him +come home with me to Gracechurch Street, and then we may consult +together as to what is to be done.” + +“Oh, my dear brother,” replied Mrs. Bennet, “that is exactly what I +could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out, +wherever they may be; and if they are not married already, _make_ them +marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but +tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them, +after they are married. And, above all things, keep Mr. Bennet from +fighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in--that I am frightened +out of my wits; and have such tremblings, such flutterings all over me, +such spasms in my side, and pains in my head, and such beatings at my +heart, that I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear +Lydia not to give any directions about her clothes till she has seen me, +for she does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother, how +kind you are! I know you will contrive it all.” + +But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavours +in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well in +her hopes as her fears; and after talking with her in this manner till +dinner was on table, they left her to vent all her feelings on the +housekeeper, who attended in the absence of her daughters. + +Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real +occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to +oppose it; for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her +tongue before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged it +better that _one_ only of the household, and the one whom they could +most trust, should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the +subject. + +In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been +too busily engaged in their separate apartments to make their appearance +before. One came from her books, and the other from her toilette. The +faces of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change was visible +in either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or the anger +which she had herself incurred in the business, had given something more +of fretfulness than usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was +mistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance +of grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table,-- + +“This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much talked of. +But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of +each other the balm of sisterly consolation.” + +Then perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added, +“Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful +lesson:--that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable, that one +false step involves her in endless ruin, that her reputation is no less +brittle than it is beautiful, and that she cannot be too much guarded in +her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex.” + +Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed to +make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such +kind of moral extractions from the evil before them. + +In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for half an +hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of the +opportunity of making any inquiries which Jane was equally eager to +satisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel +of this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss +Bennet could not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued +the subject by saying, “But tell me all and everything about it which I +have not already heard. Give me further particulars. What did Colonel +Forster say? Had they no apprehension of anything before the elopement +took place? They must have seen them together for ever.” + +“Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality, +especially on Lydia’s side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so +grieved for him. His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He +_was_ coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had +any idea of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension +first got abroad, it hastened his journey.” + +“And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of +their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?” + +“Yes; but when questioned by _him_, Denny denied knowing anything of +their plan, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not +repeat his persuasion of their not marrying, and from _that_ I am +inclined to hope he might have been misunderstood before.” + +“And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a +doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?” + +“How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I felt a +little uneasy--a little fearful of my sister’s happiness with him in +marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite +right. My father and mother knew nothing of that; they only felt how +imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural +triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia’s last letter +she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their +being in love with each other many weeks.” + +“But not before they went to Brighton?” + +“No, I believe not.” + +“And did Colonel Forster appear to think ill of Wickham himself? Does he +know his real character?” + +“I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly +did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant; and since this sad +affair has taken place, it is said that he left Meryton greatly in debt: +but I hope this may be false.” + +“Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him, +this could not have happened!” + +“Perhaps it would have been better,” replied her sister. + +“But to expose the former faults of any person, without knowing what +their present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable.” + +“We acted with the best intentions.” + +“Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia’s note to his +wife?” + +“He brought it with him for us to see.” + +Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These +were the contents:-- + + /* NIND “My dear Harriet, */ + + “You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help + laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am + missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with + who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the + world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without + him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at + Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it will make the + surprise the greater when I write to them, and sign my name Lydia + Wickham. What a good joke it will be! I can hardly write for + laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt for not keeping my + engagement, and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I hope he will + excuse me when he knows all, and tell him I will dance with him at + the next ball we meet with great pleasure. I shall send for my + clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell Sally to + mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown before they are packed + up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster. I hope you will + drink to our good journey. + +“Your affectionate friend, + +“LYDIA BENNET.” + + +“Oh, thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!” cried Elizabeth when she had +finished it. “What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment! But +at least it shows that _she_ was serious in the object of her journey. +Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her side a +_scheme_ of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it!” + +“I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten +minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in +such confusion!” + +“Oh, Jane,” cried Elizabeth, “was there a servant belonging to it who +did not know the whole story before the end of the day?” + +“I do not know: I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a time is +very difficult. My mother was in hysterics; and though I endeavoured to +give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so much +as I might have done. But the horror of what might possibly happen +almost took from me my faculties.” + +“Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not look +well. Oh that I had been with you! you have had every care and anxiety +upon yourself alone.” + +“Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every +fatigue, I am sure, but I did not think it right for either of them. +Kitty is slight and delicate, and Mary studies so much that her hours of +repose should not be broken in on. My aunt Philips came to Longbourn on +Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till +Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all, and Lady +Lucas has been very kind: she walked here on Wednesday morning to +condole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters, if +they could be of use to us.” + +“She had better have stayed at home,” cried Elizabeth: “perhaps she +_meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see too +little of one’s neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence, +insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied.” + +She then proceeded to inquire into the measures which her father had +intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter. + +“He meant, I believe,” replied Jane, “to go to Epsom, the place where +they last changed horses, see the postilions, and try if anything could +be made out from them. His principal object must be to discover the +number of the hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come +with a fare from London; and as he thought the circumstance of a +gentleman and lady’s removing from one carriage into another might be +remarked, he meant to make inquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow +discover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he +determined to make inquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible +to find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any +other designs that he had formed; but he was in such a hurry to be gone, +and his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had difficulty in finding +out even so much as this.” + + + + +[Illustration: + + The Post +] + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII. + + +[Illustration] + +The whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next +morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him. +His family knew him to be, on all common occasions, a most negligent and +dilatory correspondent; but at such a time they had hoped for exertion. +They were forced to conclude, that he had no pleasing intelligence to +send; but even of _that_ they would have been glad to be certain. Mr. +Gardiner had waited only for the letters before he set off. + +When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving constant +information of what was going on; and their uncle promised, at parting, +to prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to Longbourn as soon as he could, to +the great consolation of his sister, who considered it as the only +security for her husband’s not being killed in a duel. + +Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few +days longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable to +her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a +great comfort to them in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also +visited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of +cheering and heartening them up--though, as she never came without +reporting some fresh instance of Wickham’s extravagance or irregularity, +she seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found +them. + +All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three months +before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be in debt +to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with +the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman’s family. +Everybody declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world; and +everybody began to find out that they had always distrusted the +appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above +half of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of +her sister’s ruin still more certain; and even Jane, who believed still +less of it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now +come, when, if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before +entirely despaired of, they must in all probability have gained some +news of them. + +Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday, his wife received a +letter from him: it told them, that on his arrival he had immediately +found out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch Street. +That Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival, but +without gaining any satisfactory information; and that he was now +determined to inquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet +thought it possible they might have gone to one of them, on their first +coming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself +did not expect any success from this measure; but as his brother was +eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added, that Mr. +Bennet seemed wholly disinclined at present to leave London, and +promised to write again very soon. There was also a postscript to this +effect:-- + +“I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if +possible, from some of the young man’s intimates in the regiment, +whether Wickham has any relations or connections who would be likely to +know in what part of the town he has now concealed himself. If there +were anyone that one could apply to, with a probability of gaining such +a clue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we have +nothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do everything in +his power to satisfy us on this head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps +Lizzy could tell us what relations he has now living better than any +other person.” + +Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference for +her authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give any +information of so satisfactory a nature as the compliment deserved. + +She had never heard of his having had any relations, except a father +and mother, both of whom had been dead many years. It was possible, +however, that some of his companions in the ----shire might be able to +give more information; and though she was not very sanguine in expecting +it, the application was a something to look forward to. + +Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious +part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters was +the first grand object of every morning’s impatience. Through letters, +whatever of good or bad was to be told would be communicated; and every +succeeding day was expected to bring some news of importance. + +But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived for +their father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins; which, as Jane +had received directions to open all that came for him in his absence, +she accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his +letters always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as +follows:-- + + /* “My dear Sir, */ + + “I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation + in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now + suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter + from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs. Collins and + myself sincerely sympathize with you, and all your respectable + family, in your present distress, which must be of the bitterest + kind, because proceeding from a cause which no time can remove. No + arguments shall be wanting on my part, that can alleviate so severe + a misfortune; or that may comfort you, under a circumstance that + must be, of all others, most afflicting to a parent’s mind. The + death of your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison of + this. And it is the more to be lamented, because there is reason to + suppose, as my dear Charlotte informs me, that this licentiousness + of behaviour in your + + [Illustration: + +“To whom I have related the affair” + + [_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + daughter has proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence; though, + at the same time, for the consolation of yourself and Mrs. Bennet, + I am inclined to think that her own disposition must be naturally + bad, or she could not be guilty of such an enormity, at so early an + age. Howsoever that may be, you are grievously to be pitied; in + which opinion I am not only joined by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by + Lady Catherine and her daughter, to whom I have related the affair. + They agree with me in apprehending that this false step in one + daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of all the others: for + who, as Lady Catherine herself condescendingly says, will connect + themselves with such a family? And this consideration leads me, + moreover, to reflect, with augmented satisfaction, on a certain + event of last November; for had it been otherwise, I must have been + involved in all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me advise you, then, + my dear sir, to console yourself as much as possible, to throw off + your unworthy child from your affection for ever, and leave her to + reap the fruits of her own heinous offence. + +“I am, dear sir,” etc., etc. + +Mr. Gardiner did not write again, till he had received an answer from +Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send. +It was not known that Wickham had a single relation with whom he kept up +any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one living. His +former acquaintance had been numerous; but since he had been in the +militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship +with any of them. There was no one, therefore, who could be pointed out +as likely to give any news of him. And in the wretched state of his own +finances, there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in addition to +his fear of discovery by Lydia’s relations; for it had just transpired +that he had left gaming debts behind him to a very considerable amount. +Colonel Forster believed that more than a thousand pounds would be +necessary to clear his expenses at Brighton. He owed a good deal in the +town, but his debts of honour were still more formidable. Mr. Gardiner +did not attempt to conceal these particulars from the Longbourn family; +Jane heard them with horror. “A gamester!” she cried. “This is wholly +unexpected; I had not an idea of it.” + +Mr. Gardiner added, in his letter, that they might expect to see their +father at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered +spiritless by the ill success of all their endeavours, he had yielded to +his brother-in-law’s entreaty that he would return to his family and +leave it to him to do whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable +for continuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did +not express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering +what her anxiety for his life had been before. + +“What! is he coming home, and without poor Lydia?” she cried. “Sure he +will not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Wickham, +and make him marry her, if he comes away?” + +As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that she +and her children should go to London at the same time that Mr. Bennet +came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their +journey, and brought its master back to Longbourn. + +Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and her +Derbyshire friend, that had attended her from that part of the world. +His name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece; +and the kind of half-expectation which Mrs. Gardiner had formed, of +their being followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing. +Elizabeth had received none since her return, that could come from +Pemberley. + +The present unhappy state of the family rendered any other excuse for +the lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore, could be +fairly conjectured from _that_,--though Elizabeth, who was by this time +tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware +that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of +Lydia’s infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought, +one sleepless night out of two. + +When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual +philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the +habit of saying; made no mention of the business that had taken him +away; and it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of +it. + +It was not till the afternoon, when he joined them at tea, that +Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly +expressing her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, “Say +nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing, +and I ought to feel it.” + +“You must not be too severe upon yourself,” replied Elizabeth. + +“You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone to +fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have +been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression. +It will pass away soon enough.” + +“Do you suppose them to be in London?” + +“Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?” + +“And Lydia used to want to go to London,” added Kitty. + +“She is happy, then,” said her father, drily; “and her residence there +will probably be of some duration.” + +Then, after a short silence, he continued, “Lizzy, I bear you no +ill-will for being justified in your advice to me last May, which, +considering the event, shows some greatness of mind.” + +They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her mother’s +tea. + +“This is a parade,” cried he, “which does one good; it gives such an +elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit in my +library, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble as +I can,--or perhaps I may defer it till Kitty runs away.” + +“I am not going to run away, papa,” said Kitty, fretfully. “If _I_ +should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia.” + +“_You_ go to Brighton! I would not trust you so near it as Eastbourne, +for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at least learnt to be cautious, and +you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter my house +again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be absolutely +prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters. And you are +never to stir out of doors, till you can prove that you have spent ten +minutes of every day in a rational manner.” + +Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry. + +“Well, well,” said he, “do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good +girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of +them.” + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XLIX. + + +[Illustration] + +Two days after Mr. Bennet’s return, as Jane and Elizabeth were walking +together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper +coming towards them, and concluding that she came to call them to their +mother, went forward to meet her; but instead of the expected summons, +when they approached her, she said to Miss Bennet, “I beg your pardon, +madam, for interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some +good news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask.” + +“What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town.” + +“Dear madam,” cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, “don’t you know +there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He has been here +this half hour, and master has had a letter.” + +Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech. They +ran through the vestibule into the breakfast-room; from thence to the +library;--their father was in neither; and they were on the point of +seeking him upstairs with their mother, when they were met by the +butler, who said,-- + +“If you are looking for my master, ma’am, he is walking towards the +little copse.” + +Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall once more, +and ran across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately +pursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of the paddock. + +Jane, who was not so light, nor so much in the habit of running as +Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for breath, +came up with him, and eagerly cried out,-- + +“Oh, papa, what news? what news? have you heard from my uncle?” + +“Yes, I have had a letter from him by express.” + +“Well, and what news does it bring--good or bad?” + +“What is there of good to be expected?” said he, taking the letter from +his pocket; “but perhaps you would like to read it.” + +Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up. + +“Read it aloud,” said their father, “for I hardly know myself what it is +about.” + + /* RIGHT “Gracechurch Street, _Monday, August 2_. */ + +“My dear Brother, + + “At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such + as, upon the whole, I hope will give you satisfaction. Soon after + you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what + part of London they were. The particulars I reserve till we meet. + It is enough to know they are discovered: I have seen them + both----” + + [Illustration: + +“But perhaps you would like to read it” + + [_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + “Then it is as I always hoped,” cried Jane: “they are married!” + + Elizabeth read on: “I have seen them both. They are not married, + nor can I find there was any intention of being so; but if you are + willing to perform the engagements which I have ventured to make on + your side, I hope it will not be long before they are. All that is + required of you is, to assure to your daughter, by settlement, her + equal share of the five thousand pounds, secured among your + children after the decease of yourself and my sister; and, + moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her, during your + life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions which, + considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying with, as + far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by + express, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You + will easily comprehend, from these particulars, that Mr. Wickham’s + circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to + be. The world has been deceived in that respect; and I am happy to + say, there will be some little money, even when all his debts are + discharged, to settle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune. + If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers to act + in your name throughout the whole of this business, I will + immediately give directions to Haggerston for preparing a proper + settlement. There will not be the smallest occasion for your coming + to town again; therefore stay quietly at Longbourn, and depend on + my diligence and care. Send back your answer as soon as you can, + and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it best that my + niece should be married from this house, of which I hope you will + approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as + anything more is determined on. Yours, etc. + +“EDW. GARDINER.” + +“Is it possible?” cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. “Can it be +possible that he will marry her?” + +“Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we have thought him,” said her +sister. “My dear father, I congratulate you.” + +“And have you answered the letter?” said Elizabeth. + +“No; but it must be done soon.” + +Most earnestly did she then entreat him to lose no more time before he +wrote. + +“Oh! my dear father,” she cried, “come back and write immediately. +Consider how important every moment is in such a case.” + +“Let me write for you,” said Jane, “if you dislike the trouble +yourself.” + +“I dislike it very much,” he replied; “but it must be done.” + +And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house. + +“And--may I ask?” said Elizabeth; “but the terms, I suppose, must be +complied with.” + +“Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little.” + +“And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man.” + +“Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there +are two things that I want very much to know:--one is, how much money +your uncle has laid down to bring it about; and the other, how I am ever +to pay him.” + +“Money! my uncle!” cried Jane, “what do you mean, sir?” + +“I mean that no man in his proper senses would marry Lydia on so slight +a temptation as one hundred a year during my life, and fifty after I am +gone.” + +“That is very true,” said Elizabeth; “though it had not occurred to me +before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh, +it must be my uncle’s doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has +distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this.” + +“No,” said her father. “Wickham’s a fool if he takes her with a farthing +less than ten thousand pounds: I should be sorry to think so ill of him, +in the very beginning of our relationship.” + +“Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be +repaid?” + +Mr. Bennet made no answer; and each of them, deep in thought, continued +silent till they reached the house. Their father then went to the +library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room. + +“And they are really to be married!” cried Elizabeth, as soon as they +were by themselves. “How strange this is! and for _this_ we are to be +thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness, +and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice! Oh, Lydia!” + +“I comfort myself with thinking,” replied Jane, “that he certainly would +not marry Lydia, if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind +uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten +thousand pounds, or anything like it, has been advanced. He has children +of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand +pounds?” + +“If we are ever able to learn what Wickham’s debts have been,” said +Elizabeth, “and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall +exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has +not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be +requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal +protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage as +years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is +actually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now, +she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she +first sees my aunt!” + +“We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,” said +Jane: “I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to marry +her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of +thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself +they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in +time make their past imprudence forgotten.” + +“Their conduct has been such,” replied Elizabeth, “as neither you, nor +I, nor anybody, can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it.” + +It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood +perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library, +therefore, and asked their father whether he would not wish them to make +it known to her. He was writing, and, without raising his head, coolly +replied,-- + +“Just as you please.” + +“May we take my uncle’s letter to read to her?” + +“Take whatever you like, and get away.” + +Elizabeth took the letter from his writing-table, and they went upstairs +together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one communication +would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for good news, +the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself. As +soon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner’s hope of Lydia’s being soon married, +her joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its +exuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from delight as she +had ever been fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter +would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her +felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct. + +“My dear, dear Lydia!” she cried: “this is delightful indeed! She will +be married! I shall see her again! She will be married at sixteen! My +good, kind brother! I knew how it would be--I knew he would manage +everything. How I long to see her! and to see dear Wickham too! But the +clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardiner about +them directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him how +much he will give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell, +Kitty, for Hill. I will put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear +Lydia! How merry we shall be together when we meet!” + +Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the violence of +these transports, by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr. +Gardiner’s behaviour laid them all under. + +“For we must attribute this happy conclusion,” she added, “in a great +measure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has pledged himself to +assist Mr. Wickham with money.” + +“Well,” cried her mother, “it is all very right; who should do it but +her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my children +must have had all his money, you know; and it is the first time we have +ever had anything from him except a few presents. Well! I am so happy. +In a short time, I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well +it sounds! And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in +such a flutter, that I am sure I can’t write; so I will dictate, and you +write for me. We will settle with your father about the money +afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately.” + +She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and +cambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had +not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait till her +father was at leisure to be consulted. One day’s delay, she observed, +would be of small importance; and her mother was too happy to be quite +so obstinate as usual. Other schemes, too, came into her head. + +“I will go to Meryton,” said she, “as soon as I am dressed, and tell the +good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come back, I can call on +Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and order the carriage. An +airing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do +anything for you in Meryton? Oh! here comes Hill. My dear Hill, have you +heard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be married; and you shall +all have a bowl of punch to make merry at her wedding.” + +Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received her +congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this folly, took +refuge in her own room, that she might think with freedom. Poor Lydia’s +situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it was no worse, she +had need to be thankful. She felt it so; and though, in looking forward, +neither rational happiness, nor worldly prosperity could be justly +expected for her sister, in looking back to what they had feared, only +two hours ago, she felt all the advantages of what they had gained. + + + + +[Illustration: + +“The spiteful old ladies” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER L. + + +[Illustration] + +Mr. Bennet had very often wished, before this period of his life, that, +instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an annual sum, for +the better provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived +him. He now wished it more than ever. Had he done his duty in that +respect, Lydia need not have been indebted to her uncle for whatever of +honour or credit could now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of +prevailing on one of the most worthless young men in Great Britain to +be her husband might then have rested in its proper place. + +He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage to anyone +should be forwarded at the sole expense of his brother-in-law; and he +was determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his assistance, +and to discharge the obligation as soon as he could. + +When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly +useless; for, of course, they were to have a son. This son was to join +in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age, and the widow +and younger children would by that means be provided for. Five daughters +successively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs. +Bennet, for many years after Lydia’s birth, had been certain that he +would. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then too +late to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy; and her +husband’s love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their +income. + +Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs. Bennet and +the children. But in what proportions it should be divided amongst the +latter depended on the will of the parents. This was one point, with +regard to Lydia at least, which was now to be settled, and Mr. Bennet +could have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him. In +terms of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother, though +expressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect +approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil the +engagements that had been made for him. He had never before supposed +that, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would be +done with so little inconvenience to himself as by the present +arrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds a year the loser, by the +hundred that was to be paid them; for, what with her board and pocket +allowance, and the continual presents in money which passed to her +through her mother’s hands, Lydia’s expenses had been very little within +that sum. + +That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was +another very welcome surprise; for his chief wish at present was to have +as little trouble in the business as possible. When the first transports +of rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were over, he +naturally returned to all his former indolence. His letter was soon +despatched; for though dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick in +its execution. He begged to know further particulars of what he was +indebted to his brother; but was too angry with Lydia to send any +message to her. + +The good news quickly spread through the house; and with proportionate +speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter with decent +philosophy. To be sure, it would have been more for the advantage of +conversation, had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the +happiest alternative, been secluded from the world in some distant +farm-house. But there was much to be talked of, in marrying her; and the +good-natured wishes for her well-doing, which had proceeded before from +all the spiteful old ladies in Meryton, lost but little of their spirit +in this change of circumstances, because with such a husband her misery +was considered certain. + +It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been down stairs, but on this +happy day she again took her seat at the head of her table, and in +spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her +triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object of +her wishes since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of +accomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on those +attendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new carriages, and +servants. She was busily searching through the neighbourhood for a +proper situation for her daughter; and, without knowing or considering +what their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and +importance. + +“Haye Park might do,” said she, “if the Gouldings would quit it, or the +great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but Ashworth is +too far off. I could not bear to have her ten miles from me; and as for +Purvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful.” + +Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the +servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her, “Mrs. +Bennet, before you take any, or all of these houses, for your son and +daughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into _one_ house in this +neighbourhood they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage the +imprudence of either, by receiving them at Longbourn.” + +A long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was firm: it +soon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with amazement and horror, +that her husband would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his +daughter. He protested that she should receive from him no mark of +affection whatever on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend +it. That his anger could be carried to such a point of inconceivable +resentment as to refuse his daughter a privilege, without which her +marriage would scarcely seem valid, exceeded all that she could believe +possible. She was more alive to the disgrace, which her want of new +clothes must reflect on her daughter’s nuptials, than to any sense of +shame at her eloping and living with Wickham a fortnight before they +took place. + +Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the distress of +the moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted with their fears for +her sister; for since her marriage would so shortly give the proper +termination to the elopement, they might hope to conceal its +unfavourable beginning from all those who were not immediately on the +spot. + +She had no fear of its spreading farther, through his means. There were +few people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently depended; +but at the same time there was no one whose knowledge of a sister’s +frailty would have mortified her so much. Not, however, from any fear of +disadvantage from it individually to herself; for at any rate there +seemed a gulf impassable between them. Had Lydia’s marriage been +concluded on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that +Mr. Darcy would connect himself with a family, where to every other +objection would now be added an alliance and relationship of the nearest +kind with the man whom he so justly scorned. + +From such a connection she could not wonder that he should shrink. The +wish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself of his +feeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation survive such a +blow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she +hardly knew of what. She became jealous of his esteem, when she could no +longer hope to be benefited by it. She wanted to hear of him, when there +seemed the least chance of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that +she could have been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they +should meet. + +What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that the +proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago would now +have been gladly and gratefully received! He was as generous, she +doubted not, as the most generous of his sex. But while he was mortal, +there must be a triumph. + +She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in +disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and +temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It +was an union that must have been to the advantage of both: by her ease +and liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved; +and from his judgment, information, and knowledge of the world, she must +have received benefit of greater importance. + +But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what +connubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and +precluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their +family. + +How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence she +could not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could belong to +a couple who were only brought together because their passions were +stronger than their virtue, she could easily conjecture. + +Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet’s +acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurances of his eagerness to +promote the welfare of any of his family; and concluded with entreaties +that the subject might never be mentioned to him again. The principal +purport of his letter was to inform them, that Mr. Wickham had resolved +on quitting the militia. + +“It was greatly my wish that he should do so,” he added, “as soon as his +marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me, in +considering a removal from that corps as highly advisable, both on his +account and my niece’s. It is Mr. Wickham’s intention to go into the +Regulars; and, among his former friends, there are still some who are +able and willing to assist him in the army. He has the promise of an +ensigncy in General----’s regiment, now quartered in the north. It is +an advantage to have it so far from this part of the kingdom. He +promises fairly; and I hope among different people, where they may each +have a character to preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have +written to Colonel Forster, to inform him of our present arrangements, +and to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr. Wickham +in and near Brighton with assurances of speedy payment, for which I have +pledged myself. And will you give yourself the trouble of carrying +similar assurances to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin +a list, according to his information? He has given in all his debts; I +hope at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions, and +all will be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment, +unless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from Mrs. +Gardiner that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all before she +leaves the south. She is well, and begs to be dutifully remembered to +you and her mother.--Yours, etc. + +“E. GARDINER.” + +Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham’s +removal from the ----shire, as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But +Mrs. Bennet was not so well pleased with it. Lydia’s being settled in +the north, just when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her +company, for she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in +Hertfordshire, was a severe disappointment; and, besides, it was such a +pity that Lydia should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted +with everybody, and had so many favourites. + +“She is so fond of Mrs. Forster,” said she, “it will be quite shocking +to send her away! And there are several of the young men, too, that she +likes very much. The officers may not be so pleasant in General----’s +regiment.” + +His daughter’s request, for such it might be considered, of being +admitted into her family again, before she set off for the north, +received at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth, who +agreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister’s feelings and +consequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by her parents, +urged him so earnestly, yet so rationally and so mildly, to receive her +and her husband at Longbourn, as soon as they were married, that he was +prevailed on to think as they thought, and act as they wished. And their +mother had the satisfaction of knowing, that she should be able to show +her married daughter in the neighbourhood, before she was banished to +the north. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore, he +sent his permission for them to come; and it was settled, that, as soon +as the ceremony was over, they should proceed to Longbourn. Elizabeth +was surprised, however, that Wickham should consent to such a scheme; +and, had she consulted only her own inclination, any meeting with him +would have been the last object of her wishes. + + + + +[Illustration: + +“With an affectionate smile” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER LI. + + +[Illustration] + +Their sister’s wedding-day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt for her +probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to meet +them at----, and they were to return in it by dinnertime. Their arrival +was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets--and Jane more especially, who +gave Lydia the feelings which would have attended herself, had _she_ +been the culprit, and was wretched in the thought of what her sister +must endure. + +They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast-room to receive +them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet, as the carriage drove up to +the door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed, +anxious, uneasy. + +Lydia’s voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown open, and +she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and +welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand with an affectionate smile to +Wickham, who followed his lady; and wished them both joy, with an +alacrity which showed no doubt of their happiness. + +Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite +so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely +opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was +enough to provoke him. + +Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was shocked. Lydia was +Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned +from sister to sister, demanding their congratulations; and when at +length they all sat down, looked eagerly round the room, took notice of +some little alteration in it, and observed, with a laugh, that it was a +great while since she had been there. + +Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself; but his manners +were always so pleasing, that, had his character and his marriage been +exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he +claimed their relationship, would have delighted them all. Elizabeth +had not before believed him quite equal to such assurance; but she sat +down, resolving within herself to draw no limits in future to the +impudence of an impudent man. _She_ blushed, and Jane blushed; but the +cheeks of the two who caused their confusion suffered no variation of +colour. + +There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither +of them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to sit near +Elizabeth, began inquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood, +with a good-humoured ease, which she felt very unable to equal in her +replies. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the +world. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led +voluntarily to subjects which her sisters would not have alluded to for +the world. + +“Only think of its being three months,” she cried, “since I went away: +it seems but a fortnight, I declare; and yet there have been things +enough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away, I am sure +I had no more idea of being married till I came back again! though I +thought it would be very good fun if I was.” + +Her father lifted up his eyes, Jane was distressed, Elizabeth looked +expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw anything of +which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued,-- + +“Oh, mamma, do the people hereabouts know I am married to-day? I was +afraid they might not; and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, +so I was determined he should know it, and so I let down the side glass +next to him, and took off my glove and let my hand just rest upon the +window frame, so that he might see the ring, and then I bowed and +smiled like anything.” + +Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up and ran out of the room; +and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to +the dining-parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with +anxious parade, walk up to her mother’s right hand, and hear her say to +her eldest sister,-- + +“Ah, Jane, I take your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a +married woman.” + +It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment +from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good +spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Philips, the Lucases, and all +their other neighbours, and to hear herself called “Mrs. Wickham” by +each of them; and in the meantime she went after dinner to show her ring +and boast of being married to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids. + +“Well, mamma,” said she, when they were all returned to the +breakfast-room, “and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a +charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they +may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the +place to get husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go!” + +“Very true; and if I had my will we should. But, my dear Lydia, I don’t +at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?” + +“Oh, Lord! yes; there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things. +You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We shall be at +Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some balls, and I +will take care to get good partners for them all.” + +“I should like it beyond anything!” said her mother. + +“And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters +behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the +winter is over.” + +“I thank you for my share of the favour,” said Elizabeth; “but I do not +particularly like your way of getting husbands.” + +Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham +had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join +his regiment at the end of a fortnight. + +No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so short; and +she made the most of the time by visiting about with her daughter, and +having very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to +all; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did +think than such as did not. + +Wickham’s affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth had expected to +find it; not equal to Lydia’s for him. She had scarcely needed her +present observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that +their elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love rather +than by his; and she would have wondered why, without violently caring +for her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain +that his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and +if that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity +of having a companion. + +Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every +occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did +everything best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds +on the first of September than anybody else in the country. + +One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two +elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth,-- + +“Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe. You were +not by, when I told mamma, and the others, all about it. Are not you +curious to hear how it was managed?” + +“No, really,” replied Elizabeth; “I think there cannot be too little +said on the subject.” + +“La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were +married, you know, at St. Clement’s, because Wickham’s lodgings were in +that parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven +o’clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others +were to meet us at the church. + +“Well, Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss! I was so afraid, +you know, that something would happen to put it off, and then I should +have gone quite distracted. And there was my aunt, all the time I was +dressing, preaching and talking away just as if she was reading a +sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten, for I was +thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to know whether +he would be married in his blue coat. + +“Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual: I thought it would never +be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand that my uncle and aunt +were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you’ll believe +me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a +fortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or anything! To be sure, London was +rather thin, but, however, the Little Theatre was open. + +“Well, and so, just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was +called away upon business to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you +know, when once they get together, there is no end of it. 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.” + +“Not that I _shall_, though,” she added to herself, and she finished the +letter; “and, my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable +manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it +out.” + +Jane’s delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to +Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad of +it:--till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any +satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante. + + + + +[Illustration: + +“I am sure she did not listen.” +] + + + + +CHAPTER LII. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter as +soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it, than +hurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to be +interrupted, she sat down on one of the benches, and prepared to be +happy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not +contain a denial. + + /* RIGHT “Gracechurch Street, _Sept. 6_. */ + +“My dear Niece, + + “I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole + morning to answering it, as I foresee that a _little_ writing will + not comprise what I have to tell you. I must confess myself + surprised by your application; I did not expect it from _you_. + Don’t think me angry, however, for I only mean to let you know, + that I had not imagined such inquiries to be necessary on _your_ + side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my + impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am; and nothing + but the belief of your being a party concerned would have allowed + him to act as he has done. But if you are really innocent and + ignorant, I must be more explicit. On the very day of my coming + home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr. + Darcy called, and was shut up with him several hours. It was all + over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so dreadfully racked + as _yours_ seems to have been. He came to tell Mr. Gardiner that he + had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were, and that he + had seen and talked with them both--Wickham repeatedly, Lydia once. + From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day after + ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting for + them. The motive professed was his conviction of its being owing to + himself that Wickham’s worthlessness had not been so well known as + to make it impossible for any young woman of character to love or + confide in him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken + pride, and confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to + lay his private actions open to the world. His character was to + speak for itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to step + forward, and endeavour to remedy an evil which had been brought on + by himself. If he _had another_ motive, I am sure it would never + disgrace him. He had been some days in town before he was able to + discover them; but he had something to direct his search, which was + more than _we_ had; and the consciousness of this was another + reason for his resolving to follow us. There is a lady, it seems, a + Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago governess to Miss Darcy, and was + dismissed from her charge on some cause of disapprobation, though + he did not say what. She then took a large house in Edward Street, + and has since maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs. + Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham; and he + went to her for intelligence of him, as soon as he got to town. But + it was two or three days before he could get from her what he + wanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery + and corruption, for she really did know where her friend was to be + found. Wickham, indeed, had gone to her on their first arrival in + London; and had she been able to receive them into her house, they + would have taken up their abode with her. At length, however, our + kind friend procured the wished-for direction. They were in ---- + Street. He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia. + His first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade + her to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her + friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her, + offering his assistance as far as it would go. But he found Lydia + absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared for none + of her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not hear of + leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some time or + other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were her + feelings, it only remained, he thought, to secure and expedite a + marriage, which, in his very first conversation with Wickham, he + easily learnt had never been _his_ design. He confessed himself + obliged to leave the regiment on account of some debts of honour + which were very pressing; and scrupled not to lay all the ill + consequences of Lydia’s flight on her own folly alone. He meant to + resign his commission immediately; and as to his future situation, + he could conjecture very little about it. He must go somewhere, but + he did not know where, and he knew he should have nothing to live + on. Mr. Darcy asked why he did not marry your sister at once. + Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would have + been able to do something for him, and his situation must have been + benefited by marriage. But he found, in reply to this question, + that Wickham still cherished the hope of more effectually making + his fortune by marriage, in some other country. Under such + circumstances, however, he was not likely to be proof against the + temptation of immediate relief. They met several times, for there + was much to be discussed. Wickham, of course, wanted more than he + could get; but at length was reduced to be reasonable. Everything + being settled between _them_, Mr. Darcy’s next step was to make + your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in Gracechurch + Street the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardiner could not + be seen; and Mr. Darcy found, on further inquiry, that your father + was still with him, but would quit town the next morning. He did + not judge your father to be a person whom he could so properly + consult as your uncle, and therefore readily postponed seeing him + till after the departure of the former. He did not leave his name, + and till the next day it was only known that a gentleman had called + on business. On Saturday he came again. Your father was gone, your + uncle at home, and, as I said before, they had a great deal of talk + together. They met again on Sunday, and then _I_ saw him too. It + was not all settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express + was sent off to Longbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I + fancy, Lizzy, that obstinacy is the real defect of his character, + after all. He has been accused of many faults at different times; + but _this_ is the true one. Nothing was to be done that he did not + do himself; though I am sure (and I do not speak it to be thanked, + therefore say nothing about it) your uncle would most readily have + settled the whole. They battled it together for a long time, which + was more than either the gentleman or lady concerned in it + deserved. But at last your uncle was forced to yield, and instead + of being allowed to be of use to his niece, was forced to put up + with only having the probable credit of it, which went sorely + against the grain; and I really believe your letter this morning + gave him great pleasure, because it required an explanation that + would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where + it was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no further than yourself, or + Jane at most. You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done + for the young people. His debts are to be paid, amounting, I + believe, to considerably more than a thousand pounds, another + thousand in addition to her own settled upon _her_, and his + commission purchased. The reason why all this was to be done by him + alone, was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his + reserve and want of proper consideration, that Wickham’s character + had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he had been + received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth in + _this_; though I doubt whether _his_ reserve, or _anybody’s_ + reserve can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all this + fine talking, my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured that + your uncle would never have yielded, if we had not given him credit + for _another interest_ in the affair. When all this was resolved + on, he returned again to his friends, who were still staying at + Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be in London once more + when the wedding took place, and all money matters were then to + receive the last finish. I believe I have now told you everything. + It is a relation which you tell me is to give you great surprise; I + hope at least it will not afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to + us, and Wickham had constant admission to the house. _He_ was + exactly what he had been when I knew him in Hertfordshire; but I + would not tell you how little I was satisfied with _her_ behaviour + while she stayed with us, if I had not perceived, by Jane’s letter + last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home was exactly of a + piece with it, and therefore what I now tell you can give you no + fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most serious manner, + representing to her the wickedness of what she had done, and all + the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If she heard me, it + was by good luck, for I am sure she did not listen. I was sometimes + quite provoked; but then I recollected my dear Elizabeth and Jane, + and for their sakes had patience with her. Mr. Darcy was punctual + in his return, and, as Lydia informed you, attended the wedding. He + dined with us the next day, and was to leave town again on + Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my dear + Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying (what I was never bold + enough to say before) how much I like him? His behaviour to us has, + in every respect, been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire. + His understanding and opinions all please me; he wants nothing but + a little more liveliness, and _that_, if he marry _prudently_, his + wife may teach him. I thought him very sly; he hardly ever + mentioned your name. But slyness seems the fashion. Pray forgive + me, if I have been very presuming, or at least do not punish me so + far as to exclude me from P. I shall never be quite happy till I + have been all round the park. A low phaeton with a nice little pair + of ponies would be the very thing. But I must write no more. The + children have been wanting me this half hour. + +“Yours, very sincerely, + +“M. GARDINER.” + + +The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits, +in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the +greatest share. The vague and unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had +produced, of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her +sister’s match--which she had feared to encourage, as an exertion of +goodness too great to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be +just, from the pain of obligation--were proved beyond their greatest +extent to be true! He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken +on himself all the trouble and mortification attendant on such a +research; in which supplication had been necessary to a woman whom he +must abominate and despise, and where he was reduced to meet, frequently +meet, reason with, persuade, and finally bribe the man whom he always +most wished to avoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to +pronounce. He had done all this for a girl whom he could neither regard +nor esteem. Her heart did whisper that he had done it for her. But it +was a hope shortly checked by other considerations; and she soon felt +that even her vanity was insufficient, when required to depend on his +affection for her, for a woman who had already refused him, as able to +overcome a sentiment so natural as abhorrence against relationship with +Wickham. Brother-in-law of Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from +the connection. He had, to be sure, done much. She was ashamed to think +how much. But he had given a reason for his interference, which asked no +extraordinary stretch of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel +he had been wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising +it; and though she would not place herself as his principal inducement, +she could perhaps believe, that remaining partiality for her might +assist his endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be +materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that +they were under obligations to a person who could never receive a +return. They owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, everything to +him. Oh, how heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation she +had ever encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed towards +him! For herself she was humbled; but she was proud of him,--proud that +in a cause of compassion and honour he had been able to get the better +of himself. She read over her aunt’s commendation of him again and +again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even sensible +of some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how steadfastly +both she and her uncle had been persuaded that affection and confidence +subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself. + +She was roused from her seat and her reflections, by someone’s approach; +and, before she could strike into another path, she was overtaken by +Wickham. + +“I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?” said he, +as he joined her. + +“You certainly do,” she replied with a smile; “but it does not follow +that the interruption must be unwelcome.” + +“I should be sorry, indeed, if it were. _We_ were always good friends, +and now we are better.” + +“True. Are the others coming out?” + +“I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to +Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our uncle and aunt, that +you have actually seen Pemberley.” + +She replied in the affirmative. + +“I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much +for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the +old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of +me. But of course she did not mention my name to you.” + +“Yes, she did.” + +“And what did she say?” + +“That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had--not turned +out well. At such a distance as _that_, you know, things are strangely +misrepresented.” + +“Certainly,” he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had +silenced him; but he soon afterwards said,-- + +“I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other +several times. I wonder what he can be doing there.” + +“Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh,” said +Elizabeth. “It must be something particular to take him there at this +time of year.” + +“Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I +understood from the Gardiners that you had.” + +“Yes; he introduced us to his sister.” + +“And do you like her?” + +“Very much.” + +“I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year +or two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad +you liked her. I hope she will turn out well.” + +“I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age.” + +“Did you go by the village of Kympton?” + +“I do not recollect that we did.” + +“I mention it because it is the living which I ought to have had. A most +delightful place! Excellent parsonage-house! It would have suited me in +every respect.” + +“How should you have liked making sermons?” + +“Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty, and +the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to repine; but, +to be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The quiet, the +retirement of such a life, would have answered all my ideas of +happiness! But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the +circumstance when you were in Kent?” + +“I _have_ heard from authority, which I thought _as good_, that it was +left you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron.” + +“You have! Yes, there was something in _that_; I told you so from the +first, you may remember.” + +“I _did_ hear, too, that there was a time when sermon-making was not so +palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you actually +declared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business +had been compromised accordingly.” + +“You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember +what I told you on that point, when first we talked of it.” + +They were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked fast +to get rid of him; and unwilling, for her sister’s sake, to provoke him, +she only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile,-- + +“Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let us +quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of one +mind.” + +She held out her hand: he kissed it with affectionate gallantry, though +he hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house. + + + + +[Illustration: + +“Mr. Darcy with him.” +] + + + + +CHAPTER LIII. + + +[Illustration] + +Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation, that he +never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth, +by introducing the subject of it; and she was pleased to find that she +had said enough to keep him quiet. + +The day of his and Lydia’s departure soon came; and Mrs. Bennet was +forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means +entered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle, was likely to +continue at least a twelvemonth. + +“Oh, my dear Lydia,” she cried, “when shall we meet again?” + +“Oh, Lord! I don’t know. Not these two or three years, perhaps.” + +“Write to me very often, my dear.” + +“As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for +writing. My sisters may write to _me_. They will have nothing else to +do.” + +Mr. Wickham’s adieus were much more affectionate than his wife’s. He +smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things. + +“He is as fine a fellow,” said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of +the house, “as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to us +all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas +himself to produce a more valuable son-in-law.” + +The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days. + +“I often think,” said she, “that there is nothing so bad as parting with +one’s friends. One seems so forlorn without them.” + +“This is the consequence, you see, madam, of marrying a daughter,” said +Elizabeth. “It must make you better satisfied that your other four are +single.” + +“It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is married; +but only because her husband’s regiment happens to be so far off. If +that had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon.” + +But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was shortly +relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope, by an +article of news which then began to be in circulation. The housekeeper +at Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the arrival of her +master, who was coming down in a day or two, to shoot there for several +weeks. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and +smiled, and shook her head, by turns. + +“Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister,” (for Mrs. +Philips first brought her the news). “Well, so much the better. Not that +I care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am sure I +never want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome to come to +Netherfield, if he likes it. And who knows what _may_ happen? But that +is nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to mention +a word about it. And so, it is quite certain he is coming?” + +“You may depend on it,” replied the other, “for Mrs. Nichols was in +Meryton last night: I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose +to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was certainly true. He +comes down on Thursday, at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was +going to the butcher’s, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat on +Wednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks just fit to be killed.” + +Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without changing +colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to +Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said,-- + +“I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the present +report; and I know I appeared distressed; but don’t imagine it was from +any silly cause. I was only confused for the moment, because I felt that +I _should_ be looked at. I do assure you that the news does not affect +me either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes +alone; because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of +_myself_, but I dread other people’s remarks.” + +Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him in +Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming there with no +other view than what was acknowledged; but she still thought him partial +to Jane, and she wavered as to the greater probability of his coming +there _with_ his friend’s permission, or being bold enough to come +without it. + +“Yet it is hard,” she sometimes thought, “that this poor man cannot come +to a house, which he has legally hired, without raising all this +speculation! I _will_ leave him to himself.” + +In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be her +feelings, in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily +perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed, +more unequal, than she had often seen them. + +The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their parents, +about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again. + +“As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “you +will wait on him, of course.” + +“No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised, if I +went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it ended in +nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool’s errand again.” + +His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention +would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his returning to +Netherfield. + +“’Tis an _etiquette_ I despise,” said he. “If he wants our society, let +him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not spend _my_ hours in +running after my neighbours every time they go away and come back +again.” + +“Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do not wait +on him. But, however, that shan’t prevent my asking him to dine here, I +am determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon. That will +make thirteen with ourselves, so there will be just room at table for +him.” + +Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her +husband’s incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that her +neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley, in consequence of it, before +_they_ did. As the day of his arrival drew near,-- + +“I begin to be sorry that he comes at all,” said Jane to her sister. “It +would be nothing; I could see him with perfect indifference; but I can +hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually talked of. My mother means well; +but she does not know, no one can know, how much I suffer from what she +says. Happy shall I be when his stay at Netherfield is over!” + +“I wish I could say anything to comfort you,” replied Elizabeth; “but it +is wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the usual satisfaction +of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied me, because you have +always so much.” + +Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of servants, +contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the period of anxiety +and fretfulness on her side be as long as it could. She counted the days +that must intervene before their invitation could be sent--hopeless of +seeing him before. But on the third morning after his arrival in +Hertfordshire, she saw him from her dressing-room window enter the +paddock, and ride towards the house. + +Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane resolutely +kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother, went +to the window--she looked--she saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat down +again by her sister. + +“There is a gentleman with him, mamma,” said Kitty; “who can it be?” + +“Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do not +know.” + +“La!” replied Kitty, “it looks just like that man that used to be with +him before. Mr. what’s his name--that tall, proud man.” + +“Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!--and so it does, I vow. Well, any friend of +Mr. Bingley’s will always be welcome here, to be sure; but else I must +say that I hate the very sight of him.” + +Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little +of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness +which must attend her sister, in seeing him almost for the first time +after receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable +enough. Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and their +mother talked on of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be +civil to him only as Mr. Bingley’s friend, without being heard by either +of them. But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not yet be +suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to show Mrs. +Gardiner’s letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards +him. To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she had refused, +and whose merits she had undervalued; but to her own more extensive +information, he was the person to whom the whole family were indebted +for the first of benefits, and whom she regarded herself with an +interest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and just, as +what Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his coming--at his +coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again, +was almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing his altered +behaviour in Derbyshire. + +The colour which had been driven from her face returned for half a +minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to +her eyes, as she thought for that space of time that his affection and +wishes must still be unshaken; but she would not be secure. + +“Let me first see how he behaves,” said she; “it will then be early +enough for expectation.” + +She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without daring to +lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of her +sister as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little +paler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the +gentlemen’s appearing, her colour increased; yet she received them with +tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any +symptom of resentment, or any unnecessary complaisance. + +Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down +again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not often command. She +had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious as usual; and, +she thought, more as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, than as +she had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps, he could not in her +mother’s presence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a +painful, but not an improbable, conjecture. + +Bingley she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period +saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs. +Bennet with a degree of civility which made her two daughters ashamed, +especially when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of +her courtesy and address of his friend. + +Elizabeth particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the latter the +preservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy, was +hurt and distressed to a most painful degree by a distinction so ill +applied. + +Darcy, after inquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did--a question +which she could not answer without confusion--said scarcely anything. He +was not seated by her: perhaps that was the reason of his silence; but +it had not been so in Derbyshire. There he had talked to her friends +when he could not to herself. But now several minutes elapsed, without +bringing the sound of his voice; and when occasionally, unable to resist +the impulse of curiosity, she raised her eyes to his face, she as often +found him looking at Jane as at herself, and frequently on no object but +the ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please, than when +they last met, were plainly expressed. She was disappointed, and angry +with herself for being so. + +“Could I expect it to be otherwise?” said she. “Yet why did he come?” + +She was in no humour for conversation with anyone but himself; and to +him she had hardly courage to speak. + +She inquired after his sister, but could do no more. + +“It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away,” said Mrs. Bennet. + +He readily agreed to it. + +“I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People _did_ say, +you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas; but, however, I hope +it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood +since you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled: and one of my +own daughters. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you must have +seen it in the papers. It was in the ‘Times’ and the ‘Courier,’ I know; +though it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, ‘Lately, +George Wickham, Esq., to Miss Lydia Bennet,’ without there being a +syllable said of her father, or the place where she lived, or anything. +It was my brother Gardiner’s drawing up, too, and I wonder how he came +to make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?” + +Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth +dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could +not tell. + +“It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married,” +continued her mother; “but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very +hard to have her taken away from me. They are gone down to Newcastle, a +place quite northward it seems, and there they are to stay, I do not +know how long. His regiment is there; for I suppose you have heard of +his leaving the ----shire, and of his being gone into the Regulars. +Thank heaven! he has _some_ friends, though, perhaps, not so many as he +deserves.” + +Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such misery +of shame that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew from her, however, +the exertion of speaking, which nothing else had so effectually done +before; and she asked Bingley whether he meant to make any stay in the +country at present. A few weeks, he believed. + +“When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley,” said her mother, +“I beg you will come here and shoot as many as you please on Mr. +Bennet’s manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you, and +will save all the best of the coveys for you.” + +Elizabeth’s misery increased at such unnecessary, such officious +attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present, as had +flattered them a year ago, everything, she was persuaded, would be +hastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant she felt, +that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself amends for +moments of such painful confusion. + +“The first wish of my heart,” said she to herself, “is never more to be +in company with either of them. Their society can afford no pleasure +that will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me never see either +one or the other again!” + +Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no +compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from observing +how much the beauty of her sister rekindled the admiration of her former +lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little, but every +five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He found her +as handsome as she had been last year; as good-natured, and as +unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no +difference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded +that she talked as much as ever; but her mind was so busily engaged, +that she did not always know when she was silent. + +When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her +intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at +Longbourn in a few days’ time. + +“You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley,” she added; “for when +you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with +us as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure you +I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep your +engagement.” + +Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of +his concern at having been prevented by business. They then went away. + +Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine +there that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did +not think anything less than two courses could be good enough for a man +on whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride +of one who had ten thousand a year. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “Jane happened to look round” +] + + + + +CHAPTER LIV. + + +[Illustration] + +As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits; +or, in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects +which must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy’s behaviour astonished and vexed +her. + +“Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,” said she, +“did he come at all?” + +She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure. + +“He could be still amiable, still pleasing to my uncle and aunt, when he +was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If he +no longer cares for me, why silent? Teasing, teasing man! I will think +no more about him.” + +Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach +of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look which showed her +better satisfied with their visitors than Elizabeth. + +“Now,” said she, “that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly +easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by +his coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly +seen, that on both sides we meet only as common and indifferent +acquaintance.” + +“Yes, very indifferent, indeed,” said Elizabeth, laughingly. “Oh, Jane! +take care.” + +“My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak as to be in danger now.” + +“I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with +you as ever.” + +They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs. Bennet, in +the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes which the +good-humour and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour’s visit, +had revived. + +On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two +who were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their punctuality as +sportsmen, were in very good time. When they repaired to the +dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take +the place which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by +her sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore to +invite him to sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to +hesitate; but Jane happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was +decided. He placed himself by her. + +Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend. He +bore it with noble indifference; and she would have imagined that +Bingley had received his sanction to be happy, had she not seen his eyes +likewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing +alarm. + +His behaviour to her sister was such during dinnertime as showed an +admiration of her, which, though more guarded than formerly, persuaded +Elizabeth, that, if left wholly to himself, Jane’s happiness, and his +own, would be speedily secured. Though she dared not depend upon the +consequence, she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It +gave her all the animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in +no cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her as the table +could divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little +such a situation would give pleasure to either, or make either appear to +advantage. She was not near enough to hear any of their discourse; but +she could see how seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and +cold was their manner whenever they did. Her mother’s ungraciousness +made the sense of what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth’s mind; +and she would, at times, have given anything to be privileged to tell +him, that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of +the family. + +She was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity of +bringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not pass away +without enabling them to enter into something more of conversation, +than the mere ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious and +uneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room before the gentlemen +came, was wearisome and dull to a degree that almost made her uncivil. +She looked forward to their entrance as the point on which all her +chance of pleasure for the evening must depend. + +“If he does not come to me, _then_,” said she, “I shall give him up for +ever.” + +The gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have +answered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the table, +where Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee, +in so close a confederacy, that there was not a single vacancy near her +which would admit of a chair. And on the gentlemen’s approaching, one of +the girls moved closer to her than ever, and said, in a whisper,-- + +“The men shan’t come and part us, I am determined. We want none of them; +do we?” + +Darcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed him with +her eyes, envied everyone to whom he spoke, had scarcely patience enough +to help anybody to coffee, and then was enraged against herself for +being so silly! + +“A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish enough to +expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex who would not +protest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman? +There is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings.” + +She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his coffee-cup +himself; and she seized the opportunity of saying,-- + +“Is your sister at Pemberley still?” + +“Yes; she will remain there till Christmas.” + +“And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?” + +“Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to Scarborough +these three weeks.” + +She could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to converse +with her, he might have better success. He stood by her, however, for +some minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young lady’s whispering +to Elizabeth again, he walked away. + +When the tea things were removed, and the card tables placed, the ladies +all rose; and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined by him, when +all her views were overthrown, by seeing him fall a victim to her +mother’s rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated +with the rest of the party. She now lost every expectation of pleasure. +They were confined for the evening at different tables; and she had +nothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side +of the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself. + +Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to +supper; but their carriage was, unluckily, ordered before any of the +others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them. + +“Well, girls,” said she, as soon as they were left to themselves, “what +say you to the day? I think everything has passed off uncommonly well, I +assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The +venison was roasted to a turn--and everybody said, they never saw so fat +a haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the +Lucases’ last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged that the partridges +were remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French +cooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater +beauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And +what do you think she said besides? ‘Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her +at Netherfield at last!’ She did, indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as +good a creature as ever lived--and her nieces are very pretty behaved +girls, and not at all handsome: I like them prodigiously.” + +[Illustration: + + “M^{rs}. Long and her nieces.” +] + +Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits: she had seen enough of +Bingley’s behaviour to Jane to be convinced that she would get him at +last; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy +humour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at +not seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals. + +“It has been a very agreeable day,” said Miss Bennet to Elizabeth. “The +party seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we +may often meet again.” + +Elizabeth smiled. + +“Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me. I +assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an +agreeable and sensible young man without having a wish beyond it. I am +perfectly satisfied, from what his manners now are, that he never had +any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with +greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally +pleasing, than any other man.” + +“You are very cruel,” said her sister, “you will not let me smile, and +are provoking me to it every moment.” + +“How hard it is in some cases to be believed! And how impossible in +others! But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I +acknowledge?” + +“That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to +instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive +me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make _me_ your +confidante.” + + + + +[Illustration: + + “Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak to you.” +] + + + + +CHAPTER LV. + + +[Illustration] + +A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His +friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in +ten days’ time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably +good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many +expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere. + +“Next time you call,” said she, “I hope we shall be more lucky.” + +He should be particularly happy at any time, etc., etc.; and if she +would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on +them. + +“Can you come to-morrow?” + +Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was +accepted with alacrity. + +He came, and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them +dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughters’ room, in her +dressing-gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out,-- + +“My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is +come. He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss +Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss +Lizzy’s hair.” + +“We will be down as soon as we can,” said Jane; “but I dare say Kitty is +forwarder than either of us, for she went upstairs half an hour ago.” + +“Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come, be quick, be quick! +where is your sash, my dear?” + +But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down +without one of her sisters. + +The same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in the +evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his +custom, and Mary went upstairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the +five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at +Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any +impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last +Kitty did, she very innocently said, “What is the matter, mamma? What do +you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?” + +“Nothing, child, nothing. I did not wink at you.” She then sat still +five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she +suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty,-- + +“Come here, my love, I want to speak to you,” took her out of the room. +Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth which spoke her distress at such +premeditation, and her entreaty that _she_ would not give in to it. In a +few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door and called out,-- + +“Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you.” + +Elizabeth was forced to go. + +“We may as well leave them by themselves, you know,” said her mother as +soon as she was in the hall. “Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in +my dressing-room.” + +Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained +quietly in the hall till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned +into the drawing-room. + +Mrs. Bennet’s schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was +everything that was charming, except the professed lover of her +daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable +addition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged +officiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a +forbearance and command of countenance particularly grateful to the +daughter. + +He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went away +an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet’s +means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband. + +After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed +between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in the +happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy +returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably +persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman’s +concurrence. + +Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the +morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more +agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption +or folly in Bingley that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into +silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric, than the +other had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; +and in the evening Mrs. Bennet’s invention was again at work to get +everybody away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to +write, went into the breakfast-room for that purpose soon after tea; for +as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be +wanted to counteract her mother’s schemes. + +But on her returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, +she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her +mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she +perceived her sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as +if engaged in earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, +the faces of both, as they hastily turned round and moved away from each +other, would have told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but +_hers_ she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by +either; and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when +Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and, +whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. + +Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give +pleasure; and, instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest +emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world. + +“’Tis too much!” she added, “by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh, +why is not everybody as happy?” + +Elizabeth’s congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a +delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of +kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not +allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be +said, for the present. + +“I must go instantly to my mother,” she cried. “I would not on any +account trifle with her affectionate solicitude, or allow her to hear it +from anyone but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh, Lizzy, to +know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear +family! how shall I bear so much happiness?” + +She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the +card-party, and was sitting upstairs with Kitty. + +Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease +with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many +previous months of suspense and vexation. + +“And this,” said she, “is the end of all his friend’s anxious +circumspection! of all his sister’s falsehood and contrivance! the +happiest, wisest, and most reasonable end!” + +In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her +father had been short and to the purpose. + +“Where is your sister?” said he hastily, as he opened the door. + +“With my mother upstairs. She will be down in a moment, I dare say.” + +He then shut the door, and, coming up to her, claimed the good wishes +and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her +delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with +great cordiality; and then, till her sister came down, she had to listen +to all he had to say of his own happiness, and of Jane’s perfections; +and in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his +expectations of felicity to be rationally founded, because they had for +basis the excellent understanding and super-excellent disposition of +Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and +himself. + +It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of +Miss Bennet’s mind gave such a glow of sweet animation to her face, as +made her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped +her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent, or +speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings, +though she talked to Bingley of nothing else, for half an hour; and when +Mr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly showed +how really happy he was. + +Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their +visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he +turned to his daughter and said,-- + +“Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman.” + +Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his +goodness. + +“You are a good girl,” he replied, “and I have great pleasure in +thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your +doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are +each of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so +easy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will +always exceed your income.” + +“I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters would be +unpardonable in _me_.” + +“Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet,” cried his wife, “what are you +talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year, and very likely +more.” Then addressing her daughter, “Oh, my dear, dear Jane, I am so +happy! I am sure I shan’t get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it +would be. I always said it must be so, at last. I was sure you could not +be so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when +he first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was +that you should come together. Oh, he is the handsomest young man that +ever was seen!” + +Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition her +favourite child. At that moment she cared for no other. Her younger +sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness +which she might in future be able to dispense. + +Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and Kitty +begged very hard for a few balls there every winter. + +Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at Longbourn; +coming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after +supper; unless when some barbarous neighbour, who could not be enough +detested, had given him an invitation to dinner, which he thought +himself obliged to accept. + +Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister; for +while he was present Jane had no attention to bestow on anyone else: but +she found herself considerably useful to both of them, in those hours of +separation that must sometimes occur. In the absence of Jane, he always +attached himself to Elizabeth for the pleasure of talking of her; and +when Bingley was gone, Jane constantly sought the same means of relief. + +“He has made me so happy,” said she, one evening, “by telling me that he +was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I had not believed +it possible.” + +“I suspected as much,” replied Elizabeth. “But how did he account for +it?” + +“It must have been his sisters’ doing. They were certainly no friends to +his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he might have +chosen so much more advantageously in many respects. But when they see, +as I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will +learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again: though we +can never be what we once were to each other.” + +“That is the most unforgiving speech,” said Elizabeth, “that I ever +heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again +the dupe of Miss Bingley’s pretended regard.” + +“Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last November he +really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of _my_ being indifferent +would have prevented his coming down again?” + +“He made a little mistake, to be sure; but it is to the credit of his +modesty.” + +This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his diffidence, and +the little value he put on his own good qualities. + +Elizabeth was pleased to find that he had not betrayed the interference +of his friend; for, though Jane had the most generous and forgiving +heart in the world, she knew it was a circumstance which must prejudice +her against him. + +“I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!” cried +Jane. “Oh, Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed +above them all? If I could but see you as happy! If there were but such +another man for you!” + +“If you were to give me forty such men I never could be so happy as you. +Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your +happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and, perhaps, if I have very +good luck, I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time.” + +The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be long a +secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Philips, and +she ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all her +neighbours in Meryton. + +The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the +world; though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run away, +they had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER LVI. + + +[Illustration] + +One morning, about a week after Bingley’s engagement with Jane had been +formed, as he and the females of the family were sitting together in the +dining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window by the +sound of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and four driving up the +lawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors; and besides, the +equipage did not answer to that of any of their neighbours. The horses +were post; and neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who +preceded it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that +somebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet to avoid +the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the +shrubbery. They both set off; and the conjectures of the remaining three +continued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown +open, and their visitor entered. It was Lady Catherine de Bourgh. + +They were of course all intending to be surprised: but their +astonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the part of Mrs. +Bennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly unknown to them, even +inferior to what Elizabeth felt. + +She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious, made no +other reply to Elizabeth’s salutation than a slight inclination of the +head, and sat down without saying a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her +name to her mother on her Ladyship’s entrance, though no request of +introduction had been made. + +Mrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such +high importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After sitting +for a moment in silence, she said, very stiffly, to Elizabeth,-- + +“I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady, I suppose, is your +mother?” + +Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was. + +“And _that_, I suppose, is one of your sisters?” + +“Yes, madam,” said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to a Lady Catherine. +“She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all is lately married, +and my eldest is somewhere about the ground, walking with a young man, +who, I believe, will soon become a part of the family.” + +“You have a very small park here,” returned Lady Catherine, after a +short silence. + +“It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my Lady, I dare say; but, I +assure you, it is much larger than Sir William Lucas’s.” + +“This must be a most inconvenient sitting-room for the evening in +summer: the windows are full west.” + +Mrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner; and then +added,-- + +“May I take the liberty of asking your Ladyship whether you left Mr. and +Mrs. Collins well?” + +“Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last.” + +Elizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her from +Charlotte, as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But no +letter appeared, and she was completely puzzled. + +Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her Ladyship to take some +refreshment: but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not very politely, +declined eating anything; and then, rising up, said to Elizabeth,-- + +“Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness +on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you +will favour me with your company.” + +“Go, my dear,” cried her mother, “and show her Ladyship about the +different walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage.” + +Elizabeth obeyed; and, running into her own room for her parasol, +attended her noble guest downstairs. As they passed through the hall, +Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and +drawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be +decent-looking rooms, walked on. + +Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her +waiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk +that led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for +conversation with a woman who was now more than usually insolent and +disagreeable. + +[Illustration: + +“After a short survey” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +“How could I ever think her like her nephew?” said she, as she looked in +her face. + +As soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the following +manner:-- + +“You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my +journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I +come.” + +Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment. + +“Indeed, you are mistaken, madam; I have not been at all able to account +for the honour of seeing you here.” + +“Miss Bennet,” replied her Ladyship, in an angry tone, “you ought to +know that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere _you_ may +choose to be, you shall not find _me_ so. My character has ever been +celebrated for its sincerity and frankness; and in a cause of such +moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most +alarming nature reached me two days ago. I was told, that not only your +sister was on the point of being most advantageously married, but that +_you_--that Miss Elizabeth Bennet would, in all likelihood, be soon +afterwards united to my nephew--my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I +_know_ it must be a scandalous falsehood, though I would not injure him +so much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on +setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to +you.” + +“If you believed it impossible to be true,” said Elizabeth, colouring +with astonishment and disdain, “I wonder you took the trouble of coming +so far. What could your Ladyship propose by it?” + +“At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted.” + +“Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family,” said Elizabeth +coolly, “will be rather a confirmation of it--if, indeed, such a report +is in existence.” + +“If! do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been +industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a +report is spread abroad?” + +“I never heard that it was.” + +“And can you likewise declare, that there is no _foundation_ for it?” + +“I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your Ladyship. _You_ +may ask questions which _I_ shall not choose to answer.” + +“This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied. Has +he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?” + +“Your Ladyship has declared it to be impossible.” + +“It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of his +reason. But _your_ arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation, +have made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You +may have drawn him in.” + +“If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.” + +“Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such +language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world, +and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns.” + +“But you are not entitled to know _mine_; nor will such behaviour as +this ever induce me to be explicit.” + +“Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the +presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy is +engaged to _my daughter_. Now, what have you to say?” + +“Only this,--that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will +make an offer to me.” + +Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied,-- + +“The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy, +they have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of +_his_ mother, as well as of hers. While in their cradles we planned the +union; and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would be +accomplished, is their marriage to be prevented by a young woman of +inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to +the family? Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends--to his +tacit engagement with Miss de Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of +propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say, that from his +earliest hours he was destined for his cousin?” + +“Yes; and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is no +other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not be +kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to marry +Miss de Bourgh. You both did as much as you could in planning the +marriage. Its completion depended on others. If Mr. Darcy is neither by +honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make +another choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?” + +“Because honour, decorum, prudence--nay, interest--forbid it. Yes, Miss +Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or +friends, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will +be censured, slighted, and despised, by everyone connected with him. +Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned +by any of us.” + +“These are heavy misfortunes,” replied Elizabeth. “But the wife of Mr. +Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily +attached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause +to repine.” + +“Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude +for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that +score? Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came +here with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will I +be dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person’s +whims. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment.” + +“_That_ will make your Ladyship’s situation at present more pitiable; +but it will have no effect on _me_.” + +“I will not be interrupted! Hear me in silence. My daughter and my +nephew are formed for each other. They are descended, on the maternal +side, from the same noble line; and, on the father’s, from respectable, +honourable, and ancient, though untitled, families. Their fortune on +both sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of +every member of their respective houses; and what is to divide +them?--the upstart pretensions of a young woman without family, +connections, or fortune! Is this to be endured? But it must not, shall +not be! If you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to +quit the sphere in which you have been brought up.” + +“In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that +sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman’s daughter; so far we are +equal.” + +“True. You _are_ a gentleman’s daughter. But what was your mother? Who +are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their +condition.” + +“Whatever my connections may be,” said Elizabeth, “if your nephew does +not object to them, they can be nothing to _you_.” + +“Tell me, once for all, are you engaged to him?” + +Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady +Catherine, have answered this question, she could not but say, after a +moment’s deliberation,-- + +“I am not.” + +Lady Catherine seemed pleased. + +“And will you promise me never to enter into such an engagement?” + +“I will make no promise of the kind.” + +“Miss Bennet, I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more +reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that I +will ever recede. I shall not go away till you have given me the +assurance I require.” + +“And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into +anything so wholly unreasonable. Your Ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry +your daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise make +_their_ marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to +me, would _my_ refusing to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on +his cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with +which you have supported this extraordinary application have been as +frivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my +character, if you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. +How far your nephew might approve of your interference in _his_ affairs, +I cannot tell; but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in +mine. I must beg, therefore, to be importuned no further on the +subject.” + +“Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the +objections I have already urged I have still another to add. I am no +stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister’s infamous +elopement. I know it all; that the young man’s marrying her was a +patched-up business, at the expense of your father and uncle. And is +_such_ a girl to be my nephew’s sister? Is _her_ husband, who is the son +of his late father’s steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth!--of +what are you thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?” + +“You can _now_ have nothing further to say,” she resentfully answered. +“You have insulted me, in every possible method. I must beg to return to +the house.” + +And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they turned +back. Her Ladyship was highly incensed. + +“You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew! +Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you +must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?” + +“Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know my sentiments.” + +“You are then resolved to have him?” + +“I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner, +which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without +reference to _you_, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me.” + +“It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the +claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in +the opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world.” + +“Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude,” replied Elizabeth, “has any +possible claim on me, in the present instance. No principle of either +would be violated by my marriage with Mr. Darcy. And with regard to the +resentment of his family, or the indignation of the world, if the former +_were_ excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment’s +concern--and the world in general would have too much sense to join in +the scorn.” + +“And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very well. I +shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet, that your +ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped to find you +reasonable; but depend upon it I will carry my point.” + +In this manner Lady Catherine talked on till they were at the door of +the carriage, when, turning hastily round, she added,-- + +“I take no leave of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your +mother. You deserve no such attention. I am most seriously displeased.” + +Elizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade her +Ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it herself. She +heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded upstairs. Her mother +impatiently met her at the door of her dressing-room, to ask why Lady +Catherine would not come in again and rest herself. + +“She did not choose it,” said her daughter; “she would go.” + +“She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was prodigiously +civil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the Collinses were well. +She is on her road somewhere, I dare say; and so, passing through +Meryton, thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had +nothing particular to say to you, Lizzy?” + +Elizabeth was forced to give in to a little falsehood here; for to +acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “But now it comes out” +] + + + + +CHAPTER LVII. + + +[Illustration] + +The discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary visit threw +Elizabeth into could not be easily overcome; nor could she for many +hours learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine, it +appeared, had actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings +for the sole purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr. +Darcy. It was a rational scheme, to be sure! but from what the report of +their engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine; +till she recollected that _his_ being the intimate friend of Bingley, +and _her_ being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the +expectation of one wedding made everybody eager for another, to supply +the idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her +sister must bring them more frequently together. And her neighbours at +Lucas Lodge, therefore, (for through their communication with the +Collinses, the report, she concluded, had reached Lady Catherine,) had +only set _that_ down as almost certain and immediate which _she_ had +looked forward to as possible at some future time. + +In revolving Lady Catherine’s expressions, however, she could not help +feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her persisting +in this interference. From what she had said of her resolution to +prevent the marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she must meditate an +application to her nephew; and how he might take a similar +representation of the evils attached to a connection with her she dared +not pronounce. She knew not the exact degree of his affection for his +aunt, or his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose +that he thought much higher of her Ladyship than _she_ could do; and it +was certain, that in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with _one_ +whose immediate connections were so unequal to his own, his aunt would +address him on his weakest side. With his notions of dignity, he would +probably feel that the arguments, which to Elizabeth had appeared weak +and ridiculous, contained much good sense and solid reasoning. + +If he had been wavering before, as to what he should do, which had often +seemed likely, the advice and entreaty of so near a relation might +settle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy as dignity +unblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady +Catherine might see him in her way through town; and his engagement to +Bingley of coming again to Netherfield must give way. + +“If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise should come to his +friend within a few days,” she added, “I shall know how to understand +it. I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of his +constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting me, when he might +have obtained my affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him +at all.” + +The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their visitor had +been, was very great: but they obligingly satisfied it with the same +kind of supposition which had appeased Mrs. Bennet’s curiosity; and +Elizabeth was spared from much teasing on the subject. + +The next morning, as she was going down stairs, she was met by her +father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand. + +“Lizzy,” said he, “I was going to look for you: come into my room.” + +She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had to tell +her was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner +connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it might +be from Lady Catherine, and she anticipated with dismay all the +consequent explanations. + +She followed her father to the fireplace, and they both sat down. He +then said,-- + +“I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me +exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its +contents. I did not know before that I had _two_ daughters on the brink +of matrimony. Let me congratulate you on a very important conquest.” + +The colour now rushed into Elizabeth’s cheeks in the instantaneous +conviction of its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the aunt; +and she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained +himself at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to +herself, when her father continued,-- + +“You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such matters +as these; but I think I may defy even _your_ sagacity to discover the +name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins.” + +“From Mr. Collins! and what can _he_ have to say?” + +“Something very much to the purpose, of course. He begins with +congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of +which, it seems, he has been told by some of the good-natured, gossiping +Lucases. I shall not sport with your impatience by reading what he says +on that point. What relates to yourself is as follows:--‘Having thus +offered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on +this happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another, +of which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter +Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after +her eldest sister has resigned it; and the chosen partner of her fate +may be reasonably looked up to as one of the most illustrious personages +in this land.’ Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this? +‘This young gentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with everything the +heart of mortal can most desire,--splendid property, noble kindred, and +extensive patronage. Yet, in spite of all these temptations, let me warn +my cousin Elizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur by a +precipitate closure with this gentleman’s proposals, which, of course, +you will be inclined to take immediate advantage of.’ Have you any idea, +Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out. ‘My motive for +cautioning you is as follows:--We have reason to imagine that his aunt, +Lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with a friendly +eye.’ _Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_ +surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man, within +the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie more +effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any +woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at _you_ in +his life! It is admirable!” + +Elizabeth tried to join in her father’s pleasantry, but could only force +one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so +little agreeable to her. + +“Are you not diverted?” + +“Oh, yes. Pray read on.” + +“‘After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her Ladyship last +night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she +felt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that, on the score of +some family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give +her consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my +duty to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she +and her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run +hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned.’ Mr. +Collins, moreover, adds, ‘I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia’s sad +business has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their +living together before the marriage took place should be so generally +known. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain +from declaring my amazement, at hearing that you received the young +couple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an +encouragement of vice; and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should +very strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them as +a Christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their +names to be mentioned in your hearing.’ _That_ is his notion of +Christian forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his dear +Charlotte’s situation, and his expectation of a young olive-branch. But, +Lizzy, you look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be +_missish_, I hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For +what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them +in our turn?” + +“Oh,” cried Elizabeth, “I am exceedingly diverted. But it is so +strange!” + +“Yes, _that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man +it would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference and _your_ +pointed dislike make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate +writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins’s correspondence for any +consideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving +him the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and +hypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine +about this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?” + +To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as it had +been asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by his +repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her +feelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh when she +would rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her by +what he said of Mr. Darcy’s indifference; and she could do nothing but +wonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that, perhaps, instead of +his seeing too _little_, she might have fancied too _much_. + + + + +[Illustration: + +“The efforts of his aunt” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER LVIII. + + +[Illustration] + +Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, as +Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy +with him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine’s +visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time to +tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in +momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed +their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the +habit of walking, Mary could never spare time, but the remaining five +set off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to +outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy +were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty was +too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a +desperate resolution; and, perhaps, he might be doing the same. + +They walked towards the Lucases’, because Kitty wished to call upon +Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern, +when Kitty left them she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the +moment for her resolution to be executed; and while her courage was +high, she immediately said,-- + +“Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature, and for the sake of giving +relief to my own feelings care not how much I may be wounding yours. I +can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor +sister. Ever since I have known it I have been most anxious to +acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest +of my family I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.” + +“I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,” replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise +and emotion, “that you have ever been informed of what may, in a +mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardiner +was so little to be trusted.” + +“You must not blame my aunt. Lydia’s thoughtlessness first betrayed to +me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could +not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again, +in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced +you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the +sake of discovering them.” + +“If you _will_ thank me,” he replied, “let it be for yourself alone. +That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other +inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your +_family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought +only of _you_.” + +Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause, +her companion added, “You are too generous to trifle with me. If your +feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. _My_ +affections and wishes are unchanged; but one word from you will silence +me on this subject for ever.” + +Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of +his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not +very fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone +so material a change since the period to which he alluded, as to make +her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The +happiness which this reply produced was such as he had probably never +felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as +warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth +been able to encounter his eyes, she might have seen how well the +expression of heartfelt delight diffused over his face became him: but +though she could not look she could listen; and he told her of feelings +which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his affection +every moment more valuable. + +They walked on without knowing in what direction. There was too much to +be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She +soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding +to the efforts of his aunt, who _did_ call on him in her return through +London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the +substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on +every expression of the latter, which, in her Ladyship’s apprehension, +peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance, in the belief that +such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise from +her nephew which _she_ had refused to give. But, unluckily for her +Ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise. + +“It taught me to hope,” said he, “as I had scarcely ever allowed myself +to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain, that +had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have +acknowledged it to Lady Catherine frankly and openly.” + +Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, “Yes, you know enough of +my _frankness_ to believe me capable of _that_. After abusing you so +abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all +your relations.” + +“What did you say of me that I did not deserve? For though your +accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour +to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was +unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.” + +“We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that +evening,” said Elizabeth. “The conduct of neither, if strictly +examined, will be irreproachable; but since then we have both, I hope, +improved in civility.” + +“I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I +then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of +it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your +reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: ‘Had you behaved in a +more gentlemanlike manner.’ Those were your words. You know not, you can +scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me; though it was some time, I +confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.” + +“I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an +impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such +a way.” + +“I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper +feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never +forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible +way that would induce you to accept me.” + +“Oh, do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at +all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it.” + +Darcy mentioned his letter. “Did it,” said he,--“did it _soon_ make you +think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its +contents?” + +She explained what its effects on her had been, and how gradually all +her former prejudices had been removed. + +“I knew,” said he, “that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was +necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part, +especially the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power +of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly +make you hate me.” + +“The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the +preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my +opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily +changed as that implies.” + +“When I wrote that letter,” replied Darcy, “I believed myself perfectly +calm and cool; but I am since convinced that it was written in a +dreadful bitterness of spirit.” + +“The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The +adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings +of the person who wrote and the person who received it are now so widely +different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance +attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my +philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you +pleasure.” + +“I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. _Your_ +retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment +arising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is much better, of +ignorance. But with _me_, it is not so. Painful recollections will +intrude, which cannot, which ought not to be repelled. I have been a +selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a +child I was taught what was _right_, but I was not taught to correct my +temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride +and conceit. Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only _child_), +I was spoiled by my parents, who, though good themselves, (my father +particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable,) allowed, encouraged, +almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyond +my own family circle, to think meanly of all the rest of the world, to +_wish_ at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with +my own. Such I was, from eight to eight-and-twenty; and such I might +still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not +owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most +advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a +doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my +pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.” + +“Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?” + +“Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be +wishing, expecting my addresses.” + +“My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally, I assure +you. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead me +wrong. How you must have hated me after _that_ evening!” + +“Hate you! I was angry, perhaps, at first, but my anger soon began to +take a proper direction.” + +“I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me when we met at +Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?” + +“No, indeed, I felt nothing but surprise.” + +“Your surprise could not be greater than _mine_ in being noticed by you. +My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I +confess that I did not expect to receive _more_ than my due.” + +“My object _then_,” replied Darcy, “was to show you, by every civility +in my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped +to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you +see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes +introduced themselves, I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half +an hour after I had seen you.” + +He then told her of Georgiana’s delight in her acquaintance, and of her +disappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally leading to +the cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution of +following her from Derbyshire in quest of her sister had been formed +before he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness there +had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must +comprehend. + +She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject to +each to be dwelt on farther. + +After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know +anything about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that +it was time to be at home. + +“What could have become of Mr. Bingley and Jane?” was a wonder which +introduced the discussion of _their_ affairs. Darcy was delighted with +their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information of +it. + +“I must ask whether you were surprised?” said Elizabeth. + +“Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.” + +“That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much.” And +though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much +the case. + +“On the evening before my going to London,” said he, “I made a +confession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I told +him of all that had occurred to make my former interference in his +affairs absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had +the slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself +mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent +to him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was +unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together.” + +Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his +friend. + +“Did you speak from your own observation,” said she, “when you told him +that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?” + +“From the former. I had narrowly observed her, during the two visits +which I had lately made her here; and I was convinced of her affection.” + +“And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to +him.” + +“It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had +prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but +his reliance on mine made everything easy. I was obliged to confess one +thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not +allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months +last winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was +angry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained +in any doubt of your sister’s sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me +now.” + +Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful +friend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but she checked +herself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laughed at, and +it was rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness of +Bingley, which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he +continued the conversation till they reached the house. In the hall they +parted. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “Unable to utter a syllable” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER LIX. + + +[Illustration] + +“My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?” was a question +which Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she entered the room, and +from all the others when they sat down to table. She had only to say in +reply, that they had wandered about till she was beyond her own +knowledge. She coloured as she spoke; but neither that, nor anything +else, awakened a suspicion of the truth. + +The evening passed quietly, unmarked by anything extraordinary. The +acknowledged lovers talked and laughed; the unacknowledged were silent. +Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth; +and Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather _knew_ that she was happy +than _felt_ herself to be so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment, +there were other evils before her. She anticipated what would be felt in +the family when her situation became known: she was aware that no one +liked him but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a +_dislike_ which not all his fortune and consequence might do away. + +At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far +from Miss Bennet’s general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here. + +“You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be! Engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no, +you shall not deceive me: I know it to be impossible.” + +“This is a wretched beginning, indeed! My sole dependence was on you; +and I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I +am in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we +are engaged.” + +Jane looked at her doubtingly. “Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much +you dislike him.” + +“You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot. Perhaps I +did not always love him so well as I do now; but in such cases as these +a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever +remember it myself.” + +Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more +seriously, assured her of its truth. + +“Good heaven! can it be really so? Yet now I must believe you,” cried +Jane. “My dear, dear Lizzy, I would, I do congratulate you; but are you +certain--forgive the question--are you quite certain that you can be +happy with him?” + +“There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already that we +are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased, Jane? +Shall you like to have such a brother?” + +“Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more +delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you +really love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do anything rather than +marry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought +to do?” + +“Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do when I +tell you all.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am +afraid you will be angry.” + +“My dearest sister, now be, _be_ serious. I want to talk very seriously. +Let me know everything that I am to know without delay. Will you tell me +how long you have loved him?” + +“It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began; +but I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds +at Pemberley.” + +Another entreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the +desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances of +attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Bennet had nothing +further to wish. + +“Now I am quite happy,” said she, “for you will be as happy as myself. I +always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you, I +must always have esteemed him; but now, as Bingley’s friend and your +husband, there can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But, +Lizzy, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you +tell me of what passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know +of it to another, not to you.” + +Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling to +mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made +her equally avoid the name of his friend: but now she would no longer +conceal from her his share in Lydia’s marriage. All was acknowledged, +and half the night spent in conversation. + +“Good gracious!” cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the next +morning, “if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here again with +our dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always +coming here? I had no notion but he would go a-shooting, or something or +other, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him? +Lizzy, you must walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley’s +way.” + +Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal; yet +was really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an +epithet. + +As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively, and +shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information; +and he soon afterwards said aloud, “Mrs. Bennet, have you no more lanes +hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?” + +“I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty,” said Mrs. Bennet, “to walk +to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has +never seen the view.” + +“It may do very well for the others,” replied Mr. Bingley; “but I am +sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won’t it, Kitty?” + +Kitty owned that she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great +curiosity to see the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently +consented. As she went upstairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her, +saying,-- + +“I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that +disagreeable man all to yourself; but I hope you will not mind it. It is +all for Jane’s sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking to +him except just now and then; so do not put yourself to inconvenience.” + +During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet’s consent should be +asked in the course of the evening: Elizabeth reserved to herself the +application for her mother’s. She could not determine how her mother +would take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur +would be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man; but whether she +were violently set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it +was certain that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit to +her sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear the +first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her +disapprobation. + +In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library, she saw +Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on seeing it was +extreme. She did not fear her father’s opposition, but he was going to +be made unhappy, and that it should be through her means; that _she_, +his favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be +filling him with fears and regrets in disposing of her, was a wretched +reflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when, +looking at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes +he approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while +pretending to admire her work, said in a whisper, “Go to your father; he +wants you in the library.” She was gone directly. + +Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious. +“Lizzy,” said he, “what are you doing? Are you out of your senses to be +accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?” + +How earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been more +reasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have spared her from +explanations and professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give; +but they were now necessary, and she assured him, with some confusion, +of her attachment to Mr. Darcy. + +“Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich, to be +sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than Jane. +But will they make you happy?” + +“Have you any other objection,” said Elizabeth, “than your belief of my +indifference?” + +“None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but +this would be nothing if you really liked him.” + +“I do, I do like him,” she replied, with tears in her eyes; “I love him. +Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not +know what he really is; then pray do not pain me by speaking of him in +such terms.” + +“Lizzy,” said her father, “I have given him my consent. He is the kind +of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse anything, which he +condescended to ask. I now give it to _you_, if you are resolved on +having him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know your +disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor +respectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband, unless you looked +up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the +greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape +discredit and misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing +_you_ unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are +about.” + +Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply; +and, at length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was really the +object of her choice, by explaining the gradual change which her +estimation of him had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that +his affection was not the work of a day, but had stood the test of many +months’ suspense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities, +she did conquer her father’s incredulity, and reconcile him to the +match. + +“Well, my dear,” said he, when she ceased speaking, “I have no more to +say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have parted with +you, my Lizzy, to anyone less worthy.” + +To complete the favourable impression, she then told him what Mr. Darcy +had voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with astonishment. + +“This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did everything; +made up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow’s debts, and got him +his commission! So much the better. It will save me a world of trouble +and economy. Had it been your uncle’s doing, I must and _would_ have +paid him; but these violent young lovers carry everything their own +way. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow, he will rant and storm about +his love for you, and there will be an end of the matter.” + +He then recollected her embarrassment a few days before on his reading +Mr. Collins’s letter; and after laughing at her some time, allowed her +at last to go, saying, as she quitted the room, “If any young men come +for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am quite at leisure.” + +Elizabeth’s mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and, after +half an hour’s quiet reflection in her own room, she was able to join +the others with tolerable composure. Everything was too recent for +gaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away; there was no longer +anything material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity +would come in time. + +When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she followed her, +and made the important communication. Its effect was most extraordinary; +for, on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and unable to +utter a syllable. Nor was it under many, many minutes, that she could +comprehend what she heard, though not in general backward to credit what +was for the advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a +lover to any of them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in +her chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless herself. + +“Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy! Who would +have thought it? And is it really true? Oh, my sweetest Lizzy! how rich +and how great you will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages +you will have! Jane’s is nothing to it--nothing at all. I am so +pleased--so happy. Such a charming man! so handsome! so tall! Oh, my +dear Lizzy! pray apologize for my having disliked him so much before. I +hope he will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Everything +that is charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh, +Lord! what will become of me? I shall go distracted.” + +This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be doubted; and +Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard only by herself, +soon went away. But before she had been three minutes in her own room, +her mother followed her. + +“My dearest child,” she cried, “I can think of nothing else. Ten +thousand a year, and very likely more! ’Tis as good as a lord! And a +special licence--you must and shall be married by a special licence. +But, my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond +of, that I may have it to-morrow.” + +This was a sad omen of what her mother’s behaviour to the gentleman +himself might be; and Elizabeth found that, though in the certain +possession of his warmest affection, and secure of her relations’ +consent, there was still something to be wished for. But the morrow +passed off much better than she expected; for Mrs. Bennet luckily stood +in such awe of her intended son-in-law, that she ventured not to speak +to him, unless it was in her power to offer him any attention, or mark +her deference for his opinion. + +Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains to get +acquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that he was rising +every hour in his esteem. + +“I admire all my three sons-in-law highly,” said he. “Wickham, perhaps, +is my favourite; but I think I shall like _your_ husband quite as well +as Jane’s.” + + + + +[Illustration: + +“The obsequious civility.” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER LX. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth’s spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr. +Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. “How could +you begin?” said she. “I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when +you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first +place?” + +“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which +laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I +knew that I _had_ begun.” + +“My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners--my behaviour +to _you_ was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke +to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now, be +sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?” + +“For the liveliness of your mind I did.” + +“You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little less. +The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious +attention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking, +and looking, and thinking for _your_ approbation alone. I roused and +interested you, because I was so unlike _them_. Had you not been really +amiable you would have hated me for it: but in spite of the pains you +took to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and +in your heart you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously +courted you. There--I have saved you the trouble of accounting for it; +and really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly +reasonable. To be sure you know no actual good of me--but nobody thinks +of _that_ when they fall in love.” + +“Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane, while she was +ill at Netherfield?” + +“Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it +by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are +to exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me +to find occasions for teasing and quarrelling with you as often as may +be; and I shall begin directly, by asking you what made you so unwilling +to come to the point at last? What made you so shy of me, when you +first called, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you +called, did you look as if you did not care about me?” + +“Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement.” + +“But I was embarrassed.” + +“And so was I.” + +“You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner.” + +“A man who had felt less might.” + +“How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that +I should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how long you +_would_ have gone on, if you had been left to yourself. I wonder when +you _would_ have spoken if I had not asked you! My resolution of +thanking you for your kindness to Lydia had certainly great effect. _Too +much_, I am afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if our comfort +springs from a breach of promise, for I ought not to have mentioned the +subject? This will never do.” + +“You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly fair. Lady +Catherine’s unjustifiable endeavours to separate us were the means of +removing all my doubts. I am not indebted for my present happiness to +your eager desire of expressing your gratitude. I was not in a humour to +wait for an opening of yours. My aunt’s intelligence had given me hope, +and I was determined at once to know everything.” + +“Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy, +for she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down to +Netherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed? +or had you intended any more serious consequences?” + +“My real purpose was to see _you_, and to judge, if I could, whether I +might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or what I avowed to +myself, was to see whether your sister was still partial to Bingley, and +if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since made.” + +“Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine what is to +befall her?” + +“I am more likely to want time than courage, Elizabeth. But it ought to +be done; and if you will give me a sheet of paper it shall be done +directly.” + +“And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you, and +admire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady once did. But +I have an aunt, too, who must not be longer neglected.” + +From an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr. Darcy +had been overrated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs. Gardiner’s +long letter; but now, having _that_ to communicate which she knew would +be most welcome, she was almost ashamed to find that her uncle and aunt +had already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as +follows:-- + +“I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have done, +for your long, kind, satisfactory detail of particulars; but, to say the +truth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than really existed. +But _now_ suppose as much as you choose; give a loose to your fancy, +indulge your imagination in every possible flight which the subject will +afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you cannot greatly +err. You must write again very soon, and praise him a great deal more +than you did in your last. I thank you again and again, for not going to +the Lakes. How could I be so silly as to wish it! Your idea of the +ponies is delightful. We will go round the park every day. I am the +happiest creature in the world. Perhaps other people have said so +before, but no one with such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she +only smiles, I laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world that +can be spared from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas. +Yours,” etc. + +Mr. Darcy’s letter to Lady Catherine was in a different style, and still +different from either was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr. Collins, in return +for his last. + + /* “Dear Sir, */ + + “I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will + soon be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as + you can. But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has + more to give. + +“Yours sincerely,” etc. + +Miss Bingley’s congratulations to her brother on his approaching +marriage were all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote even to +Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and repeat all her former +professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but she was affected; and +though feeling no reliance on her, could not help writing her a much +kinder answer than she knew was deserved. + +The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar information was +as sincere as her brother’s in sending it. Four sides of paper were +insufficient to contain all her delight, and all her earnest desire of +being loved by her sister. + +Before any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any congratulations +to Elizabeth from his wife, the Longbourn family heard that the +Collinses were come themselves to Lucas Lodge. The reason of this +sudden removal was soon evident. Lady Catherine had been rendered so +exceedingly angry by the contents of her nephew’s letter, that +Charlotte, really rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get away till +the storm was blown over. At such a moment, the arrival of her friend +was a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth, though in the course of their +meetings she must sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when she +saw Mr. Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of her +husband. He bore it, however, with admirable calmness. He could even +listen to Sir William Lucas, when he complimented him on carrying away +the brightest jewel of the country, and expressed his hopes of their all +meeting frequently at St. James’s, with very decent composure. If he did +shrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir William was out of sight. + +Mrs. Philips’s vulgarity was another, and, perhaps, a greater tax on his +forbearance; and though Mrs. Philips, as well as her sister, stood in +too much awe of him to speak with the familiarity which Bingley’s +good-humour encouraged; yet, whenever she _did_ speak, she must be +vulgar. Nor was her respect for him, though it made her more quiet, at +all likely to make her more elegant. Elizabeth did all she could to +shield him from the frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to +keep him to herself, and to those of her family with whom he might +converse without mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings +arising from all this took from the season of courtship much of its +pleasure, it added to the hope of the future; and she looked forward +with delight to the time when they should be removed from society so +little pleasing to either, to all the comfort and elegance of their +family party at Pemberley. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER LXI. + + +[Illustration] + +Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got +rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride she +afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley, and talked of Mrs. Darcy, may be +guessed. I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the +accomplishment of her earnest desire in the establishment of so many of +her children produced so happy an effect as to make her a sensible, +amiable, well-informed woman for the rest of her life; though, perhaps, +it was lucky for her husband, who might not have relished domestic +felicity in so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous +and invariably silly. + +Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection for her +drew him oftener from home than anything else could do. He delighted in +going to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected. + +Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. So near +a vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not desirable even to +_his_ easy temper, or _her_ affectionate heart. The darling wish of his +sisters was then gratified: he bought an estate in a neighbouring county +to Derbyshire; and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source +of happiness, were within thirty miles of each other. + +Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with +her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had generally +known, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable a +temper as Lydia; and, removed from the influence of Lydia’s example, she +became, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less +ignorant, and less insipid. From the further disadvantage of Lydia’s +society she was of course carefully kept; and though Mrs. Wickham +frequently invited her to come and stay with her, with the promise of +balls and young men, her father would never consent to her going. + +Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was necessarily +drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Bennet’s being quite +unable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix more with the world, but +she could still moralize over every morning visit; and as she was no +longer mortified by comparisons between her sisters’ beauty and her own, +it was suspected by her father that she submitted to the change without +much reluctance. + +As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution from +the marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the conviction that +Elizabeth must now become acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude +and falsehood had before been unknown to her; and, in spite of +everything, was not wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be +prevailed on to make his fortune. The congratulatory letter which +Elizabeth received from Lydia on her marriage explained to her that, by +his wife at least, if not by himself, such a hope was cherished. The +letter was to this effect:-- + + /* “My dear Lizzy, */ + + “I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half so well as I do my dear + Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you + so rich; and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will + think of us. I am sure Wickham would like a place at court very + much; and I do not think we shall have quite money enough to live + upon without some help. Any place would do of about three or four + hundred a year; but, however, do not speak to Mr. Darcy about it, + if you had rather not. + +“Yours,” etc. + +As it happened that Elizabeth had much rather not, she endeavoured in +her answer to put an end to every entreaty and expectation of the kind. +Such relief, however, as it was in her power to afford, by the practice +of what might be called economy in her own private expenses, she +frequently sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an +income as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in +their wants, and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to +their support; and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or +herself were sure of being applied to for some little assistance towards +discharging their bills. Their manner of living, even when the +restoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the +extreme. They were always moving from place to place in quest of a +cheap situation, and always spending more than they ought. His affection +for her soon sunk into indifference: hers lasted a little longer; and, +in spite of her youth and her manners, she retained all the claims to +reputation which her marriage had given her. Though Darcy could never +receive _him_ at Pemberley, yet, for Elizabeth’s sake, he assisted him +further in his profession. Lydia was occasionally a visitor there, when +her husband was gone to enjoy himself in London or Bath; and with the +Bingleys they both of them frequently stayed so long, that even +Bingley’s good-humour was overcome, and he proceeded so far as to _talk_ +of giving them a hint to be gone. + +Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy’s marriage; but as she +thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she +dropped all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as +attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility +to Elizabeth. + +Pemberley was now Georgiana’s home; and the attachment of the sisters +was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each +other, even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion +in the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with an +astonishment bordering on alarm at her lively, sportive manner of +talking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect +which almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open +pleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen in +her way. By Elizabeth’s instructions she began to comprehend that a +woman may take liberties with her husband, which a brother will not +always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself. + +Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew; +and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character, in +her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him +language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time +all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth’s persuasion, +he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation; +and, after a little further resistance on the part of his aunt, her +resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity +to see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait on +them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had +received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the +visits of her uncle and aunt from the city. + +With the Gardiners they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy, +as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever +sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing +her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them. + + [Illustration: + + THE + END + ] + + + + + CHISWICK PRESS:--CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO. + TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRIDE AND PREJUDICE *** + + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. 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Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. + +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: www.gutenberg.org. + +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + diff --git a/backend/sync_lib/test/resources/romeo_and_juliet.txt b/backend/sync_lib/test/resources/romeo_and_juliet.txt new file mode 100644 index 00000000..fd501246 --- /dev/null +++ b/backend/sync_lib/test/resources/romeo_and_juliet.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5646 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Romeo and Juliet + +This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online +at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, +you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located +before using this eBook. + +Title: Romeo and Juliet + +Author: William Shakespeare + +Release date: November 1, 1998 [eBook #1513] + Most recently updated: June 19, 2024 + +Language: English + +Credits: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET *** + + + + +THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET + +by William Shakespeare + + + + +Contents + +THE PROLOGUE. + +ACT I +Scene I. A public place. +Scene II. A Street. +Scene III. Room in Capulet’s House. +Scene IV. A Street. +Scene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House. + +ACT II +CHORUS. +Scene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden. +Scene II. Capulet’s Garden. +Scene III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. +Scene IV. A Street. +Scene V. Capulet’s Garden. +Scene VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. + +ACT III +Scene I. A public Place. +Scene II. A Room in Capulet’s House. +Scene III. Friar Lawrence’s cell. +Scene IV. A Room in Capulet’s House. +Scene V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden. + +ACT IV +Scene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. +Scene II. Hall in Capulet’s House. +Scene III. Juliet’s Chamber. +Scene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House. +Scene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed. + +ACT V +Scene I. Mantua. A Street. +Scene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. +Scene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets. + + + + + Dramatis Personæ + +ESCALUS, Prince of Verona. +MERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo. +PARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince. +Page to Paris. + +MONTAGUE, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Capulets. +LADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague. +ROMEO, son to Montague. +BENVOLIO, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo. +ABRAM, servant to Montague. +BALTHASAR, servant to Romeo. + +CAPULET, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Montagues. +LADY CAPULET, wife to Capulet. +JULIET, daughter to Capulet. +TYBALT, nephew to Lady Capulet. +CAPULET’S COUSIN, an old man. +NURSE to Juliet. +PETER, servant to Juliet’s Nurse. +SAMPSON, servant to Capulet. +GREGORY, servant to Capulet. +Servants. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE, a Franciscan. +FRIAR JOHN, of the same Order. +An Apothecary. +CHORUS. +Three Musicians. +An Officer. +Citizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses; +Maskers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants. + +SCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the +Fifth Act, at Mantua. + + + + +THE PROLOGUE + + + Enter Chorus. + +CHORUS. +Two households, both alike in dignity, +In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, +From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, +Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. +From forth the fatal loins of these two foes +A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life; +Whose misadventur’d piteous overthrows +Doth with their death bury their parents’ strife. +The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love, +And the continuance of their parents’ rage, +Which, but their children’s end, nought could remove, +Is now the two hours’ traffic of our stage; +The which, if you with patient ears attend, +What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend. + + [_Exit._] + + + + +ACT I + +SCENE I. A public place. + + + Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers. + +SAMPSON. +Gregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals. + +GREGORY. +No, for then we should be colliers. + +SAMPSON. +I mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw. + +GREGORY. +Ay, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar. + +SAMPSON. +I strike quickly, being moved. + +GREGORY. +But thou art not quickly moved to strike. + +SAMPSON. +A dog of the house of Montague moves me. + +GREGORY. +To move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou +art moved, thou runn’st away. + +SAMPSON. +A dog of that house shall move me to stand. +I will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s. + +GREGORY. +That shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall. + +SAMPSON. +True, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to +the wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and +thrust his maids to the wall. + +GREGORY. +The quarrel is between our masters and us their men. + +SAMPSON. +’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the +men I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads. + +GREGORY. +The heads of the maids? + +SAMPSON. +Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense +thou wilt. + +GREGORY. +They must take it in sense that feel it. + +SAMPSON. +Me they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a +pretty piece of flesh. + +GREGORY. +’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John. +Draw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues. + + Enter Abram and Balthasar. + +SAMPSON. +My naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee. + +GREGORY. +How? Turn thy back and run? + +SAMPSON. +Fear me not. + +GREGORY. +No, marry; I fear thee! + +SAMPSON. +Let us take the law of our sides; let them begin. + +GREGORY. +I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list. + +SAMPSON. +Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to +them if they bear it. + +ABRAM. +Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? + +SAMPSON. +I do bite my thumb, sir. + +ABRAM. +Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? + +SAMPSON. +Is the law of our side if I say ay? + +GREGORY. +No. + +SAMPSON. +No sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir. + +GREGORY. +Do you quarrel, sir? + +ABRAM. +Quarrel, sir? No, sir. + +SAMPSON. +But if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you. + +ABRAM. +No better. + +SAMPSON. +Well, sir. + + Enter Benvolio. + +GREGORY. +Say better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen. + +SAMPSON. +Yes, better, sir. + +ABRAM. +You lie. + +SAMPSON. +Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow. + + [_They fight._] + +BENVOLIO. +Part, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do. + + [_Beats down their swords._] + + Enter Tybalt. + +TYBALT. +What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds? +Turn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death. + +BENVOLIO. +I do but keep the peace, put up thy sword, +Or manage it to part these men with me. + +TYBALT. +What, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word +As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee: +Have at thee, coward. + + [_They fight._] + + Enter three or four Citizens with clubs. + +FIRST CITIZEN. +Clubs, bills and partisans! Strike! Beat them down! +Down with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues! + + Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet. + +CAPULET. +What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho! + +LADY CAPULET. +A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword? + +CAPULET. +My sword, I say! Old Montague is come, +And flourishes his blade in spite of me. + + Enter Montague and his Lady Montague. + +MONTAGUE. +Thou villain Capulet! Hold me not, let me go. + +LADY MONTAGUE. +Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe. + + Enter Prince Escalus, with Attendants. + +PRINCE. +Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace, +Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel,— +Will they not hear? What, ho! You men, you beasts, +That quench the fire of your pernicious rage +With purple fountains issuing from your veins, +On pain of torture, from those bloody hands +Throw your mistemper’d weapons to the ground +And hear the sentence of your moved prince. +Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word, +By thee, old Capulet, and Montague, +Have thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets, +And made Verona’s ancient citizens +Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments, +To wield old partisans, in hands as old, +Canker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate. +If ever you disturb our streets again, +Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace. +For this time all the rest depart away: +You, Capulet, shall go along with me, +And Montague, come you this afternoon, +To know our farther pleasure in this case, +To old Free-town, our common judgement-place. +Once more, on pain of death, all men depart. + + [_Exeunt Prince and Attendants; Capulet, Lady Capulet, Tybalt, + Citizens and Servants._] + +MONTAGUE. +Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach? +Speak, nephew, were you by when it began? + +BENVOLIO. +Here were the servants of your adversary +And yours, close fighting ere I did approach. +I drew to part them, in the instant came +The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar’d, +Which, as he breath’d defiance to my ears, +He swung about his head, and cut the winds, +Who nothing hurt withal, hiss’d him in scorn. +While we were interchanging thrusts and blows +Came more and more, and fought on part and part, +Till the Prince came, who parted either part. + +LADY MONTAGUE. +O where is Romeo, saw you him today? +Right glad I am he was not at this fray. + +BENVOLIO. +Madam, an hour before the worshipp’d sun +Peer’d forth the golden window of the east, +A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad, +Where underneath the grove of sycamore +That westward rooteth from this city side, +So early walking did I see your son. +Towards him I made, but he was ware of me, +And stole into the covert of the wood. +I, measuring his affections by my own, +Which then most sought where most might not be found, +Being one too many by my weary self, +Pursu’d my humour, not pursuing his, +And gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me. + +MONTAGUE. +Many a morning hath he there been seen, +With tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew, +Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs; +But all so soon as the all-cheering sun +Should in the farthest east begin to draw +The shady curtains from Aurora’s bed, +Away from light steals home my heavy son, +And private in his chamber pens himself, +Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out +And makes himself an artificial night. +Black and portentous must this humour prove, +Unless good counsel may the cause remove. + +BENVOLIO. +My noble uncle, do you know the cause? + +MONTAGUE. +I neither know it nor can learn of him. + +BENVOLIO. +Have you importun’d him by any means? + +MONTAGUE. +Both by myself and many other friends; +But he, his own affections’ counsellor, +Is to himself—I will not say how true— +But to himself so secret and so close, +So far from sounding and discovery, +As is the bud bit with an envious worm +Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air, +Or dedicate his beauty to the sun. +Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow, +We would as willingly give cure as know. + + Enter Romeo. + +BENVOLIO. +See, where he comes. So please you step aside; +I’ll know his grievance or be much denied. + +MONTAGUE. +I would thou wert so happy by thy stay +To hear true shrift. Come, madam, let’s away, + + [_Exeunt Montague and Lady Montague._] + +BENVOLIO. +Good morrow, cousin. + +ROMEO. +Is the day so young? + +BENVOLIO. +But new struck nine. + +ROMEO. +Ay me, sad hours seem long. +Was that my father that went hence so fast? + +BENVOLIO. +It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours? + +ROMEO. +Not having that which, having, makes them short. + +BENVOLIO. +In love? + +ROMEO. +Out. + +BENVOLIO. +Of love? + +ROMEO. +Out of her favour where I am in love. + +BENVOLIO. +Alas that love so gentle in his view, +Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof. + +ROMEO. +Alas that love, whose view is muffled still, +Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will! +Where shall we dine? O me! What fray was here? +Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all. +Here’s much to do with hate, but more with love: +Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate! +O anything, of nothing first create! +O heavy lightness! serious vanity! +Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms! +Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! +Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! +This love feel I, that feel no love in this. +Dost thou not laugh? + +BENVOLIO. +No coz, I rather weep. + +ROMEO. +Good heart, at what? + +BENVOLIO. +At thy good heart’s oppression. + +ROMEO. +Why such is love’s transgression. +Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, +Which thou wilt propagate to have it prest +With more of thine. This love that thou hast shown +Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. +Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs; +Being purg’d, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; +Being vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears: +What is it else? A madness most discreet, +A choking gall, and a preserving sweet. +Farewell, my coz. + + [_Going._] + +BENVOLIO. +Soft! I will go along: +And if you leave me so, you do me wrong. + +ROMEO. +Tut! I have lost myself; I am not here. +This is not Romeo, he’s some other where. + +BENVOLIO. +Tell me in sadness who is that you love? + +ROMEO. +What, shall I groan and tell thee? + +BENVOLIO. +Groan! Why, no; but sadly tell me who. + +ROMEO. +Bid a sick man in sadness make his will, +A word ill urg’d to one that is so ill. +In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman. + +BENVOLIO. +I aim’d so near when I suppos’d you lov’d. + +ROMEO. +A right good markman, and she’s fair I love. + +BENVOLIO. +A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit. + +ROMEO. +Well, in that hit you miss: she’ll not be hit +With Cupid’s arrow, she hath Dian’s wit; +And in strong proof of chastity well arm’d, +From love’s weak childish bow she lives uncharm’d. +She will not stay the siege of loving terms +Nor bide th’encounter of assailing eyes, +Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold: +O she’s rich in beauty, only poor +That when she dies, with beauty dies her store. + +BENVOLIO. +Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste? + +ROMEO. +She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste; +For beauty starv’d with her severity, +Cuts beauty off from all posterity. +She is too fair, too wise; wisely too fair, +To merit bliss by making me despair. +She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow +Do I live dead, that live to tell it now. + +BENVOLIO. +Be rul’d by me, forget to think of her. + +ROMEO. +O teach me how I should forget to think. + +BENVOLIO. +By giving liberty unto thine eyes; +Examine other beauties. + +ROMEO. +’Tis the way +To call hers, exquisite, in question more. +These happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows, +Being black, puts us in mind they hide the fair; +He that is strucken blind cannot forget +The precious treasure of his eyesight lost. +Show me a mistress that is passing fair, +What doth her beauty serve but as a note +Where I may read who pass’d that passing fair? +Farewell, thou canst not teach me to forget. + +BENVOLIO. +I’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt. + + [_Exeunt._] + +SCENE II. A Street. + + Enter Capulet, Paris and Servant. + +CAPULET. +But Montague is bound as well as I, +In penalty alike; and ’tis not hard, I think, +For men so old as we to keep the peace. + +PARIS. +Of honourable reckoning are you both, +And pity ’tis you liv’d at odds so long. +But now my lord, what say you to my suit? + +CAPULET. +But saying o’er what I have said before. +My child is yet a stranger in the world, +She hath not seen the change of fourteen years; +Let two more summers wither in their pride +Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride. + +PARIS. +Younger than she are happy mothers made. + +CAPULET. +And too soon marr’d are those so early made. +The earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she, +She is the hopeful lady of my earth: +But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart, +My will to her consent is but a part; +And she agree, within her scope of choice +Lies my consent and fair according voice. +This night I hold an old accustom’d feast, +Whereto I have invited many a guest, +Such as I love, and you among the store, +One more, most welcome, makes my number more. +At my poor house look to behold this night +Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light: +Such comfort as do lusty young men feel +When well apparell’d April on the heel +Of limping winter treads, even such delight +Among fresh female buds shall you this night +Inherit at my house. Hear all, all see, +And like her most whose merit most shall be: +Which, on more view of many, mine, being one, +May stand in number, though in reckoning none. +Come, go with me. Go, sirrah, trudge about +Through fair Verona; find those persons out +Whose names are written there, [_gives a paper_] and to them say, +My house and welcome on their pleasure stay. + + [_Exeunt Capulet and Paris._] + +SERVANT. +Find them out whose names are written here! It is written that the +shoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor with his last, the +fisher with his pencil, and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to +find those persons whose names are here writ, and can never find what +names the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good +time! + + Enter Benvolio and Romeo. + +BENVOLIO. +Tut, man, one fire burns out another’s burning, +One pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish; +Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning; +One desperate grief cures with another’s languish: +Take thou some new infection to thy eye, +And the rank poison of the old will die. + +ROMEO. +Your plantain leaf is excellent for that. + +BENVOLIO. +For what, I pray thee? + +ROMEO. +For your broken shin. + +BENVOLIO. +Why, Romeo, art thou mad? + +ROMEO. +Not mad, but bound more than a madman is: +Shut up in prison, kept without my food, +Whipp’d and tormented and—God-den, good fellow. + +SERVANT. +God gi’ go-den. I pray, sir, can you read? + +ROMEO. +Ay, mine own fortune in my misery. + +SERVANT. +Perhaps you have learned it without book. +But I pray, can you read anything you see? + +ROMEO. +Ay, If I know the letters and the language. + +SERVANT. +Ye say honestly, rest you merry! + +ROMEO. +Stay, fellow; I can read. + + [_He reads the letter._] + +_Signior Martino and his wife and daughters; +County Anselmo and his beauteous sisters; +The lady widow of Utruvio; +Signior Placentio and his lovely nieces; +Mercutio and his brother Valentine; +Mine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters; +My fair niece Rosaline and Livia; +Signior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt; +Lucio and the lively Helena. _ + + +A fair assembly. [_Gives back the paper_] Whither should they come? + +SERVANT. +Up. + +ROMEO. +Whither to supper? + +SERVANT. +To our house. + +ROMEO. +Whose house? + +SERVANT. +My master’s. + +ROMEO. +Indeed I should have ask’d you that before. + +SERVANT. +Now I’ll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet, +and if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a +cup of wine. Rest you merry. + + [_Exit._] + +BENVOLIO. +At this same ancient feast of Capulet’s +Sups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov’st; +With all the admired beauties of Verona. +Go thither and with unattainted eye, +Compare her face with some that I shall show, +And I will make thee think thy swan a crow. + +ROMEO. +When the devout religion of mine eye +Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fire; +And these who, often drown’d, could never die, +Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars. +One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun +Ne’er saw her match since first the world begun. + +BENVOLIO. +Tut, you saw her fair, none else being by, +Herself pois’d with herself in either eye: +But in that crystal scales let there be weigh’d +Your lady’s love against some other maid +That I will show you shining at this feast, +And she shall scant show well that now shows best. + +ROMEO. +I’ll go along, no such sight to be shown, +But to rejoice in splendour of my own. + + [_Exeunt._] + +SCENE III. Room in Capulet’s House. + + Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse. + +LADY CAPULET. +Nurse, where’s my daughter? Call her forth to me. + +NURSE. +Now, by my maidenhead, at twelve year old, +I bade her come. What, lamb! What ladybird! +God forbid! Where’s this girl? What, Juliet! + + Enter Juliet. + +JULIET. +How now, who calls? + +NURSE. +Your mother. + +JULIET. +Madam, I am here. What is your will? + +LADY CAPULET. +This is the matter. Nurse, give leave awhile, +We must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again, +I have remember’d me, thou’s hear our counsel. +Thou knowest my daughter’s of a pretty age. + +NURSE. +Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour. + +LADY CAPULET. +She’s not fourteen. + +NURSE. +I’ll lay fourteen of my teeth, +And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four, +She is not fourteen. How long is it now +To Lammas-tide? + +LADY CAPULET. +A fortnight and odd days. + +NURSE. +Even or odd, of all days in the year, +Come Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen. +Susan and she,—God rest all Christian souls!— +Were of an age. Well, Susan is with God; +She was too good for me. But as I said, +On Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen; +That shall she, marry; I remember it well. +’Tis since the earthquake now eleven years; +And she was wean’d,—I never shall forget it—, +Of all the days of the year, upon that day: +For I had then laid wormwood to my dug, +Sitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall; +My lord and you were then at Mantua: +Nay, I do bear a brain. But as I said, +When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple +Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool, +To see it tetchy, and fall out with the dug! +Shake, quoth the dovehouse: ’twas no need, I trow, +To bid me trudge. +And since that time it is eleven years; +For then she could stand alone; nay, by th’rood +She could have run and waddled all about; +For even the day before she broke her brow, +And then my husband,—God be with his soul! +A was a merry man,—took up the child: +‘Yea,’ quoth he, ‘dost thou fall upon thy face? +Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit; +Wilt thou not, Jule?’ and, by my holidame, +The pretty wretch left crying, and said ‘Ay’. +To see now how a jest shall come about. +I warrant, and I should live a thousand years, +I never should forget it. ‘Wilt thou not, Jule?’ quoth he; +And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said ‘Ay.’ + +LADY CAPULET. +Enough of this; I pray thee hold thy peace. + +NURSE. +Yes, madam, yet I cannot choose but laugh, +To think it should leave crying, and say ‘Ay’; +And yet I warrant it had upon it brow +A bump as big as a young cockerel’s stone; +A perilous knock, and it cried bitterly. +‘Yea,’ quoth my husband, ‘fall’st upon thy face? +Thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age; +Wilt thou not, Jule?’ it stinted, and said ‘Ay’. + +JULIET. +And stint thou too, I pray thee, Nurse, say I. + +NURSE. +Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace +Thou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nurs’d: +And I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish. + +LADY CAPULET. +Marry, that marry is the very theme +I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet, +How stands your disposition to be married? + +JULIET. +It is an honour that I dream not of. + +NURSE. +An honour! Were not I thine only nurse, +I would say thou hadst suck’d wisdom from thy teat. + +LADY CAPULET. +Well, think of marriage now: younger than you, +Here in Verona, ladies of esteem, +Are made already mothers. By my count +I was your mother much upon these years +That you are now a maid. Thus, then, in brief; +The valiant Paris seeks you for his love. + +NURSE. +A man, young lady! Lady, such a man +As all the world—why he’s a man of wax. + +LADY CAPULET. +Verona’s summer hath not such a flower. + +NURSE. +Nay, he’s a flower, in faith a very flower. + +LADY CAPULET. +What say you, can you love the gentleman? +This night you shall behold him at our feast; +Read o’er the volume of young Paris’ face, +And find delight writ there with beauty’s pen. +Examine every married lineament, +And see how one another lends content; +And what obscur’d in this fair volume lies, +Find written in the margent of his eyes. +This precious book of love, this unbound lover, +To beautify him, only lacks a cover: +The fish lives in the sea; and ’tis much pride +For fair without the fair within to hide. +That book in many’s eyes doth share the glory, +That in gold clasps locks in the golden story; +So shall you share all that he doth possess, +By having him, making yourself no less. + +NURSE. +No less, nay bigger. Women grow by men. + +LADY CAPULET. +Speak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love? + +JULIET. +I’ll look to like, if looking liking move: +But no more deep will I endart mine eye +Than your consent gives strength to make it fly. + + Enter a Servant. + +SERVANT. +Madam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady +asked for, the Nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity. +I must hence to wait, I beseech you follow straight. + +LADY CAPULET. +We follow thee. + + [_Exit Servant._] + +Juliet, the County stays. + +NURSE. +Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days. + + [_Exeunt._] + +SCENE IV. A Street. + + Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six Maskers; + Torch-bearers and others. + +ROMEO. +What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse? +Or shall we on without apology? + +BENVOLIO. +The date is out of such prolixity: +We’ll have no Cupid hoodwink’d with a scarf, +Bearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath, +Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper; +Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke +After the prompter, for our entrance: +But let them measure us by what they will, +We’ll measure them a measure, and be gone. + +ROMEO. +Give me a torch, I am not for this ambling; +Being but heavy I will bear the light. + +MERCUTIO. +Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance. + +ROMEO. +Not I, believe me, you have dancing shoes, +With nimble soles, I have a soul of lead +So stakes me to the ground I cannot move. + +MERCUTIO. +You are a lover, borrow Cupid’s wings, +And soar with them above a common bound. + +ROMEO. +I am too sore enpierced with his shaft +To soar with his light feathers, and so bound, +I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe. +Under love’s heavy burden do I sink. + +MERCUTIO. +And, to sink in it, should you burden love; +Too great oppression for a tender thing. + +ROMEO. +Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, +Too rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn. + +MERCUTIO. +If love be rough with you, be rough with love; +Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down. +Give me a case to put my visage in: [_Putting on a mask._] +A visor for a visor. What care I +What curious eye doth quote deformities? +Here are the beetle-brows shall blush for me. + +BENVOLIO. +Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in +But every man betake him to his legs. + +ROMEO. +A torch for me: let wantons, light of heart, +Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels; +For I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase, +I’ll be a candle-holder and look on, +The game was ne’er so fair, and I am done. + +MERCUTIO. +Tut, dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own word: +If thou art dun, we’ll draw thee from the mire +Or save your reverence love, wherein thou stickest +Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho. + +ROMEO. +Nay, that’s not so. + +MERCUTIO. +I mean sir, in delay +We waste our lights in vain, light lights by day. +Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits +Five times in that ere once in our five wits. + +ROMEO. +And we mean well in going to this mask; +But ’tis no wit to go. + +MERCUTIO. +Why, may one ask? + +ROMEO. +I dreamt a dream tonight. + +MERCUTIO. +And so did I. + +ROMEO. +Well what was yours? + +MERCUTIO. +That dreamers often lie. + +ROMEO. +In bed asleep, while they do dream things true. + +MERCUTIO. +O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you. +She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes +In shape no bigger than an agate-stone +On the fore-finger of an alderman, +Drawn with a team of little atomies +Over men’s noses as they lie asleep: +Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs; +The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; +Her traces, of the smallest spider’s web; +The collars, of the moonshine’s watery beams; +Her whip of cricket’s bone; the lash, of film; +Her waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat, +Not half so big as a round little worm +Prick’d from the lazy finger of a maid: +Her chariot is an empty hazelnut, +Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub, +Time out o’ mind the fairies’ coachmakers. +And in this state she gallops night by night +Through lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love; +O’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on curtsies straight; +O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees; +O’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream, +Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, +Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are: +Sometime she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose, +And then dreams he of smelling out a suit; +And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail, +Tickling a parson’s nose as a lies asleep, +Then dreams he of another benefice: +Sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck, +And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, +Of breaches, ambuscados, Spanish blades, +Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon +Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes; +And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, +And sleeps again. This is that very Mab +That plats the manes of horses in the night; +And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs, +Which, once untangled, much misfortune bodes: +This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs, +That presses them, and learns them first to bear, +Making them women of good carriage: +This is she,— + +ROMEO. +Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace, +Thou talk’st of nothing. + +MERCUTIO. +True, I talk of dreams, +Which are the children of an idle brain, +Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, +Which is as thin of substance as the air, +And more inconstant than the wind, who woos +Even now the frozen bosom of the north, +And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence, +Turning his side to the dew-dropping south. + +BENVOLIO. +This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves: +Supper is done, and we shall come too late. + +ROMEO. +I fear too early: for my mind misgives +Some consequence yet hanging in the stars, +Shall bitterly begin his fearful date +With this night’s revels; and expire the term +Of a despised life, clos’d in my breast +By some vile forfeit of untimely death. +But he that hath the steerage of my course +Direct my suit. On, lusty gentlemen! + +BENVOLIO. +Strike, drum. + + [_Exeunt._] + +SCENE V. A Hall in Capulet’s House. + + Musicians waiting. Enter Servants. + +FIRST SERVANT. +Where’s Potpan, that he helps not to take away? +He shift a trencher! He scrape a trencher! + +SECOND SERVANT. +When good manners shall lie all in one or two men’s hands, and they +unwash’d too, ’tis a foul thing. + +FIRST SERVANT. +Away with the join-stools, remove the court-cupboard, look to the +plate. Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane; and as thou loves me, +let the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell. Antony and Potpan! + +SECOND SERVANT. +Ay, boy, ready. + +FIRST SERVANT. +You are looked for and called for, asked for and sought for, in the +great chamber. + +SECOND SERVANT. +We cannot be here and there too. Cheerly, boys. Be brisk awhile, and +the longer liver take all. + + [_Exeunt._] + + Enter Capulet, &c. with the Guests and Gentlewomen to the Maskers. + +CAPULET. +Welcome, gentlemen, ladies that have their toes +Unplagu’d with corns will have a bout with you. +Ah my mistresses, which of you all +Will now deny to dance? She that makes dainty, +She I’ll swear hath corns. Am I come near ye now? +Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day +That I have worn a visor, and could tell +A whispering tale in a fair lady’s ear, +Such as would please; ’tis gone, ’tis gone, ’tis gone, +You are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play. +A hall, a hall, give room! And foot it, girls. + + [_Music plays, and they dance._] + +More light, you knaves; and turn the tables up, +And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot. +Ah sirrah, this unlook’d-for sport comes well. +Nay sit, nay sit, good cousin Capulet, +For you and I are past our dancing days; +How long is’t now since last yourself and I +Were in a mask? + +CAPULET’S COUSIN. +By’r Lady, thirty years. + +CAPULET. +What, man, ’tis not so much, ’tis not so much: +’Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio, +Come Pentecost as quickly as it will, +Some five and twenty years; and then we mask’d. + +CAPULET’S COUSIN. +’Tis more, ’tis more, his son is elder, sir; +His son is thirty. + +CAPULET. +Will you tell me that? +His son was but a ward two years ago. + +ROMEO. +What lady is that, which doth enrich the hand +Of yonder knight? + +SERVANT. +I know not, sir. + +ROMEO. +O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! +It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night +As a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear; +Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! +So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows +As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows. +The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand, +And touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. +Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! +For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night. + +TYBALT. +This by his voice, should be a Montague. +Fetch me my rapier, boy. What, dares the slave +Come hither, cover’d with an antic face, +To fleer and scorn at our solemnity? +Now by the stock and honour of my kin, +To strike him dead I hold it not a sin. + +CAPULET. +Why how now, kinsman! +Wherefore storm you so? + +TYBALT. +Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe; +A villain that is hither come in spite, +To scorn at our solemnity this night. + +CAPULET. +Young Romeo, is it? + +TYBALT. +’Tis he, that villain Romeo. + +CAPULET. +Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone, +A bears him like a portly gentleman; +And, to say truth, Verona brags of him +To be a virtuous and well-govern’d youth. +I would not for the wealth of all the town +Here in my house do him disparagement. +Therefore be patient, take no note of him, +It is my will; the which if thou respect, +Show a fair presence and put off these frowns, +An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast. + +TYBALT. +It fits when such a villain is a guest: +I’ll not endure him. + +CAPULET. +He shall be endur’d. +What, goodman boy! I say he shall, go to; +Am I the master here, or you? Go to. +You’ll not endure him! God shall mend my soul, +You’ll make a mutiny among my guests! +You will set cock-a-hoop, you’ll be the man! + +TYBALT. +Why, uncle, ’tis a shame. + +CAPULET. +Go to, go to! +You are a saucy boy. Is’t so, indeed? +This trick may chance to scathe you, I know what. +You must contrary me! Marry, ’tis time. +Well said, my hearts!—You are a princox; go: +Be quiet, or—More light, more light!—For shame! +I’ll make you quiet. What, cheerly, my hearts. + +TYBALT. +Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting +Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting. +I will withdraw: but this intrusion shall, +Now seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall. + + [_Exit._] + +ROMEO. +[_To Juliet._] If I profane with my unworthiest hand +This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this, +My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand +To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. + +JULIET. +Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, +Which mannerly devotion shows in this; +For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, +And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss. + +ROMEO. +Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too? + +JULIET. +Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer. + +ROMEO. +O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do: +They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair. + +JULIET. +Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake. + +ROMEO. +Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take. +Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg’d. +[_Kissing her._] + +JULIET. +Then have my lips the sin that they have took. + +ROMEO. +Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg’d! +Give me my sin again. + +JULIET. +You kiss by the book. + +NURSE. +Madam, your mother craves a word with you. + +ROMEO. +What is her mother? + +NURSE. +Marry, bachelor, +Her mother is the lady of the house, +And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous. +I nurs’d her daughter that you talk’d withal. +I tell you, he that can lay hold of her +Shall have the chinks. + +ROMEO. +Is she a Capulet? +O dear account! My life is my foe’s debt. + +BENVOLIO. +Away, be gone; the sport is at the best. + +ROMEO. +Ay, so I fear; the more is my unrest. + +CAPULET. +Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone, +We have a trifling foolish banquet towards. +Is it e’en so? Why then, I thank you all; +I thank you, honest gentlemen; good night. +More torches here! Come on then, let’s to bed. +Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late, +I’ll to my rest. + + [_Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse._] + +JULIET. +Come hither, Nurse. What is yond gentleman? + +NURSE. +The son and heir of old Tiberio. + +JULIET. +What’s he that now is going out of door? + +NURSE. +Marry, that I think be young Petruchio. + +JULIET. +What’s he that follows here, that would not dance? + +NURSE. +I know not. + +JULIET. +Go ask his name. If he be married, +My grave is like to be my wedding bed. + +NURSE. +His name is Romeo, and a Montague, +The only son of your great enemy. + +JULIET. +My only love sprung from my only hate! +Too early seen unknown, and known too late! +Prodigious birth of love it is to me, +That I must love a loathed enemy. + +NURSE. +What’s this? What’s this? + +JULIET. +A rhyme I learn’d even now +Of one I danc’d withal. + + [_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._] + +NURSE. +Anon, anon! +Come let’s away, the strangers all are gone. + + [_Exeunt._] + + + + +ACT II + + + Enter Chorus. + +CHORUS. +Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie, +And young affection gapes to be his heir; +That fair for which love groan’d for and would die, +With tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair. +Now Romeo is belov’d, and loves again, +Alike bewitched by the charm of looks; +But to his foe suppos’d he must complain, +And she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks: +Being held a foe, he may not have access +To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear; +And she as much in love, her means much less +To meet her new beloved anywhere. +But passion lends them power, time means, to meet, +Tempering extremities with extreme sweet. + + [_Exit._] + +SCENE I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden. + + Enter Romeo. + +ROMEO. +Can I go forward when my heart is here? +Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out. + + [_He climbs the wall and leaps down within it._] + + Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. + +BENVOLIO. +Romeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo! + +MERCUTIO. +He is wise, +And on my life hath stol’n him home to bed. + +BENVOLIO. +He ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall: +Call, good Mercutio. + +MERCUTIO. +Nay, I’ll conjure too. +Romeo! Humours! Madman! Passion! Lover! +Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh, +Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied; +Cry but ‘Ah me!’ Pronounce but Love and dove; +Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word, +One nickname for her purblind son and heir, +Young Abraham Cupid, he that shot so trim +When King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid. +He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not; +The ape is dead, and I must conjure him. +I conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes, +By her high forehead and her scarlet lip, +By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh, +And the demesnes that there adjacent lie, +That in thy likeness thou appear to us. + +BENVOLIO. +An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him. + +MERCUTIO. +This cannot anger him. ’Twould anger him +To raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle, +Of some strange nature, letting it there stand +Till she had laid it, and conjur’d it down; +That were some spite. My invocation +Is fair and honest, and, in his mistress’ name, +I conjure only but to raise up him. + +BENVOLIO. +Come, he hath hid himself among these trees +To be consorted with the humorous night. +Blind is his love, and best befits the dark. + +MERCUTIO. +If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark. +Now will he sit under a medlar tree, +And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit +As maids call medlars when they laugh alone. +O Romeo, that she were, O that she were +An open-arse and thou a poperin pear! +Romeo, good night. I’ll to my truckle-bed. +This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep. +Come, shall we go? + +BENVOLIO. +Go then; for ’tis in vain +To seek him here that means not to be found. + + [_Exeunt._] + +SCENE II. Capulet’s Garden. + + Enter Romeo. + +ROMEO. +He jests at scars that never felt a wound. + + Juliet appears above at a window. + +But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? +It is the east, and Juliet is the sun! +Arise fair sun and kill the envious moon, +Who is already sick and pale with grief, +That thou her maid art far more fair than she. +Be not her maid since she is envious; +Her vestal livery is but sick and green, +And none but fools do wear it; cast it off. +It is my lady, O it is my love! +O, that she knew she were! +She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that? +Her eye discourses, I will answer it. +I am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks. +Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, +Having some business, do entreat her eyes +To twinkle in their spheres till they return. +What if her eyes were there, they in her head? +The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, +As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven +Would through the airy region stream so bright +That birds would sing and think it were not night. +See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. +O that I were a glove upon that hand, +That I might touch that cheek. + +JULIET. +Ay me. + +ROMEO. +She speaks. +O speak again bright angel, for thou art +As glorious to this night, being o’er my head, +As is a winged messenger of heaven +Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes +Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him +When he bestrides the lazy-puffing clouds +And sails upon the bosom of the air. + +JULIET. +O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? +Deny thy father and refuse thy name. +Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, +And I’ll no longer be a Capulet. + +ROMEO. +[_Aside._] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this? + +JULIET. +’Tis but thy name that is my enemy; +Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. +What’s Montague? It is nor hand nor foot, +Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part +Belonging to a man. O be some other name. +What’s in a name? That which we call a rose +By any other name would smell as sweet; +So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d, +Retain that dear perfection which he owes +Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, +And for thy name, which is no part of thee, +Take all myself. + +ROMEO. +I take thee at thy word. +Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptis’d; +Henceforth I never will be Romeo. + +JULIET. +What man art thou that, thus bescreen’d in night +So stumblest on my counsel? + +ROMEO. +By a name +I know not how to tell thee who I am: +My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, +Because it is an enemy to thee. +Had I it written, I would tear the word. + +JULIET. +My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words +Of thy tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound. +Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague? + +ROMEO. +Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike. + +JULIET. +How cam’st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? +The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, +And the place death, considering who thou art, +If any of my kinsmen find thee here. + +ROMEO. +With love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls, +For stony limits cannot hold love out, +And what love can do, that dares love attempt: +Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me. + +JULIET. +If they do see thee, they will murder thee. + +ROMEO. +Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye +Than twenty of their swords. Look thou but sweet, +And I am proof against their enmity. + +JULIET. +I would not for the world they saw thee here. + +ROMEO. +I have night’s cloak to hide me from their eyes, +And but thou love me, let them find me here. +My life were better ended by their hate +Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. + +JULIET. +By whose direction found’st thou out this place? + +ROMEO. +By love, that first did prompt me to enquire; +He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. +I am no pilot; yet wert thou as far +As that vast shore wash’d with the farthest sea, +I should adventure for such merchandise. + +JULIET. +Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face, +Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek +For that which thou hast heard me speak tonight. +Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny +What I have spoke; but farewell compliment. +Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say Ay, +And I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear’st, +Thou mayst prove false. At lovers’ perjuries, +They say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo, +If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully. +Or if thou thinkest I am too quickly won, +I’ll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay, +So thou wilt woo. But else, not for the world. +In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond; +And therefore thou mayst think my ’haviour light: +But trust me, gentleman, I’ll prove more true +Than those that have more cunning to be strange. +I should have been more strange, I must confess, +But that thou overheard’st, ere I was ’ware, +My true-love passion; therefore pardon me, +And not impute this yielding to light love, +Which the dark night hath so discovered. + +ROMEO. +Lady, by yonder blessed moon I vow, +That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops,— + +JULIET. +O swear not by the moon, th’inconstant moon, +That monthly changes in her circled orb, +Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. + +ROMEO. +What shall I swear by? + +JULIET. +Do not swear at all. +Or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, +Which is the god of my idolatry, +And I’ll believe thee. + +ROMEO. +If my heart’s dear love,— + +JULIET. +Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee, +I have no joy of this contract tonight; +It is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden, +Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be +Ere one can say “It lightens.” Sweet, good night. +This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath, +May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. +Good night, good night. As sweet repose and rest +Come to thy heart as that within my breast. + +ROMEO. +O wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? + +JULIET. +What satisfaction canst thou have tonight? + +ROMEO. +Th’exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine. + +JULIET. +I gave thee mine before thou didst request it; +And yet I would it were to give again. + +ROMEO. +Would’st thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love? + +JULIET. +But to be frank and give it thee again. +And yet I wish but for the thing I have; +My bounty is as boundless as the sea, +My love as deep; the more I give to thee, +The more I have, for both are infinite. +I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu. +[_Nurse calls within._] +Anon, good Nurse!—Sweet Montague be true. +Stay but a little, I will come again. + + [_Exit._] + +ROMEO. +O blessed, blessed night. I am afeard, +Being in night, all this is but a dream, +Too flattering sweet to be substantial. + + Enter Juliet above. + +JULIET. +Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed. +If that thy bent of love be honourable, +Thy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow, +By one that I’ll procure to come to thee, +Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite, +And all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay +And follow thee my lord throughout the world. + +NURSE. +[_Within._] Madam. + +JULIET. +I come, anon.— But if thou meanest not well, +I do beseech thee,— + +NURSE. +[_Within._] Madam. + +JULIET. +By and by I come— +To cease thy strife and leave me to my grief. +Tomorrow will I send. + +ROMEO. +So thrive my soul,— + +JULIET. +A thousand times good night. + + [_Exit._] + +ROMEO. +A thousand times the worse, to want thy light. +Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, +But love from love, towards school with heavy looks. + + [_Retiring slowly._] + + Re-enter Juliet, above. + +JULIET. +Hist! Romeo, hist! O for a falconer’s voice +To lure this tassel-gentle back again. +Bondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud, +Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies, +And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine +With repetition of my Romeo’s name. + +ROMEO. +It is my soul that calls upon my name. +How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night, +Like softest music to attending ears. + +JULIET. +Romeo. + +ROMEO. +My dear? + +JULIET. +What o’clock tomorrow +Shall I send to thee? + +ROMEO. +By the hour of nine. + +JULIET. +I will not fail. ’Tis twenty years till then. +I have forgot why I did call thee back. + +ROMEO. +Let me stand here till thou remember it. + +JULIET. +I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, +Remembering how I love thy company. + +ROMEO. +And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget, +Forgetting any other home but this. + +JULIET. +’Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone, +And yet no farther than a wanton’s bird, +That lets it hop a little from her hand, +Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, +And with a silk thread plucks it back again, +So loving-jealous of his liberty. + +ROMEO. +I would I were thy bird. + +JULIET. +Sweet, so would I: +Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. +Good night, good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow +That I shall say good night till it be morrow. + + [_Exit._] + +ROMEO. +Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast. +Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest. +Hence will I to my ghostly Sire’s cell, +His help to crave and my dear hap to tell. + + [_Exit._] + +SCENE III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. + + Enter Friar Lawrence with a basket. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +The grey-ey’d morn smiles on the frowning night, +Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light; +And fleckled darkness like a drunkard reels +From forth day’s pathway, made by Titan’s fiery wheels +Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye, +The day to cheer, and night’s dank dew to dry, +I must upfill this osier cage of ours +With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers. +The earth that’s nature’s mother, is her tomb; +What is her burying grave, that is her womb: +And from her womb children of divers kind +We sucking on her natural bosom find. +Many for many virtues excellent, +None but for some, and yet all different. +O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies +In plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities. +For naught so vile that on the earth doth live +But to the earth some special good doth give; +Nor aught so good but, strain’d from that fair use, +Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse. +Virtue itself turns vice being misapplied, +And vice sometime’s by action dignified. + + Enter Romeo. + +Within the infant rind of this weak flower +Poison hath residence, and medicine power: +For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part; +Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart. +Two such opposed kings encamp them still +In man as well as herbs,—grace and rude will; +And where the worser is predominant, +Full soon the canker death eats up that plant. + +ROMEO. +Good morrow, father. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Benedicite! +What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? +Young son, it argues a distemper’d head +So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed. +Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, +And where care lodges sleep will never lie; +But where unbruised youth with unstuff’d brain +Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign. +Therefore thy earliness doth me assure +Thou art uprous’d with some distemperature; +Or if not so, then here I hit it right, +Our Romeo hath not been in bed tonight. + +ROMEO. +That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +God pardon sin. Wast thou with Rosaline? + +ROMEO. +With Rosaline, my ghostly father? No. +I have forgot that name, and that name’s woe. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +That’s my good son. But where hast thou been then? + +ROMEO. +I’ll tell thee ere thou ask it me again. +I have been feasting with mine enemy, +Where on a sudden one hath wounded me +That’s by me wounded. Both our remedies +Within thy help and holy physic lies. +I bear no hatred, blessed man; for lo, +My intercession likewise steads my foe. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift; +Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift. + +ROMEO. +Then plainly know my heart’s dear love is set +On the fair daughter of rich Capulet. +As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine; +And all combin’d, save what thou must combine +By holy marriage. When, and where, and how +We met, we woo’d, and made exchange of vow, +I’ll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray, +That thou consent to marry us today. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Holy Saint Francis! What a change is here! +Is Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear, +So soon forsaken? Young men’s love then lies +Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. +Jesu Maria, what a deal of brine +Hath wash’d thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline! +How much salt water thrown away in waste, +To season love, that of it doth not taste. +The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears, +Thy old groans yet ring in mine ancient ears. +Lo here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit +Of an old tear that is not wash’d off yet. +If ere thou wast thyself, and these woes thine, +Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline, +And art thou chang’d? Pronounce this sentence then, +Women may fall, when there’s no strength in men. + +ROMEO. +Thou chidd’st me oft for loving Rosaline. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +For doting, not for loving, pupil mine. + +ROMEO. +And bad’st me bury love. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Not in a grave +To lay one in, another out to have. + +ROMEO. +I pray thee chide me not, her I love now +Doth grace for grace and love for love allow. +The other did not so. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +O, she knew well +Thy love did read by rote, that could not spell. +But come young waverer, come go with me, +In one respect I’ll thy assistant be; +For this alliance may so happy prove, +To turn your households’ rancour to pure love. + +ROMEO. +O let us hence; I stand on sudden haste. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast. + + [_Exeunt._] + +SCENE IV. A Street. + + Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. + +MERCUTIO. +Where the devil should this Romeo be? Came he not home tonight? + +BENVOLIO. +Not to his father’s; I spoke with his man. + +MERCUTIO. +Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, torments him so +that he will sure run mad. + +BENVOLIO. +Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, hath sent a letter to his father’s +house. + +MERCUTIO. +A challenge, on my life. + +BENVOLIO. +Romeo will answer it. + +MERCUTIO. +Any man that can write may answer a letter. + +BENVOLIO. +Nay, he will answer the letter’s master, how he dares, being dared. + +MERCUTIO. +Alas poor Romeo, he is already dead, stabbed with a white wench’s black +eye; run through the ear with a love song, the very pin of his heart +cleft with the blind bow-boy’s butt-shaft. And is he a man to encounter +Tybalt? + +BENVOLIO. +Why, what is Tybalt? + +MERCUTIO. +More than Prince of cats. O, he’s the courageous captain of +compliments. He fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance, +and proportion. He rests his minim rest, one, two, and the third in +your bosom: the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist; +a gentleman of the very first house, of the first and second cause. Ah, +the immortal passado, the punto reverso, the hay. + +BENVOLIO. +The what? + +MERCUTIO. +The pox of such antic lisping, affecting phantasies; these new tuners +of accent. By Jesu, a very good blade, a very tall man, a very good +whore. Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should +be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, +these pardon-me’s, who stand so much on the new form that they cannot +sit at ease on the old bench? O their bones, their bones! + + Enter Romeo. + +BENVOLIO. +Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo! + +MERCUTIO. +Without his roe, like a dried herring. O flesh, flesh, how art thou +fishified! Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in. Laura, to +his lady, was but a kitchen wench,—marry, she had a better love to +berhyme her: Dido a dowdy; Cleopatra a gypsy; Helen and Hero hildings +and harlots; Thisbe a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose. Signior +Romeo, bonjour! There’s a French salutation to your French slop. You +gave us the counterfeit fairly last night. + +ROMEO. +Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you? + +MERCUTIO. +The slip sir, the slip; can you not conceive? + +ROMEO. +Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was great, and in such a case as +mine a man may strain courtesy. + +MERCUTIO. +That’s as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow +in the hams. + +ROMEO. +Meaning, to curtsy. + +MERCUTIO. +Thou hast most kindly hit it. + +ROMEO. +A most courteous exposition. + +MERCUTIO. +Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy. + +ROMEO. +Pink for flower. + +MERCUTIO. +Right. + +ROMEO. +Why, then is my pump well flowered. + +MERCUTIO. +Sure wit, follow me this jest now, till thou hast worn out thy pump, +that when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain after the +wearing, solely singular. + +ROMEO. +O single-soled jest, solely singular for the singleness! + +MERCUTIO. +Come between us, good Benvolio; my wits faint. + +ROMEO. +Swits and spurs, swits and spurs; or I’ll cry a match. + +MERCUTIO. +Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, I am done. For thou hast +more of the wild-goose in one of thy wits, than I am sure, I have in my +whole five. Was I with you there for the goose? + +ROMEO. +Thou wast never with me for anything, when thou wast not there for the +goose. + +MERCUTIO. +I will bite thee by the ear for that jest. + +ROMEO. +Nay, good goose, bite not. + +MERCUTIO. +Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting, it is a most sharp sauce. + +ROMEO. +And is it not then well served in to a sweet goose? + +MERCUTIO. +O here’s a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch narrow to an +ell broad. + +ROMEO. +I stretch it out for that word broad, which added to the goose, proves +thee far and wide a broad goose. + +MERCUTIO. +Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? Now art thou +sociable, now art thou Romeo; now art thou what thou art, by art as +well as by nature. For this drivelling love is like a great natural, +that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole. + +BENVOLIO. +Stop there, stop there. + +MERCUTIO. +Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair. + +BENVOLIO. +Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large. + +MERCUTIO. +O, thou art deceived; I would have made it short, for I was come to the +whole depth of my tale, and meant indeed to occupy the argument no +longer. + + Enter Nurse and Peter. + +ROMEO. +Here’s goodly gear! +A sail, a sail! + +MERCUTIO. +Two, two; a shirt and a smock. + +NURSE. +Peter! + +PETER. +Anon. + +NURSE. +My fan, Peter. + +MERCUTIO. +Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan’s the fairer face. + +NURSE. +God ye good morrow, gentlemen. + +MERCUTIO. +God ye good-den, fair gentlewoman. + +NURSE. +Is it good-den? + +MERCUTIO. +’Tis no less, I tell ye; for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the +prick of noon. + +NURSE. +Out upon you! What a man are you? + +ROMEO. +One, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar. + +NURSE. +By my troth, it is well said; for himself to mar, quoth a? Gentlemen, +can any of you tell me where I may find the young Romeo? + +ROMEO. +I can tell you: but young Romeo will be older when you have found him +than he was when you sought him. I am the youngest of that name, for +fault of a worse. + +NURSE. +You say well. + +MERCUTIO. +Yea, is the worst well? Very well took, i’faith; wisely, wisely. + +NURSE. +If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you. + +BENVOLIO. +She will endite him to some supper. + +MERCUTIO. +A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! So ho! + +ROMEO. +What hast thou found? + +MERCUTIO. +No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is something +stale and hoar ere it be spent. +[_Sings._] + An old hare hoar, + And an old hare hoar, + Is very good meat in Lent; + But a hare that is hoar + Is too much for a score + When it hoars ere it be spent. +Romeo, will you come to your father’s? We’ll to dinner thither. + +ROMEO. +I will follow you. + +MERCUTIO. +Farewell, ancient lady; farewell, lady, lady, lady. + + [_Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio._] + +NURSE. +I pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was this that was so full of his +ropery? + +ROMEO. +A gentleman, Nurse, that loves to hear himself talk, and will speak +more in a minute than he will stand to in a month. + +NURSE. +And a speak anything against me, I’ll take him down, and a were lustier +than he is, and twenty such Jacks. And if I cannot, I’ll find those +that shall. Scurvy knave! I am none of his flirt-gills; I am none of +his skains-mates.—And thou must stand by too and suffer every knave to +use me at his pleasure! + +PETER. +I saw no man use you at his pleasure; if I had, my weapon should +quickly have been out. I warrant you, I dare draw as soon as another +man, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my side. + +NURSE. +Now, afore God, I am so vexed that every part about me quivers. Scurvy +knave. Pray you, sir, a word: and as I told you, my young lady bid me +enquire you out; what she bade me say, I will keep to myself. But first +let me tell ye, if ye should lead her in a fool’s paradise, as they +say, it were a very gross kind of behaviour, as they say; for the +gentlewoman is young. And therefore, if you should deal double with +her, truly it were an ill thing to be offered to any gentlewoman, and +very weak dealing. + +ROMEO. Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. I protest unto +thee,— + +NURSE. +Good heart, and i’faith I will tell her as much. Lord, Lord, she will +be a joyful woman. + +ROMEO. +What wilt thou tell her, Nurse? Thou dost not mark me. + +NURSE. +I will tell her, sir, that you do protest, which, as I take it, is a +gentlemanlike offer. + +ROMEO. +Bid her devise +Some means to come to shrift this afternoon, +And there she shall at Friar Lawrence’ cell +Be shriv’d and married. Here is for thy pains. + +NURSE. +No truly, sir; not a penny. + +ROMEO. +Go to; I say you shall. + +NURSE. +This afternoon, sir? Well, she shall be there. + +ROMEO. +And stay, good Nurse, behind the abbey wall. +Within this hour my man shall be with thee, +And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair, +Which to the high topgallant of my joy +Must be my convoy in the secret night. +Farewell, be trusty, and I’ll quit thy pains; +Farewell; commend me to thy mistress. + +NURSE. +Now God in heaven bless thee. Hark you, sir. + +ROMEO. +What say’st thou, my dear Nurse? + +NURSE. +Is your man secret? Did you ne’er hear say, +Two may keep counsel, putting one away? + +ROMEO. +I warrant thee my man’s as true as steel. + +NURSE. +Well, sir, my mistress is the sweetest lady. Lord, Lord! When ’twas a +little prating thing,—O, there is a nobleman in town, one Paris, that +would fain lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lief see a +toad, a very toad, as see him. I anger her sometimes, and tell her that +Paris is the properer man, but I’ll warrant you, when I say so, she +looks as pale as any clout in the versal world. Doth not rosemary and +Romeo begin both with a letter? + +ROMEO. +Ay, Nurse; what of that? Both with an R. + +NURSE. +Ah, mocker! That’s the dog’s name. R is for the—no, I know it begins +with some other letter, and she hath the prettiest sententious of it, +of you and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it. + +ROMEO. +Commend me to thy lady. + +NURSE. +Ay, a thousand times. Peter! + + [_Exit Romeo._] + +PETER. +Anon. + +NURSE. +Before and apace. + + [_Exeunt._] + +SCENE V. Capulet’s Garden. + + Enter Juliet. + +JULIET. +The clock struck nine when I did send the Nurse, +In half an hour she promised to return. +Perchance she cannot meet him. That’s not so. +O, she is lame. Love’s heralds should be thoughts, +Which ten times faster glides than the sun’s beams, +Driving back shadows over lowering hills: +Therefore do nimble-pinion’d doves draw love, +And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings. +Now is the sun upon the highmost hill +Of this day’s journey, and from nine till twelve +Is three long hours, yet she is not come. +Had she affections and warm youthful blood, +She’d be as swift in motion as a ball; +My words would bandy her to my sweet love, +And his to me. +But old folks, many feign as they were dead; +Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead. + + Enter Nurse and Peter. + +O God, she comes. O honey Nurse, what news? +Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away. + +NURSE. +Peter, stay at the gate. + + [_Exit Peter._] + +JULIET. +Now, good sweet Nurse,—O Lord, why look’st thou sad? +Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily; +If good, thou sham’st the music of sweet news +By playing it to me with so sour a face. + +NURSE. +I am aweary, give me leave awhile; +Fie, how my bones ache! What a jaunt have I had! + +JULIET. +I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news: +Nay come, I pray thee speak; good, good Nurse, speak. + +NURSE. +Jesu, what haste? Can you not stay a while? Do you not see that I am +out of breath? + +JULIET. +How art thou out of breath, when thou hast breath +To say to me that thou art out of breath? +The excuse that thou dost make in this delay +Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse. +Is thy news good or bad? Answer to that; +Say either, and I’ll stay the circumstance. +Let me be satisfied, is’t good or bad? + +NURSE. +Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to choose a man. +Romeo? No, not he. Though his face be better than any man’s, yet his +leg excels all men’s, and for a hand and a foot, and a body, though +they be not to be talked on, yet they are past compare. He is not the +flower of courtesy, but I’ll warrant him as gentle as a lamb. Go thy +ways, wench, serve God. What, have you dined at home? + +JULIET. +No, no. But all this did I know before. +What says he of our marriage? What of that? + +NURSE. +Lord, how my head aches! What a head have I! +It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces. +My back o’ t’other side,—O my back, my back! +Beshrew your heart for sending me about +To catch my death with jauncing up and down. + +JULIET. +I’faith, I am sorry that thou art not well. +Sweet, sweet, sweet Nurse, tell me, what says my love? + +NURSE. +Your love says like an honest gentleman, +And a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome, +And I warrant a virtuous,—Where is your mother? + +JULIET. +Where is my mother? Why, she is within. +Where should she be? How oddly thou repliest. +‘Your love says, like an honest gentleman, +‘Where is your mother?’ + +NURSE. +O God’s lady dear, +Are you so hot? Marry, come up, I trow. +Is this the poultice for my aching bones? +Henceforward do your messages yourself. + +JULIET. +Here’s such a coil. Come, what says Romeo? + +NURSE. +Have you got leave to go to shrift today? + +JULIET. +I have. + +NURSE. +Then hie you hence to Friar Lawrence’ cell; +There stays a husband to make you a wife. +Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks, +They’ll be in scarlet straight at any news. +Hie you to church. I must another way, +To fetch a ladder by the which your love +Must climb a bird’s nest soon when it is dark. +I am the drudge, and toil in your delight; +But you shall bear the burden soon at night. +Go. I’ll to dinner; hie you to the cell. + +JULIET. +Hie to high fortune! Honest Nurse, farewell. + + [_Exeunt._] + +SCENE VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. + + Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +So smile the heavens upon this holy act +That after-hours with sorrow chide us not. + +ROMEO. +Amen, amen, but come what sorrow can, +It cannot countervail the exchange of joy +That one short minute gives me in her sight. +Do thou but close our hands with holy words, +Then love-devouring death do what he dare, +It is enough I may but call her mine. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +These violent delights have violent ends, +And in their triumph die; like fire and powder, +Which as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey +Is loathsome in his own deliciousness, +And in the taste confounds the appetite. +Therefore love moderately: long love doth so; +Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow. + + Enter Juliet. + +Here comes the lady. O, so light a foot +Will ne’er wear out the everlasting flint. +A lover may bestride the gossamers +That idles in the wanton summer air +And yet not fall; so light is vanity. + +JULIET. +Good even to my ghostly confessor. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both. + +JULIET. +As much to him, else is his thanks too much. + +ROMEO. +Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy +Be heap’d like mine, and that thy skill be more +To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath +This neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue +Unfold the imagin’d happiness that both +Receive in either by this dear encounter. + +JULIET. +Conceit more rich in matter than in words, +Brags of his substance, not of ornament. +They are but beggars that can count their worth; +But my true love is grown to such excess, +I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Come, come with me, and we will make short work, +For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone +Till holy church incorporate two in one. + + [_Exeunt._] + + + + +ACT III + +SCENE I. A public Place. + + + Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants. + +BENVOLIO. +I pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire: +The day is hot, the Capulets abroad, +And if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl, +For now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring. + +MERCUTIO. +Thou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of +a tavern, claps me his sword upon the table, and says ‘God send me no +need of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the +drawer, when indeed there is no need. + +BENVOLIO. +Am I like such a fellow? + +MERCUTIO. +Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as +soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved. + +BENVOLIO. +And what to? + +MERCUTIO. +Nay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would +kill the other. Thou? Why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a +hair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel +with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou +hast hazel eyes. What eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel? +Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy +head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast +quarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath +wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall +out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with +another for tying his new shoes with an old riband? And yet thou wilt +tutor me from quarrelling! + +BENVOLIO. +And I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee +simple of my life for an hour and a quarter. + +MERCUTIO. +The fee simple! O simple! + + Enter Tybalt and others. + +BENVOLIO. +By my head, here comes the Capulets. + +MERCUTIO. +By my heel, I care not. + +TYBALT. +Follow me close, for I will speak to them. +Gentlemen, good-den: a word with one of you. + +MERCUTIO. +And but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it a +word and a blow. + +TYBALT. +You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, and you will give me +occasion. + +MERCUTIO. +Could you not take some occasion without giving? + +TYBALT. +Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo. + +MERCUTIO. +Consort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? And thou make minstrels of +us, look to hear nothing but discords. Here’s my fiddlestick, here’s +that shall make you dance. Zounds, consort! + +BENVOLIO. +We talk here in the public haunt of men. +Either withdraw unto some private place, +And reason coldly of your grievances, +Or else depart; here all eyes gaze on us. + +MERCUTIO. +Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze. +I will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I. + + Enter Romeo. + +TYBALT. +Well, peace be with you, sir, here comes my man. + +MERCUTIO. +But I’ll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery. +Marry, go before to field, he’ll be your follower; +Your worship in that sense may call him man. + +TYBALT. +Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford +No better term than this: Thou art a villain. + +ROMEO. +Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee +Doth much excuse the appertaining rage +To such a greeting. Villain am I none; +Therefore farewell; I see thou know’st me not. + +TYBALT. +Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries +That thou hast done me, therefore turn and draw. + +ROMEO. +I do protest I never injur’d thee, +But love thee better than thou canst devise +Till thou shalt know the reason of my love. +And so good Capulet, which name I tender +As dearly as mine own, be satisfied. + +MERCUTIO. +O calm, dishonourable, vile submission! +[_Draws._] Alla stoccata carries it away. +Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk? + +TYBALT. +What wouldst thou have with me? + +MERCUTIO. +Good King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives; that I mean to +make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest +of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher by the ears? +Make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out. + +TYBALT. +[_Drawing._] I am for you. + +ROMEO. +Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up. + +MERCUTIO. +Come, sir, your passado. + + [_They fight._] + +ROMEO. +Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons. +Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage, +Tybalt, Mercutio, the Prince expressly hath +Forbid this bandying in Verona streets. +Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio! + + [_Exeunt Tybalt with his Partizans._] + +MERCUTIO. +I am hurt. +A plague o’ both your houses. I am sped. +Is he gone, and hath nothing? + +BENVOLIO. +What, art thou hurt? + +MERCUTIO. +Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, ’tis enough. +Where is my page? Go villain, fetch a surgeon. + + [_Exit Page._] + +ROMEO. +Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much. + +MERCUTIO. +No, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but ’tis +enough, ’twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a +grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o’ both +your houses. Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to +death. A braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of +arithmetic!—Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your +arm. + +ROMEO. +I thought all for the best. + +MERCUTIO. +Help me into some house, Benvolio, +Or I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses. +They have made worms’ meat of me. +I have it, and soundly too. Your houses! + + [_Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio._] + +ROMEO. +This gentleman, the Prince’s near ally, +My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt +In my behalf; my reputation stain’d +With Tybalt’s slander,—Tybalt, that an hour +Hath been my cousin. O sweet Juliet, +Thy beauty hath made me effeminate +And in my temper soften’d valour’s steel. + + Re-enter Benvolio. + +BENVOLIO. +O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio’s dead, +That gallant spirit hath aspir’d the clouds, +Which too untimely here did scorn the earth. + +ROMEO. +This day’s black fate on mo days doth depend; +This but begins the woe others must end. + + Re-enter Tybalt. + +BENVOLIO. +Here comes the furious Tybalt back again. + +ROMEO. +Again in triumph, and Mercutio slain? +Away to heaven respective lenity, +And fire-ey’d fury be my conduct now! +Now, Tybalt, take the ‘villain’ back again +That late thou gav’st me, for Mercutio’s soul +Is but a little way above our heads, +Staying for thine to keep him company. +Either thou or I, or both, must go with him. + +TYBALT. +Thou wretched boy, that didst consort him here, +Shalt with him hence. + +ROMEO. +This shall determine that. + + [_They fight; Tybalt falls._] + +BENVOLIO. +Romeo, away, be gone! +The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain. +Stand not amaz’d. The Prince will doom thee death +If thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away! + +ROMEO. +O, I am fortune’s fool! + +BENVOLIO. +Why dost thou stay? + + [_Exit Romeo._] + + Enter Citizens. + +FIRST CITIZEN. +Which way ran he that kill’d Mercutio? +Tybalt, that murderer, which way ran he? + +BENVOLIO. +There lies that Tybalt. + +FIRST CITIZEN. +Up, sir, go with me. +I charge thee in the Prince’s name obey. + + Enter Prince, attended; Montague, Capulet, their Wives and others. + +PRINCE. +Where are the vile beginners of this fray? + +BENVOLIO. +O noble Prince, I can discover all +The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl. +There lies the man, slain by young Romeo, +That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio. + +LADY CAPULET. +Tybalt, my cousin! O my brother’s child! +O Prince! O husband! O, the blood is spill’d +Of my dear kinsman! Prince, as thou art true, +For blood of ours shed blood of Montague. +O cousin, cousin. + +PRINCE. +Benvolio, who began this bloody fray? + +BENVOLIO. +Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s hand did slay; +Romeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink +How nice the quarrel was, and urg’d withal +Your high displeasure. All this uttered +With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow’d +Could not take truce with the unruly spleen +Of Tybalt, deaf to peace, but that he tilts +With piercing steel at bold Mercutio’s breast, +Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point, +And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats +Cold death aside, and with the other sends +It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity +Retorts it. Romeo he cries aloud, +‘Hold, friends! Friends, part!’ and swifter than his tongue, +His agile arm beats down their fatal points, +And ’twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm +An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life +Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled. +But by and by comes back to Romeo, +Who had but newly entertain’d revenge, +And to’t they go like lightning; for, ere I +Could draw to part them was stout Tybalt slain; +And as he fell did Romeo turn and fly. +This is the truth, or let Benvolio die. + +LADY CAPULET. +He is a kinsman to the Montague. +Affection makes him false, he speaks not true. +Some twenty of them fought in this black strife, +And all those twenty could but kill one life. +I beg for justice, which thou, Prince, must give; +Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live. + +PRINCE. +Romeo slew him, he slew Mercutio. +Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe? + +MONTAGUE. +Not Romeo, Prince, he was Mercutio’s friend; +His fault concludes but what the law should end, +The life of Tybalt. + +PRINCE. +And for that offence +Immediately we do exile him hence. +I have an interest in your hate’s proceeding, +My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding. +But I’ll amerce you with so strong a fine +That you shall all repent the loss of mine. +I will be deaf to pleading and excuses; +Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses. +Therefore use none. Let Romeo hence in haste, +Else, when he is found, that hour is his last. +Bear hence this body, and attend our will. +Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill. + + [_Exeunt._] + +SCENE II. A Room in Capulet’s House. + + Enter Juliet. + +JULIET. +Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, +Towards Phoebus’ lodging. Such a waggoner +As Phaeton would whip you to the west +And bring in cloudy night immediately. +Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night, +That runaway’s eyes may wink, and Romeo +Leap to these arms, untalk’d of and unseen. +Lovers can see to do their amorous rites +By their own beauties: or, if love be blind, +It best agrees with night. Come, civil night, +Thou sober-suited matron, all in black, +And learn me how to lose a winning match, +Play’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods. +Hood my unmann’d blood, bating in my cheeks, +With thy black mantle, till strange love, grow bold, +Think true love acted simple modesty. +Come, night, come Romeo; come, thou day in night; +For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night +Whiter than new snow upon a raven’s back. +Come gentle night, come loving black-brow’d night, +Give me my Romeo, and when I shall die, +Take him and cut him out in little stars, +And he will make the face of heaven so fine +That all the world will be in love with night, +And pay no worship to the garish sun. +O, I have bought the mansion of a love, +But not possess’d it; and though I am sold, +Not yet enjoy’d. So tedious is this day +As is the night before some festival +To an impatient child that hath new robes +And may not wear them. O, here comes my Nurse, +And she brings news, and every tongue that speaks +But Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence. + + Enter Nurse, with cords. + +Now, Nurse, what news? What hast thou there? +The cords that Romeo bid thee fetch? + +NURSE. +Ay, ay, the cords. + + [_Throws them down._] + +JULIET. +Ay me, what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands? + +NURSE. +Ah, well-a-day, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead! +We are undone, lady, we are undone. +Alack the day, he’s gone, he’s kill’d, he’s dead. + +JULIET. +Can heaven be so envious? + +NURSE. +Romeo can, +Though heaven cannot. O Romeo, Romeo. +Who ever would have thought it? Romeo! + +JULIET. +What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus? +This torture should be roar’d in dismal hell. +Hath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but Ay, +And that bare vowel I shall poison more +Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice. +I am not I if there be such an I; +Or those eyes shut that make thee answer Ay. +If he be slain, say Ay; or if not, No. +Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe. + +NURSE. +I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes, +God save the mark!—here on his manly breast. +A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse; +Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub’d in blood, +All in gore-blood. I swounded at the sight. + +JULIET. +O, break, my heart. Poor bankrout, break at once. +To prison, eyes; ne’er look on liberty. +Vile earth to earth resign; end motion here, +And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier. + +NURSE. +O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had. +O courteous Tybalt, honest gentleman! +That ever I should live to see thee dead. + +JULIET. +What storm is this that blows so contrary? +Is Romeo slaughter’d and is Tybalt dead? +My dearest cousin, and my dearer lord? +Then dreadful trumpet sound the general doom, +For who is living, if those two are gone? + +NURSE. +Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished, +Romeo that kill’d him, he is banished. + +JULIET. +O God! Did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood? + +NURSE. +It did, it did; alas the day, it did. + +JULIET. +O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face! +Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave? +Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical, +Dove-feather’d raven, wolvish-ravening lamb! +Despised substance of divinest show! +Just opposite to what thou justly seem’st, +A damned saint, an honourable villain! +O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell +When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend +In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh? +Was ever book containing such vile matter +So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell +In such a gorgeous palace. + +NURSE. +There’s no trust, +No faith, no honesty in men. All perjur’d, +All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers. +Ah, where’s my man? Give me some aqua vitae. +These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old. +Shame come to Romeo. + +JULIET. +Blister’d be thy tongue +For such a wish! He was not born to shame. +Upon his brow shame is asham’d to sit; +For ’tis a throne where honour may be crown’d +Sole monarch of the universal earth. +O, what a beast was I to chide at him! + +NURSE. +Will you speak well of him that kill’d your cousin? + +JULIET. +Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband? +Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name, +When I thy three-hours’ wife have mangled it? +But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin? +That villain cousin would have kill’d my husband. +Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring, +Your tributary drops belong to woe, +Which you mistaking offer up to joy. +My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain, +And Tybalt’s dead, that would have slain my husband. +All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then? +Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death, +That murder’d me. I would forget it fain, +But O, it presses to my memory +Like damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds. +Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished. +That ‘banished,’ that one word ‘banished,’ +Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death +Was woe enough, if it had ended there. +Or if sour woe delights in fellowship, +And needly will be rank’d with other griefs, +Why follow’d not, when she said Tybalt’s dead, +Thy father or thy mother, nay or both, +Which modern lamentation might have mov’d? +But with a rear-ward following Tybalt’s death, +‘Romeo is banished’—to speak that word +Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet, +All slain, all dead. Romeo is banished, +There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, +In that word’s death, no words can that woe sound. +Where is my father and my mother, Nurse? + +NURSE. +Weeping and wailing over Tybalt’s corse. +Will you go to them? I will bring you thither. + +JULIET. +Wash they his wounds with tears. Mine shall be spent, +When theirs are dry, for Romeo’s banishment. +Take up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguil’d, +Both you and I; for Romeo is exil’d. +He made you for a highway to my bed, +But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed. +Come cords, come Nurse, I’ll to my wedding bed, +And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead. + +NURSE. +Hie to your chamber. I’ll find Romeo +To comfort you. I wot well where he is. +Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night. +I’ll to him, he is hid at Lawrence’ cell. + +JULIET. +O find him, give this ring to my true knight, +And bid him come to take his last farewell. + + [_Exeunt._] + +SCENE III. Friar Lawrence’s cell. + + Enter Friar Lawrence. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man. +Affliction is enanmour’d of thy parts +And thou art wedded to calamity. + + Enter Romeo. + +ROMEO. +Father, what news? What is the Prince’s doom? +What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand, +That I yet know not? + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Too familiar +Is my dear son with such sour company. +I bring thee tidings of the Prince’s doom. + +ROMEO. +What less than doomsday is the Prince’s doom? + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +A gentler judgment vanish’d from his lips, +Not body’s death, but body’s banishment. + +ROMEO. +Ha, banishment? Be merciful, say death; +For exile hath more terror in his look, +Much more than death. Do not say banishment. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Hence from Verona art thou banished. +Be patient, for the world is broad and wide. + +ROMEO. +There is no world without Verona walls, +But purgatory, torture, hell itself. +Hence banished is banish’d from the world, +And world’s exile is death. Then banished +Is death misterm’d. Calling death banished, +Thou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe, +And smilest upon the stroke that murders me. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +O deadly sin, O rude unthankfulness! +Thy fault our law calls death, but the kind Prince, +Taking thy part, hath brush’d aside the law, +And turn’d that black word death to banishment. +This is dear mercy, and thou see’st it not. + +ROMEO. +’Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here +Where Juliet lives, and every cat and dog, +And little mouse, every unworthy thing, +Live here in heaven and may look on her, +But Romeo may not. More validity, +More honourable state, more courtship lives +In carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize +On the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand, +And steal immortal blessing from her lips, +Who, even in pure and vestal modesty +Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin. +But Romeo may not, he is banished. +This may flies do, when I from this must fly. +They are free men but I am banished. +And say’st thou yet that exile is not death? +Hadst thou no poison mix’d, no sharp-ground knife, +No sudden mean of death, though ne’er so mean, +But banished to kill me? Banished? +O Friar, the damned use that word in hell. +Howling attends it. How hast thou the heart, +Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, +A sin-absolver, and my friend profess’d, +To mangle me with that word banished? + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Thou fond mad man, hear me speak a little, + +ROMEO. +O, thou wilt speak again of banishment. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +I’ll give thee armour to keep off that word, +Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy, +To comfort thee, though thou art banished. + +ROMEO. +Yet banished? Hang up philosophy. +Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, +Displant a town, reverse a Prince’s doom, +It helps not, it prevails not, talk no more. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +O, then I see that mad men have no ears. + +ROMEO. +How should they, when that wise men have no eyes? + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Let me dispute with thee of thy estate. + +ROMEO. +Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel. +Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love, +An hour but married, Tybalt murdered, +Doting like me, and like me banished, +Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, +And fall upon the ground as I do now, +Taking the measure of an unmade grave. + + [_Knocking within._] + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Arise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself. + +ROMEO. +Not I, unless the breath of heartsick groans +Mist-like infold me from the search of eyes. + + [_Knocking._] + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Hark, how they knock!—Who’s there?—Romeo, arise, +Thou wilt be taken.—Stay awhile.—Stand up. + + [_Knocking._] + +Run to my study.—By-and-by.—God’s will, +What simpleness is this.—I come, I come. + + [_Knocking._] + +Who knocks so hard? Whence come you, what’s your will? + +NURSE. +[_Within._] Let me come in, and you shall know my errand. +I come from Lady Juliet. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Welcome then. + + Enter Nurse. + +NURSE. +O holy Friar, O, tell me, holy Friar, +Where is my lady’s lord, where’s Romeo? + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk. + +NURSE. +O, he is even in my mistress’ case. +Just in her case! O woeful sympathy! +Piteous predicament. Even so lies she, +Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering. +Stand up, stand up; stand, and you be a man. +For Juliet’s sake, for her sake, rise and stand. +Why should you fall into so deep an O? + +ROMEO. +Nurse. + +NURSE. +Ah sir, ah sir, death’s the end of all. + +ROMEO. +Spakest thou of Juliet? How is it with her? +Doth not she think me an old murderer, +Now I have stain’d the childhood of our joy +With blood remov’d but little from her own? +Where is she? And how doth she? And what says +My conceal’d lady to our cancell’d love? + +NURSE. +O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps; +And now falls on her bed, and then starts up, +And Tybalt calls, and then on Romeo cries, +And then down falls again. + +ROMEO. +As if that name, +Shot from the deadly level of a gun, +Did murder her, as that name’s cursed hand +Murder’d her kinsman. O, tell me, Friar, tell me, +In what vile part of this anatomy +Doth my name lodge? Tell me, that I may sack +The hateful mansion. + + [_Drawing his sword._] + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Hold thy desperate hand. +Art thou a man? Thy form cries out thou art. +Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote +The unreasonable fury of a beast. +Unseemly woman in a seeming man, +And ill-beseeming beast in seeming both! +Thou hast amaz’d me. By my holy order, +I thought thy disposition better temper’d. +Hast thou slain Tybalt? Wilt thou slay thyself? +And slay thy lady, that in thy life lives, +By doing damned hate upon thyself? +Why rail’st thou on thy birth, the heaven and earth? +Since birth, and heaven and earth, all three do meet +In thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose. +Fie, fie, thou sham’st thy shape, thy love, thy wit, +Which, like a usurer, abound’st in all, +And usest none in that true use indeed +Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit. +Thy noble shape is but a form of wax, +Digressing from the valour of a man; +Thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury, +Killing that love which thou hast vow’d to cherish; +Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, +Misshapen in the conduct of them both, +Like powder in a skilless soldier’s flask, +Is set afire by thine own ignorance, +And thou dismember’d with thine own defence. +What, rouse thee, man. Thy Juliet is alive, +For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead. +There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee, +But thou slew’st Tybalt; there art thou happy. +The law that threaten’d death becomes thy friend, +And turns it to exile; there art thou happy. +A pack of blessings light upon thy back; +Happiness courts thee in her best array; +But like a misshaped and sullen wench, +Thou putt’st up thy Fortune and thy love. +Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. +Go, get thee to thy love as was decreed, +Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her. +But look thou stay not till the watch be set, +For then thou canst not pass to Mantua; +Where thou shalt live till we can find a time +To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends, +Beg pardon of the Prince, and call thee back +With twenty hundred thousand times more joy +Than thou went’st forth in lamentation. +Go before, Nurse. Commend me to thy lady, +And bid her hasten all the house to bed, +Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto. +Romeo is coming. + +NURSE. +O Lord, I could have stay’d here all the night +To hear good counsel. O, what learning is! +My lord, I’ll tell my lady you will come. + +ROMEO. +Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide. + +NURSE. +Here sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir. +Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late. + + [_Exit._] + +ROMEO. +How well my comfort is reviv’d by this. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Go hence, good night, and here stands all your state: +Either be gone before the watch be set, +Or by the break of day disguis’d from hence. +Sojourn in Mantua. I’ll find out your man, +And he shall signify from time to time +Every good hap to you that chances here. +Give me thy hand; ’tis late; farewell; good night. + +ROMEO. +But that a joy past joy calls out on me, +It were a grief so brief to part with thee. +Farewell. + + [_Exeunt._] + +SCENE IV. A Room in Capulet’s House. + + Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet and Paris. + +CAPULET. +Things have fallen out, sir, so unluckily +That we have had no time to move our daughter. +Look you, she lov’d her kinsman Tybalt dearly, +And so did I. Well, we were born to die. +’Tis very late; she’ll not come down tonight. +I promise you, but for your company, +I would have been abed an hour ago. + +PARIS. +These times of woe afford no tune to woo. +Madam, good night. Commend me to your daughter. + +LADY CAPULET. +I will, and know her mind early tomorrow; +Tonight she’s mew’d up to her heaviness. + +CAPULET. +Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender +Of my child’s love. I think she will be rul’d +In all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not. +Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed, +Acquaint her here of my son Paris’ love, +And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next, +But, soft, what day is this? + +PARIS. +Monday, my lord. + +CAPULET. +Monday! Ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon, +A Thursday let it be; a Thursday, tell her, +She shall be married to this noble earl. +Will you be ready? Do you like this haste? +We’ll keep no great ado,—a friend or two, +For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late, +It may be thought we held him carelessly, +Being our kinsman, if we revel much. +Therefore we’ll have some half a dozen friends, +And there an end. But what say you to Thursday? + +PARIS. +My lord, I would that Thursday were tomorrow. + +CAPULET. +Well, get you gone. A Thursday be it then. +Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed, +Prepare her, wife, against this wedding day. +Farewell, my lord.—Light to my chamber, ho! +Afore me, it is so very very late that we +May call it early by and by. Good night. + + [_Exeunt._] + +SCENE V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden. + + Enter Romeo and Juliet. + +JULIET. +Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. +It was the nightingale, and not the lark, +That pierc’d the fearful hollow of thine ear; +Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree. +Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. + +ROMEO. +It was the lark, the herald of the morn, +No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks +Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. +Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day +Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. +I must be gone and live, or stay and die. + +JULIET. +Yond light is not daylight, I know it, I. +It is some meteor that the sun exhales +To be to thee this night a torchbearer +And light thee on thy way to Mantua. +Therefore stay yet, thou need’st not to be gone. + +ROMEO. +Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death, +I am content, so thou wilt have it so. +I’ll say yon grey is not the morning’s eye, +’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow. +Nor that is not the lark whose notes do beat +The vaulty heaven so high above our heads. +I have more care to stay than will to go. +Come, death, and welcome. Juliet wills it so. +How is’t, my soul? Let’s talk. It is not day. + +JULIET. +It is, it is! Hie hence, be gone, away. +It is the lark that sings so out of tune, +Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps. +Some say the lark makes sweet division; +This doth not so, for she divideth us. +Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes. +O, now I would they had chang’d voices too, +Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, +Hunting thee hence with hunt’s-up to the day. +O now be gone, more light and light it grows. + +ROMEO. +More light and light, more dark and dark our woes. + + Enter Nurse. + +NURSE. +Madam. + +JULIET. +Nurse? + +NURSE. +Your lady mother is coming to your chamber. +The day is broke, be wary, look about. + + [_Exit._] + +JULIET. +Then, window, let day in, and let life out. + +ROMEO. +Farewell, farewell, one kiss, and I’ll descend. + + [_Descends._] + +JULIET. +Art thou gone so? Love, lord, ay husband, friend, +I must hear from thee every day in the hour, +For in a minute there are many days. +O, by this count I shall be much in years +Ere I again behold my Romeo. + +ROMEO. +Farewell! +I will omit no opportunity +That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. + +JULIET. +O thinkest thou we shall ever meet again? + +ROMEO. +I doubt it not, and all these woes shall serve +For sweet discourses in our time to come. + +JULIET. +O God! I have an ill-divining soul! +Methinks I see thee, now thou art so low, +As one dead in the bottom of a tomb. +Either my eyesight fails, or thou look’st pale. + +ROMEO. +And trust me, love, in my eye so do you. +Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu. + + [_Exit below._] + +JULIET. +O Fortune, Fortune! All men call thee fickle, +If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him +That is renown’d for faith? Be fickle, Fortune; +For then, I hope thou wilt not keep him long +But send him back. + +LADY CAPULET. +[_Within._] Ho, daughter, are you up? + +JULIET. +Who is’t that calls? Is it my lady mother? +Is she not down so late, or up so early? +What unaccustom’d cause procures her hither? + + Enter Lady Capulet. + +LADY CAPULET. +Why, how now, Juliet? + +JULIET. +Madam, I am not well. + +LADY CAPULET. +Evermore weeping for your cousin’s death? +What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears? +And if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live. +Therefore have done: some grief shows much of love, +But much of grief shows still some want of wit. + +JULIET. +Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss. + +LADY CAPULET. +So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend +Which you weep for. + +JULIET. +Feeling so the loss, +I cannot choose but ever weep the friend. + +LADY CAPULET. +Well, girl, thou weep’st not so much for his death +As that the villain lives which slaughter’d him. + +JULIET. +What villain, madam? + +LADY CAPULET. +That same villain Romeo. + +JULIET. +Villain and he be many miles asunder. +God pardon him. I do, with all my heart. +And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart. + +LADY CAPULET. +That is because the traitor murderer lives. + +JULIET. +Ay madam, from the reach of these my hands. +Would none but I might venge my cousin’s death. + +LADY CAPULET. +We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not. +Then weep no more. I’ll send to one in Mantua, +Where that same banish’d runagate doth live, +Shall give him such an unaccustom’d dram +That he shall soon keep Tybalt company: +And then I hope thou wilt be satisfied. + +JULIET. +Indeed I never shall be satisfied +With Romeo till I behold him—dead— +Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vex’d. +Madam, if you could find out but a man +To bear a poison, I would temper it, +That Romeo should upon receipt thereof, +Soon sleep in quiet. O, how my heart abhors +To hear him nam’d, and cannot come to him, +To wreak the love I bore my cousin +Upon his body that hath slaughter’d him. + +LADY CAPULET. +Find thou the means, and I’ll find such a man. +But now I’ll tell thee joyful tidings, girl. + +JULIET. +And joy comes well in such a needy time. +What are they, I beseech your ladyship? + +LADY CAPULET. +Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child; +One who to put thee from thy heaviness, +Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy, +That thou expects not, nor I look’d not for. + +JULIET. +Madam, in happy time, what day is that? + +LADY CAPULET. +Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn +The gallant, young, and noble gentleman, +The County Paris, at Saint Peter’s Church, +Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride. + +JULIET. +Now by Saint Peter’s Church, and Peter too, +He shall not make me there a joyful bride. +I wonder at this haste, that I must wed +Ere he that should be husband comes to woo. +I pray you tell my lord and father, madam, +I will not marry yet; and when I do, I swear +It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate, +Rather than Paris. These are news indeed. + +LADY CAPULET. +Here comes your father, tell him so yourself, +And see how he will take it at your hands. + + Enter Capulet and Nurse. + +CAPULET. +When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew; +But for the sunset of my brother’s son +It rains downright. +How now? A conduit, girl? What, still in tears? +Evermore showering? In one little body +Thou counterfeits a bark, a sea, a wind. +For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea, +Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is, +Sailing in this salt flood, the winds, thy sighs, +Who raging with thy tears and they with them, +Without a sudden calm will overset +Thy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife? +Have you deliver’d to her our decree? + +LADY CAPULET. +Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks. +I would the fool were married to her grave. + +CAPULET. +Soft. Take me with you, take me with you, wife. +How, will she none? Doth she not give us thanks? +Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blest, +Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought +So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom? + +JULIET. +Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. +Proud can I never be of what I hate; +But thankful even for hate that is meant love. + +CAPULET. +How now, how now, chopp’d logic? What is this? +Proud, and, I thank you, and I thank you not; +And yet not proud. Mistress minion you, +Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds, +But fettle your fine joints ’gainst Thursday next +To go with Paris to Saint Peter’s Church, +Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither. +Out, you green-sickness carrion! Out, you baggage! +You tallow-face! + +LADY CAPULET. +Fie, fie! What, are you mad? + +JULIET. +Good father, I beseech you on my knees, +Hear me with patience but to speak a word. + +CAPULET. +Hang thee young baggage, disobedient wretch! +I tell thee what,—get thee to church a Thursday, +Or never after look me in the face. +Speak not, reply not, do not answer me. +My fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest +That God had lent us but this only child; +But now I see this one is one too much, +And that we have a curse in having her. +Out on her, hilding. + +NURSE. +God in heaven bless her. +You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so. + +CAPULET. +And why, my lady wisdom? Hold your tongue, +Good prudence; smatter with your gossips, go. + +NURSE. +I speak no treason. + +CAPULET. +O God ye good-en! + +NURSE. +May not one speak? + +CAPULET. +Peace, you mumbling fool! +Utter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl, +For here we need it not. + +LADY CAPULET. +You are too hot. + +CAPULET. +God’s bread, it makes me mad! +Day, night, hour, ride, time, work, play, +Alone, in company, still my care hath been +To have her match’d, and having now provided +A gentleman of noble parentage, +Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly allied, +Stuff’d, as they say, with honourable parts, +Proportion’d as one’s thought would wish a man, +And then to have a wretched puling fool, +A whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender, +To answer, ‘I’ll not wed, I cannot love, +I am too young, I pray you pardon me.’ +But, and you will not wed, I’ll pardon you. +Graze where you will, you shall not house with me. +Look to’t, think on’t, I do not use to jest. +Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise. +And you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend; +And you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets, +For by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee, +Nor what is mine shall never do thee good. +Trust to’t, bethink you, I’ll not be forsworn. + + [_Exit._] + +JULIET. +Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, +That sees into the bottom of my grief? +O sweet my mother, cast me not away, +Delay this marriage for a month, a week, +Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed +In that dim monument where Tybalt lies. + +LADY CAPULET. +Talk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word. +Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. + + [_Exit._] + +JULIET. +O God! O Nurse, how shall this be prevented? +My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven. +How shall that faith return again to earth, +Unless that husband send it me from heaven +By leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me. +Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems +Upon so soft a subject as myself. +What say’st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy? +Some comfort, Nurse. + +NURSE. +Faith, here it is. +Romeo is banished; and all the world to nothing +That he dares ne’er come back to challenge you. +Or if he do, it needs must be by stealth. +Then, since the case so stands as now it doth, +I think it best you married with the County. +O, he’s a lovely gentleman. +Romeo’s a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam, +Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye +As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart, +I think you are happy in this second match, +For it excels your first: or if it did not, +Your first is dead, or ’twere as good he were, +As living here and you no use of him. + +JULIET. +Speakest thou from thy heart? + +NURSE. +And from my soul too, +Or else beshrew them both. + +JULIET. +Amen. + +NURSE. +What? + +JULIET. +Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much. +Go in, and tell my lady I am gone, +Having displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell, +To make confession and to be absolv’d. + +NURSE. +Marry, I will; and this is wisely done. + + [_Exit._] + +JULIET. +Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend! +Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn, +Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue +Which she hath prais’d him with above compare +So many thousand times? Go, counsellor. +Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain. +I’ll to the Friar to know his remedy. +If all else fail, myself have power to die. + + [_Exit._] + + + + +ACT IV + +SCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. + + + Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +On Thursday, sir? The time is very short. + +PARIS. +My father Capulet will have it so; +And I am nothing slow to slack his haste. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +You say you do not know the lady’s mind. +Uneven is the course; I like it not. + +PARIS. +Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death, +And therefore have I little talk’d of love; +For Venus smiles not in a house of tears. +Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous +That she do give her sorrow so much sway; +And in his wisdom, hastes our marriage, +To stop the inundation of her tears, +Which, too much minded by herself alone, +May be put from her by society. +Now do you know the reason of this haste. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +[_Aside._] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.— +Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell. + + Enter Juliet. + +PARIS. +Happily met, my lady and my wife! + +JULIET. +That may be, sir, when I may be a wife. + +PARIS. +That may be, must be, love, on Thursday next. + +JULIET. +What must be shall be. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +That’s a certain text. + +PARIS. +Come you to make confession to this father? + +JULIET. +To answer that, I should confess to you. + +PARIS. +Do not deny to him that you love me. + +JULIET. +I will confess to you that I love him. + +PARIS. +So will ye, I am sure, that you love me. + +JULIET. +If I do so, it will be of more price, +Being spoke behind your back than to your face. + +PARIS. +Poor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears. + +JULIET. +The tears have got small victory by that; +For it was bad enough before their spite. + +PARIS. +Thou wrong’st it more than tears with that report. + +JULIET. +That is no slander, sir, which is a truth, +And what I spake, I spake it to my face. + +PARIS. +Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d it. + +JULIET. +It may be so, for it is not mine own. +Are you at leisure, holy father, now, +Or shall I come to you at evening mass? + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.— +My lord, we must entreat the time alone. + +PARIS. +God shield I should disturb devotion!— +Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye, +Till then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss. + + [_Exit._] + +JULIET. +O shut the door, and when thou hast done so, +Come weep with me, past hope, past cure, past help! + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +O Juliet, I already know thy grief; +It strains me past the compass of my wits. +I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it, +On Thursday next be married to this County. + +JULIET. +Tell me not, Friar, that thou hear’st of this, +Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it. +If in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help, +Do thou but call my resolution wise, +And with this knife I’ll help it presently. +God join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands; +And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo’s seal’d, +Shall be the label to another deed, +Or my true heart with treacherous revolt +Turn to another, this shall slay them both. +Therefore, out of thy long-experienc’d time, +Give me some present counsel, or behold +’Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife +Shall play the empire, arbitrating that +Which the commission of thy years and art +Could to no issue of true honour bring. +Be not so long to speak. I long to die, +If what thou speak’st speak not of remedy. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Hold, daughter. I do spy a kind of hope, +Which craves as desperate an execution +As that is desperate which we would prevent. +If, rather than to marry County Paris +Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself, +Then is it likely thou wilt undertake +A thing like death to chide away this shame, +That cop’st with death himself to scape from it. +And if thou dar’st, I’ll give thee remedy. + +JULIET. +O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris, +From off the battlements of yonder tower, +Or walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk +Where serpents are. Chain me with roaring bears; +Or hide me nightly in a charnel-house, +O’er-cover’d quite with dead men’s rattling bones, +With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls. +Or bid me go into a new-made grave, +And hide me with a dead man in his shroud; +Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble, +And I will do it without fear or doubt, +To live an unstain’d wife to my sweet love. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Hold then. Go home, be merry, give consent +To marry Paris. Wednesday is tomorrow; +Tomorrow night look that thou lie alone, +Let not thy Nurse lie with thee in thy chamber. +Take thou this vial, being then in bed, +And this distilled liquor drink thou off, +When presently through all thy veins shall run +A cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse +Shall keep his native progress, but surcease. +No warmth, no breath shall testify thou livest, +The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade +To paly ashes; thy eyes’ windows fall, +Like death when he shuts up the day of life. +Each part depriv’d of supple government, +Shall stiff and stark and cold appear like death. +And in this borrow’d likeness of shrunk death +Thou shalt continue two and forty hours, +And then awake as from a pleasant sleep. +Now when the bridegroom in the morning comes +To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead. +Then as the manner of our country is, +In thy best robes, uncover’d, on the bier, +Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault +Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie. +In the meantime, against thou shalt awake, +Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift, +And hither shall he come, and he and I +Will watch thy waking, and that very night +Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua. +And this shall free thee from this present shame, +If no inconstant toy nor womanish fear +Abate thy valour in the acting it. + +JULIET. +Give me, give me! O tell not me of fear! + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Hold; get you gone, be strong and prosperous +In this resolve. I’ll send a friar with speed +To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord. + +JULIET. +Love give me strength, and strength shall help afford. +Farewell, dear father. + + [_Exeunt._] + +SCENE II. Hall in Capulet’s House. + + Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, Nurse and Servants. + +CAPULET. +So many guests invite as here are writ. + + [_Exit first Servant._] + +Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks. + +SECOND SERVANT. +You shall have none ill, sir; for I’ll try if they can lick their +fingers. + +CAPULET. +How canst thou try them so? + +SECOND SERVANT. +Marry, sir, ’tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers; +therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me. + +CAPULET. +Go, begone. + + [_Exit second Servant._] + +We shall be much unfurnish’d for this time. +What, is my daughter gone to Friar Lawrence? + +NURSE. +Ay, forsooth. + +CAPULET. +Well, he may chance to do some good on her. +A peevish self-will’d harlotry it is. + + Enter Juliet. + +NURSE. +See where she comes from shrift with merry look. + +CAPULET. +How now, my headstrong. Where have you been gadding? + +JULIET. +Where I have learnt me to repent the sin +Of disobedient opposition +To you and your behests; and am enjoin’d +By holy Lawrence to fall prostrate here, +To beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you. +Henceforward I am ever rul’d by you. + +CAPULET. +Send for the County, go tell him of this. +I’ll have this knot knit up tomorrow morning. + +JULIET. +I met the youthful lord at Lawrence’ cell, +And gave him what becomed love I might, +Not stepping o’er the bounds of modesty. + +CAPULET. +Why, I am glad on’t. This is well. Stand up. +This is as’t should be. Let me see the County. +Ay, marry. Go, I say, and fetch him hither. +Now afore God, this reverend holy Friar, +All our whole city is much bound to him. + +JULIET. +Nurse, will you go with me into my closet, +To help me sort such needful ornaments +As you think fit to furnish me tomorrow? + +LADY CAPULET. +No, not till Thursday. There is time enough. + +CAPULET. +Go, Nurse, go with her. We’ll to church tomorrow. + + [_Exeunt Juliet and Nurse._] + +LADY CAPULET. +We shall be short in our provision, +’Tis now near night. + +CAPULET. +Tush, I will stir about, +And all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife. +Go thou to Juliet, help to deck up her. +I’ll not to bed tonight, let me alone. +I’ll play the housewife for this once.—What, ho!— +They are all forth: well, I will walk myself +To County Paris, to prepare him up +Against tomorrow. My heart is wondrous light +Since this same wayward girl is so reclaim’d. + + [_Exeunt._] + +SCENE III. Juliet’s Chamber. + + Enter Juliet and Nurse. + +JULIET. +Ay, those attires are best. But, gentle Nurse, +I pray thee leave me to myself tonight; +For I have need of many orisons +To move the heavens to smile upon my state, +Which, well thou know’st, is cross and full of sin. + + Enter Lady Capulet. + +LADY CAPULET. +What, are you busy, ho? Need you my help? + +JULIET. +No, madam; we have cull’d such necessaries +As are behoveful for our state tomorrow. +So please you, let me now be left alone, +And let the nurse this night sit up with you, +For I am sure you have your hands full all +In this so sudden business. + +LADY CAPULET. +Good night. +Get thee to bed and rest, for thou hast need. + + [_Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse._] + +JULIET. +Farewell. God knows when we shall meet again. +I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins +That almost freezes up the heat of life. +I’ll call them back again to comfort me. +Nurse!—What should she do here? +My dismal scene I needs must act alone. +Come, vial. +What if this mixture do not work at all? +Shall I be married then tomorrow morning? +No, No! This shall forbid it. Lie thou there. + + [_Laying down her dagger._] + +What if it be a poison, which the Friar +Subtly hath minister’d to have me dead, +Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour’d, +Because he married me before to Romeo? +I fear it is. And yet methinks it should not, +For he hath still been tried a holy man. +How if, when I am laid into the tomb, +I wake before the time that Romeo +Come to redeem me? There’s a fearful point! +Shall I not then be stifled in the vault, +To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, +And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes? +Or, if I live, is it not very like, +The horrible conceit of death and night, +Together with the terror of the place, +As in a vault, an ancient receptacle, +Where for this many hundred years the bones +Of all my buried ancestors are pack’d, +Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, +Lies festering in his shroud; where, as they say, +At some hours in the night spirits resort— +Alack, alack, is it not like that I, +So early waking, what with loathsome smells, +And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth, +That living mortals, hearing them, run mad. +O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught, +Environed with all these hideous fears, +And madly play with my forefathers’ joints? +And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud? +And, in this rage, with some great kinsman’s bone, +As with a club, dash out my desperate brains? +O look, methinks I see my cousin’s ghost +Seeking out Romeo that did spit his body +Upon a rapier’s point. Stay, Tybalt, stay! +Romeo, Romeo, Romeo, here’s drink! I drink to thee. + + [_Throws herself on the bed._] + +SCENE IV. Hall in Capulet’s House. + + Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse. + +LADY CAPULET. +Hold, take these keys and fetch more spices, Nurse. + +NURSE. +They call for dates and quinces in the pastry. + + Enter Capulet. + +CAPULET. +Come, stir, stir, stir! The second cock hath crow’d, +The curfew bell hath rung, ’tis three o’clock. +Look to the bak’d meats, good Angelica; +Spare not for cost. + +NURSE. +Go, you cot-quean, go, +Get you to bed; faith, you’ll be sick tomorrow +For this night’s watching. + +CAPULET. +No, not a whit. What! I have watch’d ere now +All night for lesser cause, and ne’er been sick. + +LADY CAPULET. +Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time; +But I will watch you from such watching now. + + [_Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse._] + +CAPULET. +A jealous-hood, a jealous-hood! + + Enter Servants, with spits, logs and baskets. + +Now, fellow, what’s there? + +FIRST SERVANT. +Things for the cook, sir; but I know not what. + +CAPULET. +Make haste, make haste. + + [_Exit First Servant._] + +—Sirrah, fetch drier logs. +Call Peter, he will show thee where they are. + +SECOND SERVANT. +I have a head, sir, that will find out logs +And never trouble Peter for the matter. + + [_Exit._] + +CAPULET. +Mass and well said; a merry whoreson, ha. +Thou shalt be loggerhead.—Good faith, ’tis day. +The County will be here with music straight, +For so he said he would. I hear him near. + + [_Play music._] + +Nurse! Wife! What, ho! What, Nurse, I say! + + Re-enter Nurse. + +Go waken Juliet, go and trim her up. +I’ll go and chat with Paris. Hie, make haste, +Make haste; the bridegroom he is come already. +Make haste I say. + + [_Exeunt._] + +SCENE V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed. + + Enter Nurse. + +NURSE. +Mistress! What, mistress! Juliet! Fast, I warrant her, she. +Why, lamb, why, lady, fie, you slug-abed! +Why, love, I say! Madam! Sweetheart! Why, bride! +What, not a word? You take your pennyworths now. +Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant, +The County Paris hath set up his rest +That you shall rest but little. God forgive me! +Marry and amen. How sound is she asleep! +I needs must wake her. Madam, madam, madam! +Ay, let the County take you in your bed, +He’ll fright you up, i’faith. Will it not be? +What, dress’d, and in your clothes, and down again? +I must needs wake you. Lady! Lady! Lady! +Alas, alas! Help, help! My lady’s dead! +O, well-a-day that ever I was born. +Some aqua vitae, ho! My lord! My lady! + + Enter Lady Capulet. + +LADY CAPULET. +What noise is here? + +NURSE. +O lamentable day! + +LADY CAPULET. +What is the matter? + +NURSE. +Look, look! O heavy day! + +LADY CAPULET. +O me, O me! My child, my only life. +Revive, look up, or I will die with thee. +Help, help! Call help. + + Enter Capulet. + +CAPULET. +For shame, bring Juliet forth, her lord is come. + +NURSE. +She’s dead, deceas’d, she’s dead; alack the day! + +LADY CAPULET. +Alack the day, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead! + +CAPULET. +Ha! Let me see her. Out alas! She’s cold, +Her blood is settled and her joints are stiff. +Life and these lips have long been separated. +Death lies on her like an untimely frost +Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. + +NURSE. +O lamentable day! + +LADY CAPULET. +O woful time! + +CAPULET. +Death, that hath ta’en her hence to make me wail, +Ties up my tongue and will not let me speak. + + Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris with Musicians. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Come, is the bride ready to go to church? + +CAPULET. +Ready to go, but never to return. +O son, the night before thy wedding day +Hath death lain with thy bride. There she lies, +Flower as she was, deflowered by him. +Death is my son-in-law, death is my heir; +My daughter he hath wedded. I will die +And leave him all; life, living, all is death’s. + +PARIS. +Have I thought long to see this morning’s face, +And doth it give me such a sight as this? + +LADY CAPULET. +Accurs’d, unhappy, wretched, hateful day. +Most miserable hour that e’er time saw +In lasting labour of his pilgrimage. +But one, poor one, one poor and loving child, +But one thing to rejoice and solace in, +And cruel death hath catch’d it from my sight. + +NURSE. +O woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day. +Most lamentable day, most woeful day +That ever, ever, I did yet behold! +O day, O day, O day, O hateful day. +Never was seen so black a day as this. +O woeful day, O woeful day. + +PARIS. +Beguil’d, divorced, wronged, spited, slain. +Most detestable death, by thee beguil’d, +By cruel, cruel thee quite overthrown. +O love! O life! Not life, but love in death! + +CAPULET. +Despis’d, distressed, hated, martyr’d, kill’d. +Uncomfortable time, why cam’st thou now +To murder, murder our solemnity? +O child! O child! My soul, and not my child, +Dead art thou. Alack, my child is dead, +And with my child my joys are buried. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Peace, ho, for shame. Confusion’s cure lives not +In these confusions. Heaven and yourself +Had part in this fair maid, now heaven hath all, +And all the better is it for the maid. +Your part in her you could not keep from death, +But heaven keeps his part in eternal life. +The most you sought was her promotion, +For ’twas your heaven she should be advanc’d, +And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc’d +Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself? +O, in this love, you love your child so ill +That you run mad, seeing that she is well. +She’s not well married that lives married long, +But she’s best married that dies married young. +Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary +On this fair corse, and, as the custom is, +And in her best array bear her to church; +For though fond nature bids us all lament, +Yet nature’s tears are reason’s merriment. + +CAPULET. +All things that we ordained festival +Turn from their office to black funeral: +Our instruments to melancholy bells, +Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast; +Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change; +Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse, +And all things change them to the contrary. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Sir, go you in, and, madam, go with him, +And go, Sir Paris, everyone prepare +To follow this fair corse unto her grave. +The heavens do lower upon you for some ill; +Move them no more by crossing their high will. + + [_Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris and Friar._] + +FIRST MUSICIAN. +Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone. + +NURSE. +Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up, +For well you know this is a pitiful case. + +FIRST MUSICIAN. +Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended. + + [_Exit Nurse._] + + Enter Peter. + +PETER. +Musicians, O, musicians, ‘Heart’s ease,’ ‘Heart’s ease’, O, and you +will have me live, play ‘Heart’s ease.’ + +FIRST MUSICIAN. +Why ‘Heart’s ease’? + +PETER. +O musicians, because my heart itself plays ‘My heart is full’. O play +me some merry dump to comfort me. + +FIRST MUSICIAN. +Not a dump we, ’tis no time to play now. + +PETER. +You will not then? + +FIRST MUSICIAN. +No. + +PETER. +I will then give it you soundly. + +FIRST MUSICIAN. +What will you give us? + +PETER. +No money, on my faith, but the gleek! I will give you the minstrel. + +FIRST MUSICIAN. +Then will I give you the serving-creature. + +PETER. +Then will I lay the serving-creature’s dagger on your pate. I will +carry no crotchets. I’ll re you, I’ll fa you. Do you note me? + +FIRST MUSICIAN. +And you re us and fa us, you note us. + +SECOND MUSICIAN. +Pray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit. + +PETER. +Then have at you with my wit. I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and +put up my iron dagger. Answer me like men. + ‘When griping griefs the heart doth wound, + And doleful dumps the mind oppress, + Then music with her silver sound’— +Why ‘silver sound’? Why ‘music with her silver sound’? What say you, +Simon Catling? + +FIRST MUSICIAN. +Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. + +PETER. +Prates. What say you, Hugh Rebeck? + +SECOND MUSICIAN. +I say ‘silver sound’ because musicians sound for silver. + +PETER. +Prates too! What say you, James Soundpost? + +THIRD MUSICIAN. +Faith, I know not what to say. + +PETER. +O, I cry you mercy, you are the singer. I will say for you. It is +‘music with her silver sound’ because musicians have no gold for +sounding. + ‘Then music with her silver sound + With speedy help doth lend redress.’ + + [_Exit._] + +FIRST MUSICIAN. +What a pestilent knave is this same! + +SECOND MUSICIAN. +Hang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay +dinner. + + [_Exeunt._] + + + + +ACT V + +SCENE I. Mantua. A Street. + + + Enter Romeo. + +ROMEO. +If I may trust the flattering eye of sleep, +My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. +My bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne; +And all this day an unaccustom’d spirit +Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. +I dreamt my lady came and found me dead,— +Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!— +And breath’d such life with kisses in my lips, +That I reviv’d, and was an emperor. +Ah me, how sweet is love itself possess’d, +When but love’s shadows are so rich in joy. + + Enter Balthasar. + +News from Verona! How now, Balthasar? +Dost thou not bring me letters from the Friar? +How doth my lady? Is my father well? +How fares my Juliet? That I ask again; +For nothing can be ill if she be well. + +BALTHASAR. +Then she is well, and nothing can be ill. +Her body sleeps in Capel’s monument, +And her immortal part with angels lives. +I saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault, +And presently took post to tell it you. +O pardon me for bringing these ill news, +Since you did leave it for my office, sir. + +ROMEO. +Is it even so? Then I defy you, stars! +Thou know’st my lodging. Get me ink and paper, +And hire post-horses. I will hence tonight. + +BALTHASAR. +I do beseech you sir, have patience. +Your looks are pale and wild, and do import +Some misadventure. + +ROMEO. +Tush, thou art deceiv’d. +Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do. +Hast thou no letters to me from the Friar? + +BALTHASAR. +No, my good lord. + +ROMEO. +No matter. Get thee gone, +And hire those horses. I’ll be with thee straight. + + [_Exit Balthasar._] + +Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee tonight. +Let’s see for means. O mischief thou art swift +To enter in the thoughts of desperate men. +I do remember an apothecary,— +And hereabouts he dwells,—which late I noted +In tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows, +Culling of simples, meagre were his looks, +Sharp misery had worn him to the bones; +And in his needy shop a tortoise hung, +An alligator stuff’d, and other skins +Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves +A beggarly account of empty boxes, +Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds, +Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses +Were thinly scatter’d, to make up a show. +Noting this penury, to myself I said, +And if a man did need a poison now, +Whose sale is present death in Mantua, +Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him. +O, this same thought did but forerun my need, +And this same needy man must sell it me. +As I remember, this should be the house. +Being holiday, the beggar’s shop is shut. +What, ho! Apothecary! + + Enter Apothecary. + +APOTHECARY. +Who calls so loud? + +ROMEO. +Come hither, man. I see that thou art poor. +Hold, there is forty ducats. Let me have +A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear +As will disperse itself through all the veins, +That the life-weary taker may fall dead, +And that the trunk may be discharg’d of breath +As violently as hasty powder fir’d +Doth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb. + +APOTHECARY. +Such mortal drugs I have, but Mantua’s law +Is death to any he that utters them. + +ROMEO. +Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness, +And fear’st to die? Famine is in thy cheeks, +Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes, +Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back. +The world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law; +The world affords no law to make thee rich; +Then be not poor, but break it and take this. + +APOTHECARY. +My poverty, but not my will consents. + +ROMEO. +I pay thy poverty, and not thy will. + +APOTHECARY. +Put this in any liquid thing you will +And drink it off; and, if you had the strength +Of twenty men, it would despatch you straight. + +ROMEO. +There is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls, +Doing more murder in this loathsome world +Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. +I sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none. +Farewell, buy food, and get thyself in flesh. +Come, cordial and not poison, go with me +To Juliet’s grave, for there must I use thee. + + [_Exeunt._] + +SCENE II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. + + Enter Friar John. + +FRIAR JOHN. +Holy Franciscan Friar! Brother, ho! + + Enter Friar Lawrence. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +This same should be the voice of Friar John. +Welcome from Mantua. What says Romeo? +Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter. + +FRIAR JOHN. +Going to find a barefoot brother out, +One of our order, to associate me, +Here in this city visiting the sick, +And finding him, the searchers of the town, +Suspecting that we both were in a house +Where the infectious pestilence did reign, +Seal’d up the doors, and would not let us forth, +So that my speed to Mantua there was stay’d. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Who bare my letter then to Romeo? + +FRIAR JOHN. +I could not send it,—here it is again,— +Nor get a messenger to bring it thee, +So fearful were they of infection. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Unhappy fortune! By my brotherhood, +The letter was not nice, but full of charge, +Of dear import, and the neglecting it +May do much danger. Friar John, go hence, +Get me an iron crow and bring it straight +Unto my cell. + +FRIAR JOHN. +Brother, I’ll go and bring it thee. + + [_Exit._] + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Now must I to the monument alone. +Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake. +She will beshrew me much that Romeo +Hath had no notice of these accidents; +But I will write again to Mantua, +And keep her at my cell till Romeo come. +Poor living corse, clos’d in a dead man’s tomb. + + [_Exit._] + +SCENE III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets. + + Enter Paris, and his Page bearing flowers and a torch. + +PARIS. +Give me thy torch, boy. Hence and stand aloof. +Yet put it out, for I would not be seen. +Under yond yew tree lay thee all along, +Holding thy ear close to the hollow ground; +So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread, +Being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves, +But thou shalt hear it. Whistle then to me, +As signal that thou hear’st something approach. +Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go. + +PAGE. +[_Aside._] I am almost afraid to stand alone +Here in the churchyard; yet I will adventure. + + [_Retires._] + +PARIS. +Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew. +O woe, thy canopy is dust and stones, +Which with sweet water nightly I will dew, +Or wanting that, with tears distill’d by moans. +The obsequies that I for thee will keep, +Nightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep. + + [_The Page whistles._] + +The boy gives warning something doth approach. +What cursed foot wanders this way tonight, +To cross my obsequies and true love’s rite? +What, with a torch! Muffle me, night, awhile. + + [_Retires._] + + Enter Romeo and Balthasar with a torch, mattock, &c. + +ROMEO. +Give me that mattock and the wrenching iron. +Hold, take this letter; early in the morning +See thou deliver it to my lord and father. +Give me the light; upon thy life I charge thee, +Whate’er thou hear’st or seest, stand all aloof +And do not interrupt me in my course. +Why I descend into this bed of death +Is partly to behold my lady’s face, +But chiefly to take thence from her dead finger +A precious ring, a ring that I must use +In dear employment. Therefore hence, be gone. +But if thou jealous dost return to pry +In what I further shall intend to do, +By heaven I will tear thee joint by joint, +And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs. +The time and my intents are savage-wild; +More fierce and more inexorable far +Than empty tigers or the roaring sea. + +BALTHASAR. +I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you. + +ROMEO. +So shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that. +Live, and be prosperous, and farewell, good fellow. + +BALTHASAR. +For all this same, I’ll hide me hereabout. +His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt. + + [_Retires_] + +ROMEO. +Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death, +Gorg’d with the dearest morsel of the earth, +Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open, + + [_Breaking open the door of the monument._] + +And in despite, I’ll cram thee with more food. + +PARIS. +This is that banish’d haughty Montague +That murder’d my love’s cousin,—with which grief, +It is supposed, the fair creature died,— +And here is come to do some villainous shame +To the dead bodies. I will apprehend him. + + [_Advances._] + +Stop thy unhallow’d toil, vile Montague. +Can vengeance be pursu’d further than death? +Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee. +Obey, and go with me, for thou must die. + +ROMEO. +I must indeed; and therefore came I hither. +Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man. +Fly hence and leave me. Think upon these gone; +Let them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth, +Put not another sin upon my head +By urging me to fury. O be gone. +By heaven I love thee better than myself; +For I come hither arm’d against myself. +Stay not, be gone, live, and hereafter say, +A madman’s mercy bid thee run away. + +PARIS. +I do defy thy conjuration, +And apprehend thee for a felon here. + +ROMEO. +Wilt thou provoke me? Then have at thee, boy! + + [_They fight._] + +PAGE. +O lord, they fight! I will go call the watch. + + [_Exit._] + +PARIS. +O, I am slain! [_Falls._] If thou be merciful, +Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet. + + [_Dies._] + +ROMEO. +In faith, I will. Let me peruse this face. +Mercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris! +What said my man, when my betossed soul +Did not attend him as we rode? I think +He told me Paris should have married Juliet. +Said he not so? Or did I dream it so? +Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet, +To think it was so? O, give me thy hand, +One writ with me in sour misfortune’s book. +I’ll bury thee in a triumphant grave. +A grave? O no, a lantern, slaught’red youth, +For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes +This vault a feasting presence full of light. +Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr’d. + + [_Laying Paris in the monument._] + +How oft when men are at the point of death +Have they been merry! Which their keepers call +A lightning before death. O, how may I +Call this a lightning? O my love, my wife, +Death that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath, +Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty. +Thou art not conquer’d. Beauty’s ensign yet +Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, +And death’s pale flag is not advanced there. +Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet? +O, what more favour can I do to thee +Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain +To sunder his that was thine enemy? +Forgive me, cousin. Ah, dear Juliet, +Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe +That unsubstantial death is amorous; +And that the lean abhorred monster keeps +Thee here in dark to be his paramour? +For fear of that I still will stay with thee, +And never from this palace of dim night +Depart again. Here, here will I remain +With worms that are thy chambermaids. O, here +Will I set up my everlasting rest; +And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars +From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last. +Arms, take your last embrace! And, lips, O you +The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss +A dateless bargain to engrossing death. +Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide. +Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on +The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark. +Here’s to my love! [_Drinks._] O true apothecary! +Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die. + + [_Dies._] + + Enter, at the other end of the Churchyard, Friar Lawrence, with a + lantern, crow, and spade. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Saint Francis be my speed. How oft tonight +Have my old feet stumbled at graves? Who’s there? +Who is it that consorts, so late, the dead? + +BALTHASAR. +Here’s one, a friend, and one that knows you well. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Bliss be upon you. Tell me, good my friend, +What torch is yond that vainly lends his light +To grubs and eyeless skulls? As I discern, +It burneth in the Capels’ monument. + +BALTHASAR. +It doth so, holy sir, and there’s my master, +One that you love. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Who is it? + +BALTHASAR. +Romeo. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +How long hath he been there? + +BALTHASAR. +Full half an hour. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Go with me to the vault. + +BALTHASAR. +I dare not, sir; +My master knows not but I am gone hence, +And fearfully did menace me with death +If I did stay to look on his intents. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Stay then, I’ll go alone. Fear comes upon me. +O, much I fear some ill unlucky thing. + +BALTHASAR. +As I did sleep under this yew tree here, +I dreamt my master and another fought, +And that my master slew him. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +Romeo! [_Advances._] +Alack, alack, what blood is this which stains +The stony entrance of this sepulchre? +What mean these masterless and gory swords +To lie discolour’d by this place of peace? + + [_Enters the monument._] + +Romeo! O, pale! Who else? What, Paris too? +And steep’d in blood? Ah what an unkind hour +Is guilty of this lamentable chance? +The lady stirs. + + [_Juliet wakes and stirs._] + +JULIET. +O comfortable Friar, where is my lord? +I do remember well where I should be, +And there I am. Where is my Romeo? + + [_Noise within._] + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +I hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest +Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep. +A greater power than we can contradict +Hath thwarted our intents. Come, come away. +Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead; +And Paris too. Come, I’ll dispose of thee +Among a sisterhood of holy nuns. +Stay not to question, for the watch is coming. +Come, go, good Juliet. I dare no longer stay. + +JULIET. +Go, get thee hence, for I will not away. + + [_Exit Friar Lawrence._] + +What’s here? A cup clos’d in my true love’s hand? +Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end. +O churl. Drink all, and left no friendly drop +To help me after? I will kiss thy lips. +Haply some poison yet doth hang on them, +To make me die with a restorative. + + [_Kisses him._] + +Thy lips are warm! + +FIRST WATCH. +[_Within._] Lead, boy. Which way? + +JULIET. +Yea, noise? Then I’ll be brief. O happy dagger. + + [_Snatching Romeo’s dagger._] + +This is thy sheath. [_stabs herself_] There rest, and let me die. + + [_Falls on Romeo’s body and dies._] + + Enter Watch with the Page of Paris. + +PAGE. +This is the place. There, where the torch doth burn. + +FIRST WATCH. +The ground is bloody. Search about the churchyard. +Go, some of you, whoe’er you find attach. + + [_Exeunt some of the Watch._] + +Pitiful sight! Here lies the County slain, +And Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead, +Who here hath lain this two days buried. +Go tell the Prince; run to the Capulets. +Raise up the Montagues, some others search. + + [_Exeunt others of the Watch._] + +We see the ground whereon these woes do lie, +But the true ground of all these piteous woes +We cannot without circumstance descry. + + Re-enter some of the Watch with Balthasar. + +SECOND WATCH. +Here’s Romeo’s man. We found him in the churchyard. + +FIRST WATCH. +Hold him in safety till the Prince come hither. + + Re-enter others of the Watch with Friar Lawrence. + +THIRD WATCH. Here is a Friar that trembles, sighs, and weeps. +We took this mattock and this spade from him +As he was coming from this churchyard side. + +FIRST WATCH. +A great suspicion. Stay the Friar too. + + Enter the Prince and Attendants. + +PRINCE. +What misadventure is so early up, +That calls our person from our morning’s rest? + + Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet and others. + +CAPULET. +What should it be that they so shriek abroad? + +LADY CAPULET. +O the people in the street cry Romeo, +Some Juliet, and some Paris, and all run +With open outcry toward our monument. + +PRINCE. +What fear is this which startles in our ears? + +FIRST WATCH. +Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain, +And Romeo dead, and Juliet, dead before, +Warm and new kill’d. + +PRINCE. +Search, seek, and know how this foul murder comes. + +FIRST WATCH. +Here is a Friar, and slaughter’d Romeo’s man, +With instruments upon them fit to open +These dead men’s tombs. + +CAPULET. +O heaven! O wife, look how our daughter bleeds! +This dagger hath mista’en, for lo, his house +Is empty on the back of Montague, +And it mis-sheathed in my daughter’s bosom. + +LADY CAPULET. +O me! This sight of death is as a bell +That warns my old age to a sepulchre. + + Enter Montague and others. + +PRINCE. +Come, Montague, for thou art early up, +To see thy son and heir more early down. + +MONTAGUE. +Alas, my liege, my wife is dead tonight. +Grief of my son’s exile hath stopp’d her breath. +What further woe conspires against mine age? + +PRINCE. +Look, and thou shalt see. + +MONTAGUE. +O thou untaught! What manners is in this, +To press before thy father to a grave? + +PRINCE. +Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while, +Till we can clear these ambiguities, +And know their spring, their head, their true descent, +And then will I be general of your woes, +And lead you even to death. Meantime forbear, +And let mischance be slave to patience. +Bring forth the parties of suspicion. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +I am the greatest, able to do least, +Yet most suspected, as the time and place +Doth make against me, of this direful murder. +And here I stand, both to impeach and purge +Myself condemned and myself excus’d. + +PRINCE. +Then say at once what thou dost know in this. + +FRIAR LAWRENCE. +I will be brief, for my short date of breath +Is not so long as is a tedious tale. +Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet, +And she, there dead, that Romeo’s faithful wife. +I married them; and their stol’n marriage day +Was Tybalt’s doomsday, whose untimely death +Banish’d the new-made bridegroom from this city; +For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pin’d. +You, to remove that siege of grief from her, +Betroth’d, and would have married her perforce +To County Paris. Then comes she to me, +And with wild looks, bid me devise some means +To rid her from this second marriage, +Or in my cell there would she kill herself. +Then gave I her, so tutored by my art, +A sleeping potion, which so took effect +As I intended, for it wrought on her +The form of death. Meantime I writ to Romeo +That he should hither come as this dire night +To help to take her from her borrow’d grave, +Being the time the potion’s force should cease. +But he which bore my letter, Friar John, +Was stay’d by accident; and yesternight +Return’d my letter back. Then all alone +At the prefixed hour of her waking +Came I to take her from her kindred’s vault, +Meaning to keep her closely at my cell +Till I conveniently could send to Romeo. +But when I came, some minute ere the time +Of her awaking, here untimely lay +The noble Paris and true Romeo dead. +She wakes; and I entreated her come forth +And bear this work of heaven with patience. +But then a noise did scare me from the tomb; +And she, too desperate, would not go with me, +But, as it seems, did violence on herself. +All this I know; and to the marriage +Her Nurse is privy. And if ought in this +Miscarried by my fault, let my old life +Be sacrific’d, some hour before his time, +Unto the rigour of severest law. + +PRINCE. +We still have known thee for a holy man. +Where’s Romeo’s man? What can he say to this? + +BALTHASAR. +I brought my master news of Juliet’s death, +And then in post he came from Mantua +To this same place, to this same monument. +This letter he early bid me give his father, +And threaten’d me with death, going in the vault, +If I departed not, and left him there. + +PRINCE. +Give me the letter, I will look on it. +Where is the County’s Page that rais’d the watch? +Sirrah, what made your master in this place? + +PAGE. +He came with flowers to strew his lady’s grave, +And bid me stand aloof, and so I did. +Anon comes one with light to ope the tomb, +And by and by my master drew on him, +And then I ran away to call the watch. + +PRINCE. +This letter doth make good the Friar’s words, +Their course of love, the tidings of her death. +And here he writes that he did buy a poison +Of a poor ’pothecary, and therewithal +Came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet. +Where be these enemies? Capulet, Montague, +See what a scourge is laid upon your hate, +That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love! +And I, for winking at your discords too, +Have lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish’d. + +CAPULET. +O brother Montague, give me thy hand. +This is my daughter’s jointure, for no more +Can I demand. + +MONTAGUE. +But I can give thee more, +For I will raise her statue in pure gold, +That whiles Verona by that name is known, +There shall no figure at such rate be set +As that of true and faithful Juliet. + +CAPULET. +As rich shall Romeo’s by his lady’s lie, +Poor sacrifices of our enmity. + +PRINCE. +A glooming peace this morning with it brings; +The sun for sorrow will not show his head. +Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things. +Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished, +For never was a story of more woe +Than this of Juliet and her Romeo. + + [_Exeunt._] + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET *** + + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online +at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, +you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located +before using this eBook. + +Title: A Room with a View + +Author: E. M. Forster + +Release date: May 1, 2001 [eBook #2641] + Most recently updated: May 4, 2024 + +Language: English + + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW *** + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +A Room With A View + +By E. M. Forster + + + + +CONTENTS + + Part One. + Chapter I. The Bertolini + Chapter II. In Santa Croce with No Baedeker + Chapter III. Music, Violets, and the Letter “S” + Chapter IV. Fourth Chapter + Chapter V. Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing + Chapter VI. The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them + Chapter VII. They Return + + Part Two. + Chapter VIII. Medieval + Chapter IX. Lucy As a Work of Art + Chapter X. Cecil as a Humourist + Chapter XI. In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat + Chapter XII. Twelfth Chapter + Chapter XIII. How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome + Chapter XIV. How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely + Chapter XV. The Disaster Within + Chapter XVI. Lying to George + Chapter XVII. Lying to Cecil + Chapter XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants + Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson + Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages + + + + +PART ONE + + + + +Chapter I +The Bertolini + + +“The Signora had no business to do it,” said Miss Bartlett, “no +business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close +together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a +courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!” + +“And a Cockney, besides!” said Lucy, who had been further saddened by +the Signora’s unexpected accent. “It might be London.” She looked at +the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the +row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between +the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late +Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at +the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), +that was the only other decoration of the wall. “Charlotte, don’t you +feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all +kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one’s being so +tired.” + +“This meat has surely been used for soup,” said Miss Bartlett, laying +down her fork. + +“I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her +letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to +do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!” + +“Any nook does for me,” Miss Bartlett continued; “but it does seem hard +that you shouldn’t have a view.” + +Lucy felt that she had been selfish. “Charlotte, you mustn’t spoil me: +of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first +vacant room in the front—” “You must have it,” said Miss Bartlett, part +of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy’s mother—a piece of +generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion. + +“No, no. You must have it.” + +“I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy.” + +“She would never forgive _me_.” + +The ladies’ voices grew animated, and—if the sad truth be owned—a +little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness +they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one +of them—one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad—leant +forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He +said: + +“I have a view, I have a view.” + +Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them +over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that +they would “do” till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was +ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy +build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something +childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility. +What exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her +glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was +probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the +swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then +said: “A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!” + +“This is my son,” said the old man; “his name’s George. He has a view +too.” + +“Ah,” said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak. + +“What I mean,” he continued, “is that you can have our rooms, and we’ll +have yours. We’ll change.” + +The better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with +the new-comers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as +possible, and said “Thank you very much indeed; that is out of the +question.” + +“Why?” said the old man, with both fists on the table. + +“Because it is quite out of the question, thank you.” + +“You see, we don’t like to take—” began Lucy. Her cousin again +repressed her. + +“But why?” he persisted. “Women like looking at a view; men don’t.” And +he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son, +saying, “George, persuade them!” + +“It’s so obvious they should have the rooms,” said the son. “There’s +nothing else to say.” + +He did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice was perplexed +and sorrowful. Lucy, too, was perplexed; but she saw that they were in +for what is known as “quite a scene,” and she had an odd feeling that +whenever these ill-bred tourists spoke the contest widened and deepened +till it dealt, not with rooms and views, but with—well, with something +quite different, whose existence she had not realized before. Now the +old man attacked Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she not +change? What possible objection had she? They would clear out in half +an hour. + +Miss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies of conversation, was +powerless in the presence of brutality. It was impossible to snub any +one so gross. Her face reddened with displeasure. She looked around as +much as to say, “Are you all like this?” And two little old ladies, who +were sitting further up the table, with shawls hanging over the backs +of the chairs, looked back, clearly indicating “We are not; we are +genteel.” + +“Eat your dinner, dear,” she said to Lucy, and began to toy again with +the meat that she had once censured. + +Lucy mumbled that those seemed very odd people opposite. + +“Eat your dinner, dear. This pension is a failure. To-morrow we will +make a change.” + +Hardly had she announced this fell decision when she reversed it. The +curtains at the end of the room parted, and revealed a clergyman, stout +but attractive, who hurried forward to take his place at the table, +cheerfully apologizing for his lateness. Lucy, who had not yet acquired +decency, at once rose to her feet, exclaiming: “Oh, oh! Why, it’s Mr. +Beebe! Oh, how perfectly lovely! Oh, Charlotte, we must stop now, +however bad the rooms are. Oh!” + +Miss Bartlett said, with more restraint: + +“How do you do, Mr. Beebe? I expect that you have forgotten us: Miss +Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch, who were at Tunbridge Wells when you +helped the Vicar of St. Peter’s that very cold Easter.” + +The clergyman, who had the air of one on a holiday, did not remember +the ladies quite as clearly as they remembered him. But he came forward +pleasantly enough and accepted the chair into which he was beckoned by +Lucy. + +“I _am_ so glad to see you,” said the girl, who was in a state of +spiritual starvation, and would have been glad to see the waiter if her +cousin had permitted it. “Just fancy how small the world is. Summer +Street, too, makes it so specially funny.” + +“Miss Honeychurch lives in the parish of Summer Street,” said Miss +Bartlett, filling up the gap, “and she happened to tell me in the +course of conversation that you have just accepted the living—” + +“Yes, I heard from mother so last week. She didn’t know that I knew you +at Tunbridge Wells; but I wrote back at once, and I said: ‘Mr. Beebe +is—’” + +“Quite right,” said the clergyman. “I move into the Rectory at Summer +Street next June. I am lucky to be appointed to such a charming +neighbourhood.” + +“Oh, how glad I am! The name of our house is Windy Corner.” Mr. Beebe +bowed. + +“There is mother and me generally, and my brother, though it’s not +often we get him to ch—— The church is rather far off, I mean.” + +“Lucy, dearest, let Mr. Beebe eat his dinner.” + +“I am eating it, thank you, and enjoying it.” + +He preferred to talk to Lucy, whose playing he remembered, rather than +to Miss Bartlett, who probably remembered his sermons. He asked the +girl whether she knew Florence well, and was informed at some length +that she had never been there before. It is delightful to advise a +newcomer, and he was first in the field. “Don’t neglect the country +round,” his advice concluded. “The first fine afternoon drive up to +Fiesole, and round by Settignano, or something of that sort.” + +“No!” cried a voice from the top of the table. “Mr. Beebe, you are +wrong. The first fine afternoon your ladies must go to Prato.” + +“That lady looks so clever,” whispered Miss Bartlett to her cousin. “We +are in luck.” + +And, indeed, a perfect torrent of information burst on them. People +told them what to see, when to see it, how to stop the electric trams, +how to get rid of the beggars, how much to give for a vellum blotter, +how much the place would grow upon them. The Pension Bertolini had +decided, almost enthusiastically, that they would do. Whichever way +they looked, kind ladies smiled and shouted at them. And above all rose +the voice of the clever lady, crying: “Prato! They must go to Prato. +That place is too sweetly squalid for words. I love it; I revel in +shaking off the trammels of respectability, as you know.” + +The young man named George glanced at the clever lady, and then +returned moodily to his plate. Obviously he and his father did not do. +Lucy, in the midst of her success, found time to wish they did. It gave +her no extra pleasure that any one should be left in the cold; and when +she rose to go, she turned back and gave the two outsiders a nervous +little bow. + +The father did not see it; the son acknowledged it, not by another bow, +but by raising his eyebrows and smiling; he seemed to be smiling across +something. + +She hastened after her cousin, who had already disappeared through the +curtains—curtains which smote one in the face, and seemed heavy with +more than cloth. Beyond them stood the unreliable Signora, bowing +good-evening to her guests, and supported by ’Enery, her little boy, +and Victorier, her daughter. It made a curious little scene, this +attempt of the Cockney to convey the grace and geniality of the South. +And even more curious was the drawing-room, which attempted to rival +the solid comfort of a Bloomsbury boarding-house. Was this really +Italy? + +Miss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly stuffed arm-chair, which +had the colour and the contours of a tomato. She was talking to Mr. +Beebe, and as she spoke, her long narrow head drove backwards and +forwards, slowly, regularly, as though she were demolishing some +invisible obstacle. “We are most grateful to you,” she was saying. “The +first evening means so much. When you arrived we were in for a +peculiarly _mauvais quart d’heure_.” + +He expressed his regret. + +“Do you, by any chance, know the name of an old man who sat opposite us +at dinner?” + +“Emerson.” + +“Is he a friend of yours?” + +“We are friendly—as one is in pensions.” + +“Then I will say no more.” + +He pressed her very slightly, and she said more. + +“I am, as it were,” she concluded, “the chaperon of my young cousin, +Lucy, and it would be a serious thing if I put her under an obligation +to people of whom we know nothing. His manner was somewhat unfortunate. +I hope I acted for the best.” + +“You acted very naturally,” said he. He seemed thoughtful, and after a +few moments added: “All the same, I don’t think much harm would have +come of accepting.” + +“No _harm_, of course. But we could not be under an obligation.” + +“He is rather a peculiar man.” Again he hesitated, and then said +gently: “I think he would not take advantage of your acceptance, nor +expect you to show gratitude. He has the merit—if it is one—of saying +exactly what he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks +you would value them. He no more thought of putting you under an +obligation than he thought of being polite. It is so difficult—at +least, I find it difficult—to understand people who speak the truth.” + +Lucy was pleased, and said: “I was hoping that he was nice; I do so +always hope that people will be nice.” + +“I think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost every +point of any importance, and so, I expect—I may say I hope—you will +differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When +he first came here he not unnaturally put people’s backs up. He has no +tact and no manners—I don’t mean by that that he has bad manners—and he +will not keep his opinions to himself. We nearly complained about him +to our depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we thought better of +it.” + +“Am I to conclude,” said Miss Bartlett, “that he is a Socialist?” + +Mr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching +of the lips. + +“And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?” + +“I hardly know George, for he hasn’t learnt to talk yet. He seems a +nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his +father’s mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a +Socialist.” + +“Oh, you relieve me,” said Miss Bartlett. “So you think I ought to have +accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and +suspicious?” + +“Not at all,” he answered; “I never suggested that.” + +“But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent +rudeness?” + +He replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary, +and got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room. + +“Was I a bore?” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. “Why +didn’t you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I’m sure. I do hope I +haven’t monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as +well as all dinner-time.” + +“He is nice,” exclaimed Lucy. “Just what I remember. He seems to see +good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman.” + +“My dear Lucia—” + +“Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally +laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man.” + +“Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will +approve of Mr. Beebe.” + +“I’m sure she will; and so will Freddy.” + +“I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable +world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind +the times.” + +“Yes,” said Lucy despondently. + +There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval +was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy +Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not +determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss +Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added “I am +afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion.” + +And the girl again thought: “I must have been selfish or unkind; I must +be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor.” + +Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been +smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed +to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to +chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the +gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her sister’s +health, the necessity of closing the bed-room windows at night, and of +thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her +subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention +than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was +proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real +catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice, when +she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea, +though one better than something else. + +“But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so +English.” + +“Yet our rooms smell,” said poor Lucy. “We dread going to bed.” + +“Ah, then you look into the court.” She sighed. “If only Mr. Emerson +was more tactful! We were so sorry for you at dinner.” + +“I think he was meaning to be kind.” + +“Undoubtedly he was,” said Miss Bartlett. + +“Mr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my suspicious nature. Of +course, I was holding back on my cousin’s account.” + +“Of course,” said the little old lady; and they murmured that one could +not be too careful with a young girl. + +Lucy tried to look demure, but could not help feeling a great fool. No +one was careful with her at home; or, at all events, she had not +noticed it. + +“About old Mr. Emerson—I hardly know. No, he is not tactful; yet, have +you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most +indelicate, and yet at the same time—beautiful?” + +“Beautiful?” said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word. “Are not beauty +and delicacy the same?” + +“So one would have thought,” said the other helplessly. “But things are +so difficult, I sometimes think.” + +She proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared, looking +extremely pleasant. + +“Miss Bartlett,” he cried, “it’s all right about the rooms. I’m so +glad. Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking-room, and knowing +what I did, I encouraged him to make the offer again. He has let me +come and ask you. He would be so pleased.” + +“Oh, Charlotte,” cried Lucy to her cousin, “we must have the rooms now. +The old man is just as nice and kind as he can be.” + +Miss Bartlett was silent. + +“I fear,” said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, “that I have been officious. I +must apologize for my interference.” + +Gravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett +reply: “My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with +yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at +Florence, when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me to +turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will do it. Would you then, +Mr. Beebe, kindly tell Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer, and +then conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?” + +She raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard all over the +drawing-room, and silenced the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. The +clergyman, inwardly cursing the female sex, bowed, and departed with +her message. + +“Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the +acceptance to come from you. Grant me that, at all events.” + +Mr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously: + +“Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead.” + +The young man gazed down on the three ladies, who felt seated on the +floor, so low were their chairs. + +“My father,” he said, “is in his bath, so you cannot thank him +personally. But any message given by you to me will be given by me to +him as soon as he comes out.” + +Miss Bartlett was unequal to the bath. All her barbed civilities came +forth wrong end first. Young Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to +the delight of Mr. Beebe and to the secret delight of Lucy. + +“Poor young man!” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had gone. + +“How angry he is with his father about the rooms! It is all he can do +to keep polite.” + +“In half an hour or so your rooms will be ready,” said Mr. Beebe. Then +looking rather thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired to his own +rooms, to write up his philosophic diary. + +“Oh, dear!” breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all the +winds of heaven had entered the apartment. “Gentlemen sometimes do not +realize—” Her voice faded away, but Miss Bartlett seemed to understand +and a conversation developed, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughly +realize played a principal part. Lucy, not realizing either, was +reduced to literature. Taking up Baedeker’s Handbook to Northern Italy, +she committed to memory the most important dates of Florentine History. +For she was determined to enjoy herself on the morrow. Thus the +half-hour crept profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose with a +sigh, and said: + +“I think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do not stir. I will +superintend the move.” + +“How you do do everything,” said Lucy. + +“Naturally, dear. It is my affair.” + +“But I would like to help you.” + +“No, dear.” + +Charlotte’s energy! And her unselfishness! She had been thus all her +life, but really, on this Italian tour, she was surpassing herself. So +Lucy felt, or strove to feel. And yet—there was a rebellious spirit in +her which wondered whether the acceptance might not have been less +delicate and more beautiful. At all events, she entered her own room +without any feeling of joy. + +“I want to explain,” said Miss Bartlett, “why it is that I have taken +the largest room. Naturally, of course, I should have given it to you; +but I happen to know that it belongs to the young man, and I was sure +your mother would not like it.” + +Lucy was bewildered. + +“If you are to accept a favour it is more suitable you should be under +an obligation to his father than to him. I am a woman of the world, in +my small way, and I know where things lead to. However, Mr. Beebe is a +guarantee of a sort that they will not presume on this.” + +“Mother wouldn’t mind I’m sure,” said Lucy, but again had the sense of +larger and unsuspected issues. + +Miss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting embrace as +she wished her good-night. It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and +when she reached her own room she opened the window and breathed the +clean night air, thinking of the kind old man who had enabled her to +see the lights dancing in the Arno and the cypresses of San Miniato, +and the foot-hills of the Apennines, black against the rising moon. + +Miss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the +door, and then made a tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards +led, and whether there were any oubliettes or secret entrances. It was +then that she saw, pinned up over the washstand, a sheet of paper on +which was scrawled an enormous note of interrogation. Nothing more. + +“What does it mean?” she thought, and she examined it carefully by the +light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing, +obnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized with an impulse to +destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had no right to do so, +since it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it +carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it +clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed +heavily according to her habit, and went to bed. + + + + +Chapter II +In Santa Croce with No Baedeker + + +It was pleasant to wake up in Florence, to open the eyes upon a bright +bare room, with a floor of red tiles which look clean though they are +not; with a painted ceiling whereon pink griffins and blue amorini +sport in a forest of yellow violins and bassoons. It was pleasant, too, +to fling wide the windows, pinching the fingers in unfamiliar +fastenings, to lean out into sunshine with beautiful hills and trees +and marble churches opposite, and close below, the Arno, gurgling +against the embankment of the road. + +Over the river men were at work with spades and sieves on the sandy +foreshore, and on the river was a boat, also diligently employed for +some mysterious end. An electric tram came rushing underneath the +window. No one was inside it, except one tourist; but its platforms +were overflowing with Italians, who preferred to stand. Children tried +to hang on behind, and the conductor, with no malice, spat in their +faces to make them let go. Then soldiers appeared—good-looking, +undersized men—wearing each a knapsack covered with mangy fur, and a +great-coat which had been cut for some larger soldier. Beside them +walked officers, looking foolish and fierce, and before them went +little boys, turning somersaults in time with the band. The tramcar +became entangled in their ranks, and moved on painfully, like a +caterpillar in a swarm of ants. One of the little boys fell down, and +some white bullocks came out of an archway. Indeed, if it had not been +for the good advice of an old man who was selling button-hooks, the +road might never have got clear. + +Over such trivialities as these many a valuable hour may slip away, and +the traveller who has gone to Italy to study the tactile values of +Giotto, or the corruption of the Papacy, may return remembering nothing +but the blue sky and the men and women who live under it. So it was as +well that Miss Bartlett should tap and come in, and having commented on +Lucy’s leaving the door unlocked, and on her leaning out of the window +before she was fully dressed, should urge her to hasten herself, or the +best of the day would be gone. By the time Lucy was ready her cousin +had done her breakfast, and was listening to the clever lady among the +crumbs. + +A conversation then ensued, on not unfamiliar lines. Miss Bartlett was, +after all, a wee bit tired, and thought they had better spend the +morning settling in; unless Lucy would at all like to go out? Lucy +would rather like to go out, as it was her first day in Florence, but, +of course, she could go alone. Miss Bartlett could not allow this. Of +course she would accompany Lucy everywhere. Oh, certainly not; Lucy +would stop with her cousin. Oh, no! that would never do. Oh, yes! + +At this point the clever lady broke in. + +“If it is Mrs. Grundy who is troubling you, I do assure you that you +can neglect the good person. Being English, Miss Honeychurch will be +perfectly safe. Italians understand. A dear friend of mine, Contessa +Baroncelli, has two daughters, and when she cannot send a maid to +school with them, she lets them go in sailor-hats instead. Every one +takes them for English, you see, especially if their hair is strained +tightly behind.” + +Miss Bartlett was unconvinced by the safety of Contessa Baroncelli’s +daughters. She was determined to take Lucy herself, her head not being +so very bad. The clever lady then said that she was going to spend a +long morning in Santa Croce, and if Lucy would come too, she would be +delighted. + +“I will take you by a dear dirty back way, Miss Honeychurch, and if you +bring me luck, we shall have an adventure.” + +Lucy said that this was most kind, and at once opened the Baedeker, to +see where Santa Croce was. + +“Tut, tut! Miss Lucy! I hope we shall soon emancipate you from +Baedeker. He does but touch the surface of things. As to the true +Italy—he does not even dream of it. The true Italy is only to be found +by patient observation.” + +This sounded very interesting, and Lucy hurried over her breakfast, and +started with her new friend in high spirits. Italy was coming at last. +The Cockney Signora and her works had vanished like a bad dream. + +Miss Lavish—for that was the clever lady’s name—turned to the right +along the sunny Lung’ Arno. How delightfully warm! But a wind down the +side streets cut like a knife, didn’t it? Ponte alle +Grazie—particularly interesting, mentioned by Dante. San +Miniato—beautiful as well as interesting; the crucifix that kissed a +murderer—Miss Honeychurch would remember the story. The men on the +river were fishing. (Untrue; but then, so is most information.) Then +Miss Lavish darted under the archway of the white bullocks, and she +stopped, and she cried: + +“A smell! a true Florentine smell! Every city, let me teach you, has +its own smell.” + +“Is it a very nice smell?” said Lucy, who had inherited from her mother +a distaste to dirt. + +“One doesn’t come to Italy for niceness,” was the retort; “one comes +for life. Buon giorno! Buon giorno!” bowing right and left. “Look at +that adorable wine-cart! How the driver stares at us, dear, simple +soul!” + +So Miss Lavish proceeded through the streets of the city of Florence, +short, fidgety, and playful as a kitten, though without a kitten’s +grace. It was a treat for the girl to be with any one so clever and so +cheerful; and a blue military cloak, such as an Italian officer wears, +only increased the sense of festivity. + +“Buon giorno! Take the word of an old woman, Miss Lucy: you will never +repent of a little civility to your inferiors. _That_ is the true +democracy. Though I am a real Radical as well. There, now you’re +shocked.” + +“Indeed, I’m not!” exclaimed Lucy. “We are Radicals, too, out and out. +My father always voted for Mr. Gladstone, until he was so dreadful +about Ireland.” + +“I see, I see. And now you have gone over to the enemy.” + +“Oh, please—! If my father was alive, I am sure he would vote Radical +again now that Ireland is all right. And as it is, the glass over our +front door was broken last election, and Freddy is sure it was the +Tories; but mother says nonsense, a tramp.” + +“Shameful! A manufacturing district, I suppose?” + +“No—in the Surrey hills. About five miles from Dorking, looking over +the Weald.” + +Miss Lavish seemed interested, and slackened her trot. + +“What a delightful part; I know it so well. It is full of the very +nicest people. Do you know Sir Harry Otway—a Radical if ever there +was?” + +“Very well indeed.” + +“And old Mrs. Butterworth the philanthropist?” + +“Why, she rents a field of us! How funny!” + +Miss Lavish looked at the narrow ribbon of sky, and murmured: “Oh, you +have property in Surrey?” + +“Hardly any,” said Lucy, fearful of being thought a snob. “Only thirty +acres—just the garden, all downhill, and some fields.” + +Miss Lavish was not disgusted, and said it was just the size of her +aunt’s Suffolk estate. Italy receded. They tried to remember the last +name of Lady Louisa someone, who had taken a house near Summer Street +the other year, but she had not liked it, which was odd of her. And +just as Miss Lavish had got the name, she broke off and exclaimed: + +“Bless us! Bless us and save us! We’ve lost the way.” + +Certainly they had seemed a long time in reaching Santa Croce, the +tower of which had been plainly visible from the landing window. But +Miss Lavish had said so much about knowing her Florence by heart, that +Lucy had followed her with no misgivings. + +“Lost! lost! My dear Miss Lucy, during our political diatribes we have +taken a wrong turning. How those horrid Conservatives would jeer at us! +What are we to do? Two lone females in an unknown town. Now, this is +what _I_ call an adventure.” + +Lucy, who wanted to see Santa Croce, suggested, as a possible solution, +that they should ask the way there. + +“Oh, but that is the word of a craven! And no, you are not, not, _not_ +to look at your Baedeker. Give it to me; I shan’t let you carry it. We +will simply drift.” + +Accordingly they drifted through a series of those grey-brown streets, +neither commodious nor picturesque, in which the eastern quarter of the +city abounds. Lucy soon lost interest in the discontent of Lady Louisa, +and became discontented herself. For one ravishing moment Italy +appeared. She stood in the Square of the Annunziata and saw in the +living terra-cotta those divine babies whom no cheap reproduction can +ever stale. There they stood, with their shining limbs bursting from +the garments of charity, and their strong white arms extended against +circlets of heaven. Lucy thought she had never seen anything more +beautiful; but Miss Lavish, with a shriek of dismay, dragged her +forward, declaring that they were out of their path now by at least a +mile. + +The hour was approaching at which the continental breakfast begins, or +rather ceases, to tell, and the ladies bought some hot chestnut paste +out of a little shop, because it looked so typical. It tasted partly of +the paper in which it was wrapped, partly of hair oil, partly of the +great unknown. But it gave them strength to drift into another Piazza, +large and dusty, on the farther side of which rose a black-and-white +façade of surpassing ugliness. Miss Lavish spoke to it dramatically. It +was Santa Croce. The adventure was over. + +“Stop a minute; let those two people go on, or I shall have to speak to +them. I do detest conventional intercourse. Nasty! they are going into +the church, too. Oh, the Britisher abroad!” + +“We sat opposite them at dinner last night. They have given us their +rooms. They were so very kind.” + +“Look at their figures!” laughed Miss Lavish. “They walk through my +Italy like a pair of cows. It’s very naughty of me, but I would like to +set an examination paper at Dover, and turn back every tourist who +couldn’t pass it.” + +“What would you ask us?” + +Miss Lavish laid her hand pleasantly on Lucy’s arm, as if to suggest +that she, at all events, would get full marks. In this exalted mood +they reached the steps of the great church, and were about to enter it +when Miss Lavish stopped, squeaked, flung up her arms, and cried: + +“There goes my local-colour box! I must have a word with him!” + +And in a moment she was away over the Piazza, her military cloak +flapping in the wind; nor did she slacken speed till she caught up an +old man with white whiskers, and nipped him playfully upon the arm. + +Lucy waited for nearly ten minutes. Then she began to get tired. The +beggars worried her, the dust blew in her eyes, and she remembered that +a young girl ought not to loiter in public places. She descended slowly +into the Piazza with the intention of rejoining Miss Lavish, who was +really almost too original. But at that moment Miss Lavish and her +local-colour box moved also, and disappeared down a side street, both +gesticulating largely. Tears of indignation came to Lucy’s eyes partly +because Miss Lavish had jilted her, partly because she had taken her +Baedeker. How could she find her way home? How could she find her way +about in Santa Croce? Her first morning was ruined, and she might never +be in Florence again. A few minutes ago she had been all high spirits, +talking as a woman of culture, and half persuading herself that she was +full of originality. Now she entered the church depressed and +humiliated, not even able to remember whether it was built by the +Franciscans or the Dominicans. Of course, it must be a wonderful +building. But how like a barn! And how very cold! Of course, it +contained frescoes by Giotto, in the presence of whose tactile values +she was capable of feeling what was proper. But who was to tell her +which they were? She walked about disdainfully, unwilling to be +enthusiastic over monuments of uncertain authorship or date. There was +no one even to tell her which, of all the sepulchral slabs that paved +the nave and transepts, was the one that was really beautiful, the one +that had been most praised by Mr. Ruskin. + +Then the pernicious charm of Italy worked on her, and, instead of +acquiring information, she began to be happy. She puzzled out the +Italian notices—the notices that forbade people to introduce dogs into +the church—the notice that prayed people, in the interest of health and +out of respect to the sacred edifice in which they found themselves, +not to spit. She watched the tourists; their noses were as red as their +Baedekers, so cold was Santa Croce. She beheld the horrible fate that +overtook three Papists—two he-babies and a she-baby—who began their +career by sousing each other with the Holy Water, and then proceeded to +the Machiavelli memorial, dripping but hallowed. Advancing towards it +very slowly and from immense distances, they touched the stone with +their fingers, with their handkerchiefs, with their heads, and then +retreated. What could this mean? They did it again and again. Then Lucy +realized that they had mistaken Machiavelli for some saint, hoping to +acquire virtue. Punishment followed quickly. The smallest he-baby +stumbled over one of the sepulchral slabs so much admired by Mr. +Ruskin, and entangled his feet in the features of a recumbent bishop. +Protestant as she was, Lucy darted forward. She was too late. He fell +heavily upon the prelate’s upturned toes. + +“Hateful bishop!” exclaimed the voice of old Mr. Emerson, who had +darted forward also. “Hard in life, hard in death. Go out into the +sunshine, little boy, and kiss your hand to the sun, for that is where +you ought to be. Intolerable bishop!” + +The child screamed frantically at these words, and at these dreadful +people who picked him up, dusted him, rubbed his bruises, and told him +not to be superstitious. + +“Look at him!” said Mr. Emerson to Lucy. “Here’s a mess: a baby hurt, +cold, and frightened! But what else can you expect from a church?” + +The child’s legs had become as melting wax. Each time that old Mr. +Emerson and Lucy set it erect it collapsed with a roar. Fortunately an +Italian lady, who ought to have been saying her prayers, came to the +rescue. By some mysterious virtue, which mothers alone possess, she +stiffened the little boy’s back-bone and imparted strength to his +knees. He stood. Still gibbering with agitation, he walked away. + +“You are a clever woman,” said Mr. Emerson. “You have done more than +all the relics in the world. I am not of your creed, but I do believe +in those who make their fellow-creatures happy. There is no scheme of +the universe—” + +He paused for a phrase. + +“Niente,” said the Italian lady, and returned to her prayers. + +“I’m not sure she understands English,” suggested Lucy. + +In her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons. She was +determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and, +if possible, to erase Miss Bartlett’s civility by some gracious +reference to the pleasant rooms. + +“That woman understands everything,” was Mr. Emerson’s reply. “But what +are you doing here? Are you doing the church? Are you through with the +church?” + +“No,” cried Lucy, remembering her grievance. “I came here with Miss +Lavish, who was to explain everything; and just by the door—it is too +bad!—she simply ran away, and after waiting quite a time, I had to come +in by myself.” + +“Why shouldn’t you?” said Mr. Emerson. + +“Yes, why shouldn’t you come by yourself?” said the son, addressing the +young lady for the first time. + +“But Miss Lavish has even taken away Baedeker.” + +“Baedeker?” said Mr. Emerson. “I’m glad it’s _that_ you minded. It’s +worth minding, the loss of a Baedeker. _That’s_ worth minding.” + +Lucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of some new idea, and was not +sure whither it would lead her. + +“If you’ve no Baedeker,” said the son, “you’d better join us.” Was this +where the idea would lead? She took refuge in her dignity. + +“Thank you very much, but I could not think of that. I hope you do not +suppose that I came to join on to you. I really came to help with the +child, and to thank you for so kindly giving us your rooms last night. +I hope that you have not been put to any great inconvenience.” + +“My dear,” said the old man gently, “I think that you are repeating +what you have heard older people say. You are pretending to be touchy; +but you are not really. Stop being so tiresome, and tell me instead +what part of the church you want to see. To take you to it will be a +real pleasure.” + +Now, this was abominably impertinent, and she ought to have been +furious. But it is sometimes as difficult to lose one’s temper as it is +difficult at other times to keep it. Lucy could not get cross. Mr. +Emerson was an old man, and surely a girl might humour him. On the +other hand, his son was a young man, and she felt that a girl ought to +be offended with him, or at all events be offended before him. It was +at him that she gazed before replying. + +“I am not touchy, I hope. It is the Giottos that I want to see, if you +will kindly tell me which they are.” + +The son nodded. With a look of sombre satisfaction, he led the way to +the Peruzzi Chapel. There was a hint of the teacher about him. She felt +like a child in school who had answered a question rightly. + +The chapel was already filled with an earnest congregation, and out of +them rose the voice of a lecturer, directing them how to worship +Giotto, not by tactful valuations, but by the standards of the spirit. + +“Remember,” he was saying, “the facts about this church of Santa Croce; +how it was built by faith in the full fervour of medievalism, before +any taint of the Renaissance had appeared. Observe how Giotto in these +frescoes—now, unhappily, ruined by restoration—is untroubled by the +snares of anatomy and perspective. Could anything be more majestic, +more pathetic, beautiful, true? How little, we feel, avails knowledge +and technical cleverness against a man who truly feels!” + +“No!” exclaimed Mr. Emerson, in much too loud a voice for church. +“Remember nothing of the sort! Built by faith indeed! That simply means +the workmen weren’t paid properly. And as for the frescoes, I see no +truth in them. Look at that fat man in blue! He must weigh as much as I +do, and he is shooting into the sky like an air balloon.” + +He was referring to the fresco of the “Ascension of St. John.” Inside, +the lecturer’s voice faltered, as well it might. The audience shifted +uneasily, and so did Lucy. She was sure that she ought not to be with +these men; but they had cast a spell over her. They were so serious and +so strange that she could not remember how to behave. + +“Now, did this happen, or didn’t it? Yes or no?” + +George replied: + +“It happened like this, if it happened at all. I would rather go up to +heaven by myself than be pushed by cherubs; and if I got there I should +like my friends to lean out of it, just as they do here.” + +“You will never go up,” said his father. “You and I, dear boy, will lie +at peace in the earth that bore us, and our names will disappear as +surely as our work survives.” + +“Some of the people can only see the empty grave, not the saint, +whoever he is, going up. It did happen like that, if it happened at +all.” + +“Pardon me,” said a frigid voice. “The chapel is somewhat small for two +parties. We will incommode you no longer.” + +The lecturer was a clergyman, and his audience must be also his flock, +for they held prayer-books as well as guide-books in their hands. They +filed out of the chapel in silence. Amongst them were the two little +old ladies of the Pension Bertolini—Miss Teresa and Miss Catherine +Alan. + +“Stop!” cried Mr. Emerson. “There’s plenty of room for us all. Stop!” + +The procession disappeared without a word. + +Soon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel, describing the +life of St. Francis. + +“George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brixton curate.” + +George went into the next chapel and returned, saying “Perhaps he is. I +don’t remember.” + +“Then I had better speak to him and remind him who I am. It’s that Mr. +Eager. Why did he go? Did we talk too loud? How vexatious. I shall go +and say we are sorry. Hadn’t I better? Then perhaps he will come back.” + +“He will not come back,” said George. + +But Mr. Emerson, contrite and unhappy, hurried away to apologize to the +Rev. Cuthbert Eager. Lucy, apparently absorbed in a lunette, could hear +the lecture again interrupted, the anxious, aggressive voice of the old +man, the curt, injured replies of his opponent. The son, who took every +little contretemps as if it were a tragedy, was listening also. + +“My father has that effect on nearly everyone,” he informed her. “He +will try to be kind.” + +“I hope we all try,” said she, smiling nervously. + +“Because we think it improves our characters. But he is kind to people +because he loves them; and they find him out, and are offended, or +frightened.” + +“How silly of them!” said Lucy, though in her heart she sympathized; “I +think that a kind action done tactfully—” + +“Tact!” + +He threw up his head in disdain. Apparently she had given the wrong +answer. She watched the singular creature pace up and down the chapel. +For a young man his face was rugged, and—until the shadows fell upon +it—hard. Enshadowed, it sprang into tenderness. She saw him once again +at Rome, on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, carrying a burden of +acorns. Healthy and muscular, he yet gave her the feeling of greyness, +of tragedy that might only find solution in the night. The feeling soon +passed; it was unlike her to have entertained anything so subtle. Born +of silence and of unknown emotion, it passed when Mr. Emerson returned, +and she could re-enter the world of rapid talk, which was alone +familiar to her. + +“Were you snubbed?” asked his son tranquilly. + +“But we have spoilt the pleasure of I don’t know how many people. They +won’t come back.” + +“...full of innate sympathy...quickness to perceive good in +others...vision of the brotherhood of man...” Scraps of the lecture on +St. Francis came floating round the partition wall. + +“Don’t let us spoil yours,” he continued to Lucy. “Have you looked at +those saints?” + +“Yes,” said Lucy. “They are lovely. Do you know which is the tombstone +that is praised in Ruskin?” + +He did not know, and suggested that they should try to guess it. +George, rather to her relief, refused to move, and she and the old man +wandered not unpleasantly about Santa Croce, which, though it is like a +barn, has harvested many beautiful things inside its walls. There were +also beggars to avoid and guides to dodge round the pillars, and an old +lady with her dog, and here and there a priest modestly edging to his +Mass through the groups of tourists. But Mr. Emerson was only half +interested. He watched the lecturer, whose success he believed he had +impaired, and then he anxiously watched his son. + +“Why will he look at that fresco?” he said uneasily. “I saw nothing in +it.” + +“I like Giotto,” she replied. “It is so wonderful what they say about +his tactile values. Though I like things like the Della Robbia babies +better.” + +“So you ought. A baby is worth a dozen saints. And my baby’s worth the +whole of Paradise, and as far as I can see he lives in Hell.” + +Lucy again felt that this did not do. + +“In Hell,” he repeated. “He’s unhappy.” + +“Oh, dear!” said Lucy. + +“How can he be unhappy when he is strong and alive? What more is one to +give him? And think how he has been brought up—free from all the +superstition and ignorance that lead men to hate one another in the +name of God. With such an education as that, I thought he was bound to +grow up happy.” + +She was no theologian, but she felt that here was a very foolish old +man, as well as a very irreligious one. She also felt that her mother +might not like her talking to that kind of person, and that Charlotte +would object most strongly. + +“What are we to do with him?” he asked. “He comes out for his holiday +to Italy, and behaves—like that; like the little child who ought to +have been playing, and who hurt himself upon the tombstone. Eh? What +did you say?” + +Lucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he said: + +“Now don’t be stupid over this. I don’t require you to fall in love +with my boy, but I do think you might try and understand him. You are +nearer his age, and if you let yourself go I am sure you are sensible. +You might help me. He has known so few women, and you have the time. +You stop here several weeks, I suppose? But let yourself go. You are +inclined to get muddled, if I may judge from last night. Let yourself +go. Pull out from the depths those thoughts that you do not understand, +and spread them out in the sunlight and know the meaning of them. By +understanding George you may learn to understand yourself. It will be +good for both of you.” + +To this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer. + +“I only know what it is that’s wrong with him; not why it is.” + +“And what is it?” asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale. + +“The old trouble; things won’t fit.” + +“What things?” + +“The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don’t.” + +“Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?” + +In his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting +poetry, he said: + +“‘From far, from eve and morning, + And yon twelve-winded sky, +The stuff of life to knit me + Blew hither: here am I’ + + +George and I both know this, but why does it distress him? We know that +we come from the winds, and that we shall return to them; that all life +is perhaps a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the eternal smoothness. But +why should this make us unhappy? Let us rather love one another, and +work and rejoice. I don’t believe in this world sorrow.” + +Miss Honeychurch assented. + +“Then make my boy think like us. Make him realize that by the side of +the everlasting Why there is a Yes—a transitory Yes if you like, but a +Yes.” + +Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholy +because the universe wouldn’t fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, +or a Yes, or something! + +“I’m very sorry,” she cried. “You’ll think me unfeeling, but—but—” Then +she became matronly. “Oh, but your son wants employment. Has he no +particular hobby? Why, I myself have worries, but I can generally +forget them at the piano; and collecting stamps did no end of good for +my brother. Perhaps Italy bores him; you ought to try the Alps or the +Lakes.” + +The old man’s face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand. +This did not alarm her; she thought that her advice had impressed him +and that he was thanking her for it. Indeed, he no longer alarmed her +at all; she regarded him as a kind thing, but quite silly. Her feelings +were as inflated spiritually as they had been an hour ago esthetically, +before she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them +over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached, +his face in the shadow. He said: + +“Miss Bartlett.” + +“Oh, good gracious me!” said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing +the whole of life in a new perspective. “Where? Where?” + +“In the nave.” + +“I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have—” She checked +herself. + +“Poor girl!” exploded Mr. Emerson. “Poor girl!” + +She could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling +herself. + +“Poor girl? I fail to understand the point of that remark. I think +myself a very fortunate girl, I assure you. I’m thoroughly happy, and +having a splendid time. Pray don’t waste time mourning over _me_. +There’s enough sorrow in the world, isn’t there, without trying to +invent it. Good-bye. Thank you both so much for all your kindness. Ah, +yes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a +wonderful church.” + +She joined her cousin. + + + + +Chapter III +Music, Violets, and the Letter “S” + + +It so happened that Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic, entered +a more solid world when she opened the piano. She was then no longer +either deferential or patronizing; no longer either a rebel or a slave. +The kingdom of music is not the kingdom of this world; it will accept +those whom breeding and intellect and culture have alike rejected. The +commonplace person begins to play, and shoots into the empyrean without +effort, whilst we look up, marvelling how he has escaped us, and +thinking how we could worship him and love him, would he but translate +his visions into human words, and his experiences into human actions. +Perhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom. Lucy +had done so never. + +She was no dazzling _exécutante;_ her runs were not at all like strings +of pearls, and she struck no more right notes than was suitable for one +of her age and situation. Nor was she the passionate young lady, who +performs so tragically on a summer’s evening with the window open. +Passion was there, but it could not be easily labelled; it slipped +between love and hatred and jealousy, and all the furniture of the +pictorial style. And she was tragical only in the sense that she was +great, for she loved to play on the side of Victory. Victory of what +and over what—that is more than the words of daily life can tell us. +But that some sonatas of Beethoven are written tragic no one can +gainsay; yet they can triumph or despair as the player decides, and +Lucy had decided that they should triumph. + +A very wet afternoon at the Bertolini permitted her to do the thing she +really liked, and after lunch she opened the little draped piano. A few +people lingered round and praised her playing, but finding that she +made no reply, dispersed to their rooms to write up their diaries or to +sleep. She took no notice of Mr. Emerson looking for his son, nor of +Miss Bartlett looking for Miss Lavish, nor of Miss Lavish looking for +her cigarette-case. Like every true performer, she was intoxicated by +the mere feel of the notes: they were fingers caressing her own; and by +touch, not by sound alone, did she come to her desire. + +Mr. Beebe, sitting unnoticed in the window, pondered this illogical +element in Miss Honeychurch, and recalled the occasion at Tunbridge +Wells when he had discovered it. It was at one of those entertainments +where the upper classes entertain the lower. The seats were filled with +a respectful audience, and the ladies and gentlemen of the parish, +under the auspices of their vicar, sang, or recited, or imitated the +drawing of a champagne cork. Among the promised items was “Miss +Honeychurch. Piano. Beethoven,” and Mr. Beebe was wondering whether it +would be Adelaida, or the march of The Ruins of Athens, when his +composure was disturbed by the opening bars of Opus III. He was in +suspense all through the introduction, for not until the pace quickens +does one know what the performer intends. With the roar of the opening +theme he knew that things were going extraordinarily; in the chords +that herald the conclusion he heard the hammer strokes of victory. He +was glad that she only played the first movement, for he could have +paid no attention to the winding intricacies of the measures of +nine-sixteen. The audience clapped, no less respectful. It was Mr. +Beebe who started the stamping; it was all that one could do. + +“Who is she?” he asked the vicar afterwards. + +“Cousin of one of my parishioners. I do not consider her choice of a +piece happy. Beethoven is so usually simple and direct in his appeal +that it is sheer perversity to choose a thing like that, which, if +anything, disturbs.” + +“Introduce me.” + +“She will be delighted. She and Miss Bartlett are full of the praises +of your sermon.” + +“My sermon?” cried Mr. Beebe. “Why ever did she listen to it?” + +When he was introduced he understood why, for Miss Honeychurch, +disjoined from her music stool, was only a young lady with a quantity +of dark hair and a very pretty, pale, undeveloped face. She loved going +to concerts, she loved stopping with her cousin, she loved iced coffee +and meringues. He did not doubt that she loved his sermon also. But +before he left Tunbridge Wells he made a remark to the vicar, which he +now made to Lucy herself when she closed the little piano and moved +dreamily towards him: + +“If Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she plays, it will be very +exciting both for us and for her.” + +Lucy at once re-entered daily life. + +“Oh, what a funny thing! Some one said just the same to mother, and she +said she trusted I should never live a duet.” + +“Doesn’t Mrs. Honeychurch like music?” + +“She doesn’t mind it. But she doesn’t like one to get excited over +anything; she thinks I am silly about it. She thinks—I can’t make out. +Once, you know, I said that I liked my own playing better than any +one’s. She has never got over it. Of course, I didn’t mean that I +played well; I only meant—” + +“Of course,” said he, wondering why she bothered to explain. + +“Music—” said Lucy, as if attempting some generality. She could not +complete it, and looked out absently upon Italy in the wet. The whole +life of the South was disorganized, and the most graceful nation in +Europe had turned into formless lumps of clothes. + +The street and the river were dirty yellow, the bridge was dirty grey, +and the hills were dirty purple. Somewhere in their folds were +concealed Miss Lavish and Miss Bartlett, who had chosen this afternoon +to visit the Torre del Gallo. + +“What about music?” said Mr. Beebe. + +“Poor Charlotte will be sopped,” was Lucy’s reply. + +The expedition was typical of Miss Bartlett, who would return cold, +tired, hungry, and angelic, with a ruined skirt, a pulpy Baedeker, and +a tickling cough in her throat. On another day, when the whole world +was singing and the air ran into the mouth, like wine, she would refuse +to stir from the drawing-room, saying that she was an old thing, and no +fit companion for a hearty girl. + +“Miss Lavish has led your cousin astray. She hopes to find the true +Italy in the wet I believe.” + +“Miss Lavish is so original,” murmured Lucy. This was a stock remark, +the supreme achievement of the Pension Bertolini in the way of +definition. Miss Lavish was so original. Mr. Beebe had his doubts, but +they would have been put down to clerical narrowness. For that, and for +other reasons, he held his peace. + +“Is it true,” continued Lucy in awe-struck tone, “that Miss Lavish is +writing a book?” + +“They do say so.” + +“What is it about?” + +“It will be a novel,” replied Mr. Beebe, “dealing with modern Italy. +Let me refer you for an account to Miss Catharine Alan, who uses words +herself more admirably than any one I know.” + +“I wish Miss Lavish would tell me herself. We started such friends. But +I don’t think she ought to have run away with Baedeker that morning in +Santa Croce. Charlotte was most annoyed at finding me practically +alone, and so I couldn’t help being a little annoyed with Miss Lavish.” + +“The two ladies, at all events, have made it up.” + +He was interested in the sudden friendship between women so apparently +dissimilar as Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish. They were always in each +other’s company, with Lucy a slighted third. Miss Lavish he believed he +understood, but Miss Bartlett might reveal unknown depths of +strangeness, though not perhaps, of meaning. Was Italy deflecting her +from the path of prim chaperon, which he had assigned to her at +Tunbridge Wells? All his life he had loved to study maiden ladies; they +were his specialty, and his profession had provided him with ample +opportunities for the work. Girls like Lucy were charming to look at, +but Mr. Beebe was, from rather profound reasons, somewhat chilly in his +attitude towards the other sex, and preferred to be interested rather +than enthralled. + +Lucy, for the third time, said that poor Charlotte would be sopped. The +Arno was rising in flood, washing away the traces of the little carts +upon the foreshore. But in the south-west there had appeared a dull +haze of yellow, which might mean better weather if it did not mean +worse. She opened the window to inspect, and a cold blast entered the +room, drawing a plaintive cry from Miss Catharine Alan, who entered at +the same moment by the door. + +“Oh, dear Miss Honeychurch, you will catch a chill! And Mr. Beebe here +besides. Who would suppose this is Italy? There is my sister actually +nursing the hot-water can; no comforts or proper provisions.” + +She sidled towards them and sat down, self-conscious as she always was +on entering a room which contained one man, or a man and one woman. + +“I could hear your beautiful playing, Miss Honeychurch, though I was in +my room with the door shut. Doors shut; indeed, most necessary. No one +has the least idea of privacy in this country. And one person catches +it from another.” + +Lucy answered suitably. Mr. Beebe was not able to tell the ladies of +his adventure at Modena, where the chambermaid burst in upon him in his +bath, exclaiming cheerfully, “Fa niente, sono vecchia.” He contented +himself with saying: “I quite agree with you, Miss Alan. The Italians +are a most unpleasant people. They pry everywhere, they see everything, +and they know what we want before we know it ourselves. We are at their +mercy. They read our thoughts, they foretell our desires. From the +cab-driver down to—to Giotto, they turn us inside out, and I resent it. +Yet in their heart of hearts they are—how superficial! They have no +conception of the intellectual life. How right is Signora Bertolini, +who exclaimed to me the other day: ‘Ho, Mr. Beebe, if you knew what I +suffer over the children’s edjucaishion. _Hi_ won’t ’ave my little +Victorier taught by a hignorant Italian what can’t explain nothink!’” + +Miss Alan did not follow, but gathered that she was being mocked in an +agreeable way. Her sister was a little disappointed in Mr. Beebe, +having expected better things from a clergyman whose head was bald and +who wore a pair of russet whiskers. Indeed, who would have supposed +that tolerance, sympathy, and a sense of humour would inhabit that +militant form? + +In the midst of her satisfaction she continued to sidle, and at last +the cause was disclosed. From the chair beneath her she extracted a +gun-metal cigarette-case, on which were powdered in turquoise the +initials “E. L.” + +“That belongs to Lavish.” said the clergyman. “A good fellow, Lavish, +but I wish she’d start a pipe.” + +“Oh, Mr. Beebe,” said Miss Alan, divided between awe and mirth. +“Indeed, though it is dreadful for her to smoke, it is not quite as +dreadful as you suppose. She took to it, practically in despair, after +her life’s work was carried away in a landslip. Surely that makes it +more excusable.” + +“What was that?” asked Lucy. + +Mr. Beebe sat back complacently, and Miss Alan began as follows: “It +was a novel—and I am afraid, from what I can gather, not a very nice +novel. It is so sad when people who have abilities misuse them, and I +must say they nearly always do. Anyhow, she left it almost finished in +the Grotto of the Calvary at the Capuccini Hotel at Amalfi while she +went for a little ink. She said: ‘Can I have a little ink, please?’ But +you know what Italians are, and meanwhile the Grotto fell roaring on to +the beach, and the saddest thing of all is that she cannot remember +what she has written. The poor thing was very ill after it, and so got +tempted into cigarettes. It is a great secret, but I am glad to say +that she is writing another novel. She told Teresa and Miss Pole the +other day that she had got up all the local colour—this novel is to be +about modern Italy; the other was historical—but that she could not +start till she had an idea. First she tried Perugia for an inspiration, +then she came here—this must on no account get round. And so cheerful +through it all! I cannot help thinking that there is something to +admire in everyone, even if you do not approve of them.” + +Miss Alan was always thus being charitable against her better +judgement. A delicate pathos perfumed her disconnected remarks, giving +them unexpected beauty, just as in the decaying autumn woods there +sometimes rise odours reminiscent of spring. She felt she had made +almost too many allowances, and apologized hurriedly for her +toleration. + +“All the same, she is a little too—I hardly like to say unwomanly, but +she behaved most strangely when the Emersons arrived.” + +Mr. Beebe smiled as Miss Alan plunged into an anecdote which he knew +she would be unable to finish in the presence of a gentleman. + +“I don’t know, Miss Honeychurch, if you have noticed that Miss Pole, +the lady who has so much yellow hair, takes lemonade. That old Mr. +Emerson, who puts things very strangely—” + +Her jaw dropped. She was silent. Mr. Beebe, whose social resources were +endless, went out to order some tea, and she continued to Lucy in a +hasty whisper: + +“Stomach. He warned Miss Pole of her stomach-acidity, he called it—and +he may have meant to be kind. I must say I forgot myself and laughed; +it was so sudden. As Teresa truly said, it was no laughing matter. But +the point is that Miss Lavish was positively _attracted_ by his +mentioning S., and said she liked plain speaking, and meeting different +grades of thought. She thought they were commercial +travellers—‘drummers’ was the word she used—and all through dinner she +tried to prove that England, our great and beloved country, rests on +nothing but commerce. Teresa was very much annoyed, and left the table +before the cheese, saying as she did so: ‘There, Miss Lavish, is one +who can confute you better than I,’ and pointed to that beautiful +picture of Lord Tennyson. Then Miss Lavish said: ‘Tut! The early +Victorians.’ Just imagine! ‘Tut! The early Victorians.’ My sister had +gone, and I felt bound to speak. I said: ‘Miss Lavish, _I_ am an early +Victorian; at least, that is to say, I will hear no breath of censure +against our dear Queen.’ It was horrible speaking. I reminded her how +the Queen had been to Ireland when she did not want to go, and I must +say she was dumbfounded, and made no reply. But, unluckily, Mr. Emerson +overheard this part, and called in his deep voice: ‘Quite so, quite so! +I honour the woman for her Irish visit.’ The woman! I tell things so +badly; but you see what a tangle we were in by this time, all on +account of S. having been mentioned in the first place. But that was +not all. After dinner Miss Lavish actually came up and said: ‘Miss +Alan, I am going into the smoking-room to talk to those two nice men. +Come, too.’ Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitable invitation, +and she had the impertinence to tell me that it would broaden my ideas, +and said that she had four brothers, all University men, except one who +was in the army, who always made a point of talking to commercial +travellers.” + +“Let me finish the story,” said Mr. Beebe, who had returned. + +“Miss Lavish tried Miss Pole, myself, everyone, and finally said: ‘I +shall go alone.’ She went. At the end of five minutes she returned +unobtrusively with a green baize board, and began playing patience.” + +“Whatever happened?” cried Lucy. + +“No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to +tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling.” + +“Mr. Beebe—old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to +know.” + +Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the question for +herself. + +“No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I do +not mind him. Miss Alan, what do you think? Is he nice?” + +The little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly. Mr. +Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying: + +“I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after +that business of the violets.” + +“Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the violets? How do things get +round? A pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot forget how +they behaved at Mr. Eager’s lecture at Santa Croce. Oh, poor Miss +Honeychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite changed. I do +_not_ like the Emersons. They are _not_ nice.” + +Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to introduce +the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had failed. He was +almost the only person who remained friendly to them. Miss Lavish, who +represented intellect, was avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Alans, +who stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett, +smarting under an obligation, would scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy +was different. She had given him a hazy account of her adventures in +Santa Croce, and he gathered that the two men had made a curious and +possibly concerted attempt to annex her, to show her the world from +their own strange standpoint, to interest her in their private sorrows +and joys. This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be +championed by a young girl: he would rather it should fail. After all, +he knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are +flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner. + +Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said that she thought the +Emersons were nice; not that she saw anything of them now. Even their +seats at dinner had been moved. + +“But aren’t they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?” said +the little lady inquisitively. + +“Only once. Charlotte didn’t like it, and said something—quite +politely, of course.” + +“Most right of her. They don’t understand our ways. They must find +their level.” + +Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up their +attempt—if it was one—to conquer society, and now the father was almost +as silent as the son. He wondered whether he would not plan a pleasant +day for these folk before they left—some expedition, perhaps, with Lucy +well chaperoned to be nice to them. It was one of Mr. Beebe’s chief +pleasures to provide people with happy memories. + +Evening approached while they chatted; the air became brighter; the +colours on the trees and hills were purified, and the Arno lost its +muddy solidity and began to twinkle. There were a few streaks of +bluish-green among the clouds, a few patches of watery light upon the +earth, and then the dripping façade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in +the declining sun. + +“Too late to go out,” said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. “All the +galleries are shut.” + +“I think I shall go out,” said Lucy. “I want to go round the town in +the circular tram—on the platform by the driver.” + +Her two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for +her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say: + +“I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go out +alone, won’t you be better on your feet?” + +“Italians, dear, you know,” said Miss Alan. + +“Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!” + +But they still looked disapproval, and she so far conceded to Mr. Beebe +as to say that she would only go for a little walk, and keep to the +street frequented by tourists. + +“She oughtn’t really to go at all,” said Mr. Beebe, as they watched her +from the window, “and she knows it. I put it down to too much +Beethoven.” + + + + +Chapter IV +Fourth Chapter + + +Mr. Beebe was right. Lucy never knew her desires so clearly as after +music. She had not really appreciated the clergyman’s wit, nor the +suggestive twitterings of Miss Alan. Conversation was tedious; she +wanted something big, and she believed that it would have come to her +on the wind-swept platform of an electric tram. This she might not +attempt. It was unladylike. Why? Why were most big things unladylike? +Charlotte had once explained to her why. It was not that ladies were +inferior to men; it was that they were different. Their mission was to +inspire others to achievement rather than to achieve themselves. +Indirectly, by means of tact and a spotless name, a lady could +accomplish much. But if she rushed into the fray herself she would be +first censured, then despised, and finally ignored. Poems had been +written to illustrate this point. + +There is much that is immortal in this medieval lady. The dragons have +gone, and so have the knights, but still she lingers in our midst. She +reigned in many an early Victorian castle, and was Queen of much early +Victorian song. It is sweet to protect her in the intervals of +business, sweet to pay her honour when she has cooked our dinner well. +But alas! the creature grows degenerate. In her heart also there are +springing up strange desires. She too is enamoured of heavy winds, and +vast panoramas, and green expanses of the sea. She has marked the +kingdom of this world, how full it is of wealth, and beauty, and war—a +radiant crust, built around the central fires, spinning towards the +receding heavens. Men, declaring that she inspires them to it, move +joyfully over the surface, having the most delightful meetings with +other men, happy, not because they are masculine, but because they are +alive. Before the show breaks up she would like to drop the august +title of the Eternal Woman, and go there as her transitory self. + +Lucy does not stand for the medieval lady, who was rather an ideal to +which she was bidden to lift her eyes when feeling serious. Nor has she +any system of revolt. Here and there a restriction annoyed her +particularly, and she would transgress it, and perhaps be sorry that +she had done so. This afternoon she was peculiarly restive. She would +really like to do something of which her well-wishers disapproved. As +she might not go on the electric tram, she went to Alinari’s shop. + +There she bought a photograph of Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus.” Venus, +being a pity, spoilt the picture, otherwise so charming, and Miss +Bartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art of course +signified the nude.) Giorgione’s “Tempesta,” the “Idolino,” some of the +Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt a +little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico’s “Coronation,” Giotto’s +“Ascension of St. John,” some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni +Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncritical +approval to every well-known name. + +But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemed +still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her +to be conscious of it. “The world,” she thought, “is certainly full of +beautiful things, if only I could come across them.” It was not +surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that +it always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy. + +“Nothing ever happens to me,” she reflected, as she entered the Piazza +Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to +her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to +strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, +half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who +idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance +of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth +upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of +unreality—the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older +person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient +was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. + +She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out +of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no +longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable +treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, +still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and +started towards home. + +Then something did happen. + +Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. “Cinque +lire,” they had cried, “cinque lire!” They sparred at each other, and +one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards +Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for +her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out +between them and trickled down his unshaven chin. + +That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary +man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson +happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where +the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught +sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, +fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it. + +She thought: “Oh, what have I done?” + +“Oh, what have I done?” she murmured, and opened her eyes. + +George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had +complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held +her in his arms. + +They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have +carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She +repeated: + +“Oh, what have I done?” + +“You fainted.” + +“I—I am very sorry.” + +“How are you now?” + +“Perfectly well—absolutely well.” And she began to nod and smile. + +“Then let us come home. There’s no point in our stopping.” + +He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The +cries from the fountain—they had never ceased—rang emptily. The whole +world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. + +“How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now +I am well. I can go alone, thank you.” + +His hand was still extended. + +“Oh, my photographs!” she exclaimed suddenly. + +“What photographs?” + +“I bought some photographs at Alinari’s. I must have dropped them out +there in the square.” She looked at him cautiously. “Would you add to +your kindness by fetching them?” + +He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose +with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the +Arno. + +“Miss Honeychurch!” + +She stopped with her hand on her heart. + +“You sit still; you aren’t fit to go home alone.” + +“Yes, I am, thank you so very much.” + +“No, you aren’t. You’d go openly if you were.” + +“But I had rather—” + +“Then I don’t fetch your photographs.” + +“I had rather be alone.” + +He said imperiously: “The man is dead—the man is probably dead; sit +down till you are rested.” She was bewildered, and obeyed him. “And +don’t move till I come back.” + +In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in +dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, +and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he +returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, +“Oh, what have I done?”—the thought that she, as well as the dying man, +had crossed some spiritual boundary. + +He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy +topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous +over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being +strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose +without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, +she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to +them; they refused him. + +“And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say—how very odd Italians +are!—and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that +Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my +cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday—What was that?” + +He had thrown something into the stream. + +“What did you throw in?” + +“Things I didn’t want,” he said crossly. + +“Mr. Emerson!” + +“Well?” + +“Where are the photographs?” + +He was silent. + +“I believe it was my photographs that you threw away.” + +“I didn’t know what to do with them,” he cried, and his voice was that +of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. +“They were covered with blood. There! I’m glad I’ve told you; and all +the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with +them.” He pointed down-stream. “They’ve gone.” The river swirled under +the bridge, “I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed +better that they should go out to the sea—I don’t know; I may just mean +that they frightened me.” Then the boy verged into a man. “For +something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting +muddled. It isn’t exactly that a man has died.” + +Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. + +“It has happened,” he repeated, “and I mean to find out what it is.” + +“Mr. Emerson—” + +He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some +abstract quest. + +“I want to ask you something before we go in.” + +They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows +against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at +times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that +have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before +saying: + +“I have behaved ridiculously.” + +He was following his own thoughts. + +“I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what +came over me.” + +“I nearly fainted myself,” he said; but she felt that her attitude +repelled him. + +“Well, I owe you a thousand apologies.” + +“Oh, all right.” + +“And—this is the real point—you know how silly people are +gossiping—ladies especially, I am afraid—you understand what I mean?” + +“I’m afraid I don’t.” + +“I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?” + +“Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right—all right.” + +“Thank you so much. And would you—” + +She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing +below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her +photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her +that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do +her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even +kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; +his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was +useless to say to him, “And would you—” and hope that he would complete +the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the +knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he +remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that +she had bought in Alinari’s shop. It was not exactly that a man had +died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a +situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the +branching paths of Youth. + +“Well, thank you so much,” she repeated, “How quickly these accidents +do happen, and then one returns to the old life!” + +“I don’t.” + +Anxiety moved her to question him. + +His answer was puzzling: “I shall probably want to live.” + +“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?” + +“I shall want to live, I say.” + +Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, +whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. + + + + +Chapter V +Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing + + +It was a family saying that “you never knew which way Charlotte +Bartlett would turn.” She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over +Lucy’s adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and +paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and +Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the +Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent +and _désœuvré_, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It +might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match +for any one. + +For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of +her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the +embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at +dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of “Too much +Beethoven.” But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, +not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was +accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, +contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking +right or wrong. + +At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two +plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the +Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss +Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for +herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she +thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing +money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties—all of which Miss +Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish +alone. + +“No, Charlotte!” cried the girl, with real warmth. “It’s very kind of +Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather.” + +“Very well, dear,” said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure +that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How +abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should +alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. + +She slipped her arm into her cousin’s, and they started off along the +Lung’ Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and +colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at +it. She then made her usual remark, which was “How I do wish Freddy and +your mother could see this, too!” + +Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly +where she did. + +“Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I +feared you would repent you of your choice.” + +Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been +a muddle—queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down +easily on paper—but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping +were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del +Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not +to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett’s +insinuations. + +But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately +remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the +river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, +a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For +a moment she understood the nature of ghosts. + +The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss +Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them +briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an +idea which she thought would work up into a book. + +“Oh, let me congratulate you!” said Miss Bartlett. “After your despair +of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!” + +“Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to +tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning.” Lucy +poked at the ground with her parasol. + +“But perhaps you would rather not?” + +“I’m sorry—if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not.” + +The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable +that a girl should feel deeply. + +“It is I who am sorry,” said Miss Lavish. “We literary hacks are +shameless creatures. I believe there’s no secret of the human heart +into which we wouldn’t pry.” + +She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few +calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza +since eight o’clock collecting material. A good deal of it was +unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had +quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should +substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and +at the same time furnish an excellent plot. + +“What is the heroine’s name?” asked Miss Bartlett. + +“Leonora,” said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor. + +“I do hope she’s nice.” + +That desideratum would not be omitted. + +“And what is the plot?” + +Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while +the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. + +“I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,” Miss Lavish +concluded. “It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of +course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local +colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall +also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair +warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist.” + +“Oh, you wicked woman,” cried Miss Bartlett. “I am sure you are +thinking of the Emersons.” + +Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. + +“I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen. +It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going +to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always +held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday’s is not the less +tragic because it happened in humble life.” + +There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the +cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across +the square. + +“She is my idea of a really clever woman,” said Miss Bartlett. “That +last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most +pathetic novel.” + +Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her +perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that +Miss Lavish had her on trial for an _ingenué_. + +“She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word,” +continued Miss Bartlett slowly. “None but the superficial would be +shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice +and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high +opinion of the destiny of woman—Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a +pleasant surprise!” + +“Ah, not for me,” said the chaplain blandly, “for I have been watching +you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time.” + +“We were chatting to Miss Lavish.” + +His brow contracted. + +“So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!” The last remark +was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with +a courteous smile. “I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and +Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week—a +drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. +There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an +hour’s ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most +beautiful—far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view +that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. +That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks +at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us.” + +Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that +Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the +residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people +who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta +after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, +and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. +Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in +Renaissance villas on Fiesole’s slope, they read, wrote, studied, and +exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather +perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their +pockets the coupons of Cook. + +Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of. +Between the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and +it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who +seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the +permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it +yet. But if it did come to that—how Lucy would enjoy it! + +A few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of life +were grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and +Miss Bartlett—even if culminating in a residential tea-party—was no +longer the greatest of them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte +somewhat faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming +did her thanks become more sincere. + +“So we shall be a _partie carrée_,” said the chaplain. “In these days +of toil and tumult one has great needs of the country and its message +of purity. Andate via! andate presto, presto! Ah, the town! Beautiful +as it is, it is the town.” + +They assented. + +“This very square—so I am told—witnessed yesterday the most sordid of +tragedies. To one who loves the Florence of Dante and Savonarola there +is something portentous in such desecration—portentous and +humiliating.” + +“Humiliating indeed,” said Miss Bartlett. “Miss Honeychurch happened to +be passing through as it happened. She can hardly bear to speak of it.” +She glanced at Lucy proudly. + +“And how came we to have you here?” asked the chaplain paternally. + +Miss Bartlett’s recent liberalism oozed away at the question. “Do not +blame her, please, Mr. Eager. The fault is mine: I left her +unchaperoned.” + +“So you were here alone, Miss Honeychurch?” His voice suggested +sympathetic reproof but at the same time indicated that a few harrowing +details would not be unacceptable. His dark, handsome face drooped +mournfully towards her to catch her reply. + +“Practically.” + +“One of our pension acquaintances kindly brought her home,” said Miss +Bartlett, adroitly concealing the sex of the preserver. + +“For her also it must have been a terrible experience. I trust that +neither of you was at all—that it was not in your immediate proximity?” + +Of the many things Lucy was noticing to-day, not the least remarkable +was this: the ghoulish fashion in which respectable people will nibble +after blood. George Emerson had kept the subject strangely pure. + +“He died by the fountain, I believe,” was her reply. + +“And you and your friend—” + +“Were over at the Loggia.” + +“That must have saved you much. You have not, of course, seen the +disgraceful illustrations which the gutter Press—This man is a public +nuisance; he knows that I am a resident perfectly well, and yet he goes +on worrying me to buy his vulgar views.” + +Surely the vendor of photographs was in league with Lucy—in the eternal +league of Italy with youth. He had suddenly extended his book before +Miss Bartlett and Mr. Eager, binding their hands together by a long +glossy ribbon of churches, pictures, and views. + +“This is too much!” cried the chaplain, striking petulantly at one of +Fra Angelico’s angels. She tore. A shrill cry rose from the vendor. The +book it seemed, was more valuable than one would have supposed. + +“Willingly would I purchase—” began Miss Bartlett. + +“Ignore him,” said Mr. Eager sharply, and they all walked rapidly away +from the square. + +But an Italian can never be ignored, least of all when he has a +grievance. His mysterious persecution of Mr. Eager became relentless; +the air rang with his threats and lamentations. He appealed to Lucy; +would not she intercede? He was poor—he sheltered a family—the tax on +bread. He waited, he gibbered, he was recompensed, he was dissatisfied, +he did not leave them until he had swept their minds clean of all +thoughts whether pleasant or unpleasant. + +Shopping was the topic that now ensued. Under the chaplain’s guidance +they selected many hideous presents and mementoes—florid little +picture-frames that seemed fashioned in gilded pastry; other little +frames, more severe, that stood on little easels, and were carven out +of oak; a blotting book of vellum; a Dante of the same material; cheap +mosaic brooches, which the maids, next Christmas, would never tell from +real; pins, pots, heraldic saucers, brown art-photographs; Eros and +Psyche in alabaster; St. Peter to match—all of which would have cost +less in London. + +This successful morning left no pleasant impressions on Lucy. She had +been a little frightened, both by Miss Lavish and by Mr. Eager, she +knew not why. And as they frightened her, she had, strangely enough, +ceased to respect them. She doubted that Miss Lavish was a great +artist. She doubted that Mr. Eager was as full of spirituality and +culture as she had been led to suppose. They were tried by some new +test, and they were found wanting. As for Charlotte—as for Charlotte +she was exactly the same. It might be possible to be nice to her; it +was impossible to love her. + +“The son of a labourer; I happen to know it for a fact. A mechanic of +some sort himself when he was young; then he took to writing for the +Socialistic Press. I came across him at Brixton.” + +They were talking about the Emersons. + +“How wonderfully people rise in these days!” sighed Miss Bartlett, +fingering a model of the leaning Tower of Pisa. + +“Generally,” replied Mr. Eager, “one has only sympathy for their +success. The desire for education and for social advance—in these +things there is something not wholly vile. There are some working men +whom one would be very willing to see out here in Florence—little as +they would make of it.” + +“Is he a journalist now?” Miss Bartlett asked. + +“He is not; he made an advantageous marriage.” + +He uttered this remark with a voice full of meaning, and ended with a +sigh. + +“Oh, so he has a wife.” + +“Dead, Miss Bartlett, dead. I wonder—yes I wonder how he has the +effrontery to look me in the face, to dare to claim acquaintance with +me. He was in my London parish long ago. The other day in Santa Croce, +when he was with Miss Honeychurch, I snubbed him. Let him beware that +he does not get more than a snub.” + +“What?” cried Lucy, flushing. + +“Exposure!” hissed Mr. Eager. + +He tried to change the subject; but in scoring a dramatic point he had +interested his audience more than he had intended. Miss Bartlett was +full of very natural curiosity. Lucy, though she wished never to see +the Emersons again, was not disposed to condemn them on a single word. + +“Do you mean,” she asked, “that he is an irreligious man? We know that +already.” + +“Lucy, dear—” said Miss Bartlett, gently reproving her cousin’s +penetration. + +“I should be astonished if you knew all. The boy—an innocent child at +the time—I will exclude. God knows what his education and his inherited +qualities may have made him.” + +“Perhaps,” said Miss Bartlett, “it is something that we had better not +hear.” + +“To speak plainly,” said Mr. Eager, “it is. I will say no more.” For +the first time Lucy’s rebellious thoughts swept out in words—for the +first time in her life. + +“You have said very little.” + +“It was my intention to say very little,” was his frigid reply. + +He gazed indignantly at the girl, who met him with equal indignation. +She turned towards him from the shop counter; her breast heaved +quickly. He observed her brow, and the sudden strength of her lips. It +was intolerable that she should disbelieve him. + +“Murder, if you want to know,” he cried angrily. “That man murdered his +wife!” + +“How?” she retorted. + +“To all intents and purposes he murdered her. That day in Santa +Croce—did they say anything against me?” + +“Not a word, Mr. Eager—not a single word.” + +“Oh, I thought they had been libelling me to you. But I suppose it is +only their personal charms that makes you defend them.” + +“I’m not defending them,” said Lucy, losing her courage, and relapsing +into the old chaotic methods. “They’re nothing to me.” + +“How could you think she was defending them?” said Miss Bartlett, much +discomfited by the unpleasant scene. The shopman was possibly +listening. + +“She will find it difficult. For that man has murdered his wife in the +sight of God.” + +The addition of God was striking. But the chaplain was really trying to +qualify a rash remark. A silence followed which might have been +impressive, but was merely awkward. Then Miss Bartlett hastily +purchased the Leaning Tower, and led the way into the street. + +“I must be going,” said he, shutting his eyes and taking out his watch. + +Miss Bartlett thanked him for his kindness, and spoke with enthusiasm +of the approaching drive. + +“Drive? Oh, is our drive to come off?” + +Lucy was recalled to her manners, and after a little exertion the +complacency of Mr. Eager was restored. + +“Bother the drive!” exclaimed the girl, as soon as he had departed. “It +is just the drive we had arranged with Mr. Beebe without any fuss at +all. Why should he invite us in that absurd manner? We might as well +invite him. We are each paying for ourselves.” + +Miss Bartlett, who had intended to lament over the Emersons, was +launched by this remark into unexpected thoughts. + +“If that is so, dear—if the drive we and Mr. Beebe are going with Mr. +Eager is really the same as the one we are going with Mr. Beebe, then I +foresee a sad kettle of fish.” + +“How?” + +“Because Mr. Beebe has asked Eleanor Lavish to come, too.” + +“That will mean another carriage.” + +“Far worse. Mr. Eager does not like Eleanor. She knows it herself. The +truth must be told; she is too unconventional for him.” + +They were now in the newspaper-room at the English bank. Lucy stood by +the central table, heedless of Punch and the Graphic, trying to answer, +or at all events to formulate the questions rioting in her brain. The +well-known world had broken up, and there emerged Florence, a magic +city where people thought and did the most extraordinary things. +Murder, accusations of murder, a lady clinging to one man and being +rude to another—were these the daily incidents of her streets? Was +there more in her frank beauty than met the eye—the power, perhaps, to +evoke passions, good and bad, and to bring them speedily to a +fulfillment? + +Happy Charlotte, who, though greatly troubled over things that did not +matter, seemed oblivious to things that did; who could conjecture with +admirable delicacy “where things might lead to,” but apparently lost +sight of the goal as she approached it. Now she was crouching in the +corner trying to extract a circular note from a kind of linen nose-bag +which hung in chaste concealment round her neck. She had been told that +this was the only safe way to carry money in Italy; it must only be +broached within the walls of the English bank. As she groped she +murmured: “Whether it is Mr. Beebe who forgot to tell Mr. Eager, or Mr. +Eager who forgot when he told us, or whether they have decided to leave +Eleanor out altogether—which they could scarcely do—but in any case we +must be prepared. It is you they really want; I am only asked for +appearances. You shall go with the two gentlemen, and I and Eleanor +will follow behind. A one-horse carriage would do for us. Yet how +difficult it is!” + +“It is indeed,” replied the girl, with a gravity that sounded +sympathetic. + +“What do you think about it?” asked Miss Bartlett, flushed from the +struggle, and buttoning up her dress. + +“I don’t know what I think, nor what I want.” + +“Oh, dear, Lucy! I do hope Florence isn’t boring you. Speak the word, +and, as you know, I would take you to the ends of the earth to-morrow.” + +“Thank you, Charlotte,” said Lucy, and pondered over the offer. + +There were letters for her at the bureau—one from her brother, full of +athletics and biology; one from her mother, delightful as only her +mother’s letters could be. She had read in it of the crocuses which had +been bought for yellow and were coming up puce, of the new +parlour-maid, who had watered the ferns with essence of lemonade, of +the semi-detached cottages which were ruining Summer Street, and +breaking the heart of Sir Harry Otway. She recalled the free, pleasant +life of her home, where she was allowed to do everything, and where +nothing ever happened to her. The road up through the pine-woods, the +clean drawing-room, the view over the Sussex Weald—all hung before her +bright and distinct, but pathetic as the pictures in a gallery to +which, after much experience, a traveller returns. + +“And the news?” asked Miss Bartlett. + +“Mrs. Vyse and her son have gone to Rome,” said Lucy, giving the news +that interested her least. “Do you know the Vyses?” + +“Oh, not that way back. We can never have too much of the dear Piazza +Signoria.” + +“They’re nice people, the Vyses. So clever—my idea of what’s really +clever. Don’t you long to be in Rome?” + +“I die for it!” + +The Piazza Signoria is too stony to be brilliant. It has no grass, no +flowers, no frescoes, no glittering walls of marble or comforting +patches of ruddy brick. By an odd chance—unless we believe in a +presiding genius of places—the statues that relieve its severity +suggest, not the innocence of childhood, nor the glorious bewilderment +of youth, but the conscious achievements of maturity. Perseus and +Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have done or suffered something, +and though they are immortal, immortality has come to them after +experience, not before. Here, not only in the solitude of Nature, might +a hero meet a goddess, or a heroine a god. + +“Charlotte!” cried the girl suddenly. “Here’s an idea. What if we +popped off to Rome to-morrow—straight to the Vyses’ hotel? For I do +know what I want. I’m sick of Florence. No, you said you’d go to the +ends of the earth! Do! Do!” + +Miss Bartlett, with equal vivacity, replied: + +“Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would become of your drive in the +hills?” + +They passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing +over the unpractical suggestion. + + + + +Chapter VI +The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson, +Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and +Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians +Drive Them. + + +It was Phaethon who drove them to Fiesole that memorable day, a youth +all irresponsibility and fire, recklessly urging his master’s horses up +the stony hill. Mr. Beebe recognized him at once. Neither the Ages of +Faith nor the Age of Doubt had touched him; he was Phaethon in Tuscany +driving a cab. And it was Persephone whom he asked leave to pick up on +the way, saying that she was his sister—Persephone, tall and slender +and pale, returning with the Spring to her mother’s cottage, and still +shading her eyes from the unaccustomed light. To her Mr. Eager +objected, saying that here was the thin edge of the wedge, and one must +guard against imposition. But the ladies interceded, and when it had +been made clear that it was a very great favour, the goddess was +allowed to mount beside the god. + +Phaethon at once slipped the left rein over her head, thus enabling +himself to drive with his arm round her waist. She did not mind. Mr. +Eager, who sat with his back to the horses, saw nothing of the +indecorous proceeding, and continued his conversation with Lucy. The +other two occupants of the carriage were old Mr. Emerson and Miss +Lavish. For a dreadful thing had happened: Mr. Beebe, without +consulting Mr. Eager, had doubled the size of the party. And though +Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish had planned all the morning how the +people were to sit, at the critical moment when the carriages came +round they lost their heads, and Miss Lavish got in with Lucy, while +Miss Bartlett, with George Emerson and Mr. Beebe, followed on behind. + +It was hard on the poor chaplain to have his _partie carrée_ thus +transformed. Tea at a Renaissance villa, if he had ever meditated it, +was now impossible. Lucy and Miss Bartlett had a certain style about +them, and Mr. Beebe, though unreliable, was a man of parts. But a +shoddy lady writer and a journalist who had murdered his wife in the +sight of God—they should enter no villa at his introduction. + +Lucy, elegantly dressed in white, sat erect and nervous amid these +explosive ingredients, attentive to Mr. Eager, repressive towards Miss +Lavish, watchful of old Mr. Emerson, hitherto fortunately asleep, +thanks to a heavy lunch and the drowsy atmosphere of Spring. She looked +on the expedition as the work of Fate. But for it she would have +avoided George Emerson successfully. In an open manner he had shown +that he wished to continue their intimacy. She had refused, not because +she disliked him, but because she did not know what had happened, and +suspected that he did know. And this frightened her. + +For the real event—whatever it was—had taken place, not in the Loggia, +but by the river. To behave wildly at the sight of death is pardonable. +But to discuss it afterwards, to pass from discussion into silence, and +through silence into sympathy, that is an error, not of a startled +emotion, but of the whole fabric. There was really something +blameworthy (she thought) in their joint contemplation of the shadowy +stream, in the common impulse which had turned them to the house +without the passing of a look or word. This sense of wickedness had +been slight at first. She had nearly joined the party to the Torre del +Gallo. But each time that she avoided George it became more imperative +that she should avoid him again. And now celestial irony, working +through her cousin and two clergymen, did not suffer her to leave +Florence till she had made this expedition with him through the hills. + +Meanwhile Mr. Eager held her in civil converse; their little tiff was +over. + +“So, Miss Honeychurch, you are travelling? As a student of art?” + +“Oh, dear me, no—oh, no!” + +“Perhaps as a student of human nature,” interposed Miss Lavish, “like +myself?” + +“Oh, no. I am here as a tourist.” + +“Oh, indeed,” said Mr. Eager. “Are you indeed? If you will not think me +rude, we residents sometimes pity you poor tourists not a little—handed +about like a parcel of goods from Venice to Florence, from Florence to +Rome, living herded together in pensions or hotels, quite unconscious +of anything that is outside Baedeker, their one anxiety to get ‘done’ +or ‘through’ and go on somewhere else. The result is, they mix up +towns, rivers, palaces in one inextricable whirl. You know the American +girl in Punch who says: ‘Say, poppa, what did we see at Rome?’ And the +father replies: ‘Why, guess Rome was the place where we saw the yaller +dog.’ There’s travelling for you. Ha! ha! ha!” + +“I quite agree,” said Miss Lavish, who had several times tried to +interrupt his mordant wit. “The narrowness and superficiality of the +Anglo-Saxon tourist is nothing less than a menace.” + +“Quite so. Now, the English colony at Florence, Miss Honeychurch—and it +is of considerable size, though, of course, not all equally—a few are +here for trade, for example. But the greater part are students. Lady +Helen Laverstock is at present busy over Fra Angelico. I mention her +name because we are passing her villa on the left. No, you can only see +it if you stand—no, do not stand; you will fall. She is very proud of +that thick hedge. Inside, perfect seclusion. One might have gone back +six hundred years. Some critics believe that her garden was the scene +of The Decameron, which lends it an additional interest, does it not?” + +“It does indeed!” cried Miss Lavish. “Tell me, where do they place the +scene of that wonderful seventh day?” + +But Mr. Eager proceeded to tell Miss Honeychurch that on the right +lived Mr. Someone Something, an American of the best type—so rare!—and +that the Somebody Elses were farther down the hill. “Doubtless you know +her monographs in the series of ‘Mediæval Byways’? He is working at +Gemistus Pletho. Sometimes as I take tea in their beautiful grounds I +hear, over the wall, the electric tram squealing up the new road with +its loads of hot, dusty, unintelligent tourists who are going to ‘do’ +Fiesole in an hour in order that they may say they have been there, and +I think—think—I think how little they think what lies so near them.” + +During this speech the two figures on the box were sporting with each +other disgracefully. Lucy had a spasm of envy. Granted that they wished +to misbehave, it was pleasant for them to be able to do so. They were +probably the only people enjoying the expedition. The carriage swept +with agonizing jolts up through the Piazza of Fiesole and into the +Settignano road. + +“Piano! piano!” said Mr. Eager, elegantly waving his hand over his +head. + +“Va bene, signore, va bene, va bene,” crooned the driver, and whipped +his horses up again. + +Now Mr. Eager and Miss Lavish began to talk against each other on the +subject of Alessio Baldovinetti. Was he a cause of the Renaissance, or +was he one of its manifestations? The other carriage was left behind. +As the pace increased to a gallop the large, slumbering form of Mr. +Emerson was thrown against the chaplain with the regularity of a +machine. + +“Piano! piano!” said he, with a martyred look at Lucy. + +An extra lurch made him turn angrily in his seat. Phaethon, who for +some time had been endeavouring to kiss Persephone, had just succeeded. + +A little scene ensued, which, as Miss Bartlett said afterwards, was +most unpleasant. The horses were stopped, the lovers were ordered to +disentangle themselves, the boy was to lose his _pourboire_, the girl +was immediately to get down. + +“She is my sister,” said he, turning round on them with piteous eyes. + +Mr. Eager took the trouble to tell him that he was a liar. + +Phaethon hung down his head, not at the matter of the accusation, but +at its manner. At this point Mr. Emerson, whom the shock of stopping +had awoke, declared that the lovers must on no account be separated, +and patted them on the back to signify his approval. And Miss Lavish, +though unwilling to ally him, felt bound to support the cause of +Bohemianism. + +“Most certainly I would let them be,” she cried. “But I dare say I +shall receive scant support. I have always flown in the face of the +conventions all my life. This is what _I_ call an adventure.” + +“We must not submit,” said Mr. Eager. “I knew he was trying it on. He +is treating us as if we were a party of Cook’s tourists.” + +“Surely no!” said Miss Lavish, her ardour visibly decreasing. + +The other carriage had drawn up behind, and sensible Mr. Beebe called +out that after this warning the couple would be sure to behave +themselves properly. + +“Leave them alone,” Mr. Emerson begged the chaplain, of whom he stood +in no awe. “Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off +the box when it happens to sit there? To be driven by lovers—A king +might envy us, and if we part them it’s more like sacrilege than +anything I know.” + +Here the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd had begun +to collect. + +Mr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a +resolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed the +driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream, +with unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In +Mr. Eager’s mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling +fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker, +and more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a +click. + +“Signorina!” said the man to Lucy, when the display had ceased. Why +should he appeal to Lucy? + +“Signorina!” echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto. She pointed +at the other carriage. Why? + +For a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Persephone got +down from the box. + +“Victory at last!” said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as the +carriages started again. + +“It is not victory,” said Mr. Emerson. “It is defeat. You have parted +two people who were happy.” + +Mr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit next to Mr. Emerson, but +he would not speak to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep, and took +up the matter warmly. He commanded Lucy to agree with him; he shouted +for support to his son. + +“We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money. He has +bargained to drive us, and he is doing it. We have no rights over his +soul.” + +Miss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a person you have classed as +typically British speaks out of his character. + +“He was not driving us well,” she said. “He jolted us.” + +“That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he is jolting us now. +Can you wonder? He would like to throw us out, and most certainly he is +justified. And if I were superstitious I’d be frightened of the girl, +too. It doesn’t do to injure young people. Have you ever heard of +Lorenzo de Medici?” + +Miss Lavish bristled. + +“Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to +Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of +his diminutive stature?” + +“The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the +poet. He wrote a line—so I heard yesterday—which runs like this: ‘Don’t +go fighting against the Spring.’” + +Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition. + +“Non fate guerra al Maggio,” he murmured. “‘War not with the May’ would +render a correct meaning.” + +“The point is, we have warred with it. Look.” He pointed to the Val +d’Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees. +“Fifty miles of Spring, and we’ve come up to admire them. Do you +suppose there’s any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in +man? But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as +improper, ashamed that the same laws work eternally through both.” + +No one encouraged him to talk. Presently Mr. Eager gave a signal for +the carriages to stop and marshalled the party for their ramble on the +hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and +misty olives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the +road, still following its curve, was about to sweep on to a promontory +which stood out in the plain. It was this promontory, uncultivated, +wet, covered with bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the +fancy of Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. He had +ascended it, that diligent and rather obscure master, possibly with an +eye to business, possibly for the joy of ascending. Standing there, he +had seen that view of the Val d’Arno and distant Florence, which he +afterwards had introduced not very effectively into his work. But where +exactly had he stood? That was the question which Mr. Eager hoped to +solve now. And Miss Lavish, whose nature was attracted by anything +problematical, had become equally enthusiastic. + +But it is not easy to carry the pictures of Alessio Baldovinetti in +your head, even if you have remembered to look at them before starting. +And the haze in the valley increased the difficulty of the quest. + +The party sprang about from tuft to tuft of grass, their anxiety to +keep together being only equalled by their desire to go different +directions. Finally they split into groups. Lucy clung to Miss Bartlett +and Miss Lavish; the Emersons returned to hold laborious converse with +the drivers; while the two clergymen, who were expected to have topics +in common, were left to each other. + +The two elder ladies soon threw off the mask. In the audible whisper +that was now so familiar to Lucy they began to discuss, not Alessio +Baldovinetti, but the drive. Miss Bartlett had asked Mr. George Emerson +what his profession was, and he had answered “the railway.” She was +very sorry that she had asked him. She had no idea that it would be +such a dreadful answer, or she would not have asked him. Mr. Beebe had +turned the conversation so cleverly, and she hoped that the young man +was not very much hurt at her asking him. + +“The railway!” gasped Miss Lavish. “Oh, but I shall die! Of course it +was the railway!” She could not control her mirth. “He is the image of +a porter—on, on the South-Eastern.” + +“Eleanor, be quiet,” plucking at her vivacious companion. “Hush! +They’ll hear—the Emersons—” + +“I can’t stop. Let me go my wicked way. A porter—” + +“Eleanor!” + +“I’m sure it’s all right,” put in Lucy. “The Emersons won’t hear, and +they wouldn’t mind if they did.” + +Miss Lavish did not seem pleased at this. + +“Miss Honeychurch listening!” she said rather crossly. “Pouf! Wouf! You +naughty girl! Go away!” + +“Oh, Lucy, you ought to be with Mr. Eager, I’m sure.” + +“I can’t find them now, and I don’t want to either.” + +“Mr. Eager will be offended. It is your party.” + +“Please, I’d rather stop here with you.” + +“No, I agree,” said Miss Lavish. “It’s like a school feast; the boys +have got separated from the girls. Miss Lucy, you are to go. We wish to +converse on high topics unsuited for your ear.” + +The girl was stubborn. As her time at Florence drew to its close she +was only at ease amongst those to whom she felt indifferent. Such a one +was Miss Lavish, and such for the moment was Charlotte. She wished she +had not called attention to herself; they were both annoyed at her +remark and seemed determined to get rid of her. + +“How tired one gets,” said Miss Bartlett. “Oh, I do wish Freddy and +your mother could be here.” + +Unselfishness with Miss Bartlett had entirely usurped the functions of +enthusiasm. Lucy did not look at the view either. She would not enjoy +anything till she was safe at Rome. + +“Then sit you down,” said Miss Lavish. “Observe my foresight.” + +With many a smile she produced two of those mackintosh squares that +protect the frame of the tourist from damp grass or cold marble steps. +She sat on one; who was to sit on the other? + +“Lucy; without a moment’s doubt, Lucy. The ground will do for me. +Really I have not had rheumatism for years. If I do feel it coming on I +shall stand. Imagine your mother’s feelings if I let you sit in the wet +in your white linen.” She sat down heavily where the ground looked +particularly moist. “Here we are, all settled delightfully. Even if my +dress is thinner it will not show so much, being brown. Sit down, dear; +you are too unselfish; you don’t assert yourself enough.” She cleared +her throat. “Now don’t be alarmed; this isn’t a cold. It’s the tiniest +cough, and I have had it three days. It’s nothing to do with sitting +here at all.” + +There was only one way of treating the situation. At the end of five +minutes Lucy departed in search of Mr. Beebe and Mr. Eager, vanquished +by the mackintosh square. + +She addressed herself to the drivers, who were sprawling in the +carriages, perfuming the cushions with cigars. The miscreant, a bony +young man scorched black by the sun, rose to greet her with the +courtesy of a host and the assurance of a relative. + +“Dove?” said Lucy, after much anxious thought. + +His face lit up. Of course he knew where. Not so far either. His arm +swept three-fourths of the horizon. He should just think he did know +where. He pressed his finger-tips to his forehead and then pushed them +towards her, as if oozing with visible extract of knowledge. + +More seemed necessary. What was the Italian for “clergyman”? + +“Dove buoni uomini?” said she at last. + +Good? Scarcely the adjective for those noble beings! He showed her his +cigar. + +“Uno—piu—piccolo,” was her next remark, implying “Has the cigar been +given to you by Mr. Beebe, the smaller of the two good men?” + +She was correct as usual. He tied the horse to a tree, kicked it to +make it stay quiet, dusted the carriage, arranged his hair, remoulded +his hat, encouraged his moustache, and in rather less than a quarter of +a minute was ready to conduct her. Italians are born knowing the way. +It would seem that the whole earth lay before them, not as a map, but +as a chess-board, whereon they continually behold the changing pieces +as well as the squares. Any one can find places, but the finding of +people is a gift from God. + +He only stopped once, to pick her some great blue violets. She thanked +him with real pleasure. In the company of this common man the world was +beautiful and direct. For the first time she felt the influence of +Spring. His arm swept the horizon gracefully; violets, like other +things, existed in great profusion there; “would she like to see them?” + +“Ma buoni uomini.” + +He bowed. Certainly. Good men first, violets afterwards. They proceeded +briskly through the undergrowth, which became thicker and thicker. They +were nearing the edge of the promontory, and the view was stealing +round them, but the brown network of the bushes shattered it into +countless pieces. He was occupied in his cigar, and in holding back the +pliant boughs. She was rejoicing in her escape from dullness. Not a +step, not a twig, was unimportant to her. + +“What is that?” + +There was a voice in the wood, in the distance behind them. The voice +of Mr. Eager? He shrugged his shoulders. An Italian’s ignorance is +sometimes more remarkable than his knowledge. She could not make him +understand that perhaps they had missed the clergymen. The view was +forming at last; she could discern the river, the golden plain, other +hills. + +“Eccolo!” he exclaimed. + +At the same moment the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell out of +the wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a little +open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to end. + +“Courage!” cried her companion, now standing some six feet above. +“Courage and love.” + +She did not answer. From her feet the ground sloped sharply into view, +and violets ran down in rivulets and streams and cataracts, irrigating +the hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems collecting into +pools in the hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam. But +never again were they in such profusion; this terrace was the +well-head, the primal source whence beauty gushed out to water the +earth. + +Standing at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man. +But he was not the good man that she had expected, and he was alone. + +George had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he +contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant +joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue +waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and +kissed her. + +Before she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called, +“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss +Bartlett who stood brown against the view. + + + + +Chapter VII +They Return + + +Some complicated game had been playing up and down the hillside all the +afternoon. What it was and exactly how the players had sided, Lucy was +slow to discover. Mr. Eager had met them with a questioning eye. +Charlotte had repulsed him with much small talk. Mr. Emerson, seeking +his son, was told whereabouts to find him. Mr. Beebe, who wore the +heated aspect of a neutral, was bidden to collect the factions for the +return home. There was a general sense of groping and bewilderment. Pan +had been amongst them—not the great god Pan, who has been buried these +two thousand years, but the little god Pan, who presides over social +contretemps and unsuccessful picnics. Mr. Beebe had lost everyone, and +had consumed in solitude the tea-basket which he had brought up as a +pleasant surprise. Miss Lavish had lost Miss Bartlett. Lucy had lost +Mr. Eager. Mr. Emerson had lost George. Miss Bartlett had lost a +mackintosh square. Phaethon had lost the game. + +That last fact was undeniable. He climbed on to the box shivering, with +his collar up, prophesying the swift approach of bad weather. “Let us +go immediately,” he told them. “The signorino will walk.” + +“All the way? He will be hours,” said Mr. Beebe. + +“Apparently. I told him it was unwise.” He would look no one in the +face; perhaps defeat was particularly mortifying for him. He alone had +played skilfully, using the whole of his instinct, while the others had +used scraps of their intelligence. He alone had divined what things +were, and what he wished them to be. He alone had interpreted the +message that Lucy had received five days before from the lips of a +dying man. Persephone, who spends half her life in the grave—she could +interpret it also. Not so these English. They gain knowledge slowly, +and perhaps too late. + +The thoughts of a cab-driver, however just, seldom affect the lives of +his employers. He was the most competent of Miss Bartlett’s opponents, +but infinitely the least dangerous. Once back in the town, he and his +insight and his knowledge would trouble English ladies no more. Of +course, it was most unpleasant; she had seen his black head in the +bushes; he might make a tavern story out of it. But after all, what +have we to do with taverns? Real menace belongs to the drawing-room. It +was of drawing-room people that Miss Bartlett thought as she journeyed +downwards towards the fading sun. Lucy sat beside her; Mr. Eager sat +opposite, trying to catch her eye; he was vaguely suspicious. They +spoke of Alessio Baldovinetti. + +Rain and darkness came on together. The two ladies huddled together +under an inadequate parasol. There was a lightning flash, and Miss +Lavish who was nervous, screamed from the carriage in front. At the +next flash, Lucy screamed also. Mr. Eager addressed her professionally: + +“Courage, Miss Honeychurch, courage and faith. If I might say so, there +is something almost blasphemous in this horror of the elements. Are we +seriously to suppose that all these clouds, all this immense electrical +display, is simply called into existence to extinguish you or me?” + +“No—of course—” + +“Even from the scientific standpoint the chances against our being +struck are enormous. The steel knives, the only articles which might +attract the current, are in the other carriage. And, in any case, we +are infinitely safer than if we were walking. Courage—courage and +faith.” + +Under the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure of her cousin’s hand. At +times our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not +what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it +afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles, +gained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross +examination. + +She renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence. + +“Mr. Eager!” called Mr. Beebe. “We want your assistance. Will you +interpret for us?” + +“George!” cried Mr. Emerson. “Ask your driver which way George went. +The boy may lose his way. He may be killed.” + +“Go, Mr. Eager,” said Miss Bartlett, “don’t ask our driver; our driver +is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe—, he is nearly demented.” + +“He may be killed!” cried the old man. “He may be killed!” + +“Typical behaviour,” said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. “In +the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down.” + +“What does he know?” whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. +“Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?” + +“Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But—” she pointed at the +driver—“_he_ knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?” She +took out her purse. “It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class +people. He saw it all.” Tapping Phaethon’s back with her guide-book, +she said, “Silenzio!” and offered him a franc. + +“Va bene,” he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day +as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. + +There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead +wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they +had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard +it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, +which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They +descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as +joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a +moment they realized vast possibilities of good. + +The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion +they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, +even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the +accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, +through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the +dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin. + +“Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can +understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I—I thought I was +developing.” + +“Do not cry, dearest. Take your time.” + +“I have been obstinate and silly—worse than you know, far worse. Once +by the river—Oh, but he isn’t killed—he wouldn’t be killed, would he?” + +The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm +was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she +thought it must be near to everyone. + +“I trust not. One would always pray against that.” + +“He is really—I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. +But this time I’m not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply +slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a +little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and +the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a +book.” + +“In a book?” + +“Heroes—gods—the nonsense of schoolgirls.” + +“And then?” + +“But, Charlotte, you know what happened then.” + +Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a +certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to +her. All the way back Lucy’s body was shaken by deep sighs, which +nothing could repress. + +“I want to be truthful,” she whispered. “It is so hard to be absolutely +truthful.” + +“Don’t be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it +over before bed-time in my room.” + +So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the +girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, +and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good +humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone +she was sure of—Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and +love. + +The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long +evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she +should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her +moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be +carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence +they would disentangle and interpret them all. + +“At last,” thought she, “I shall understand myself. I shan’t again be +troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don’t know +what.” + +Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to +her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with +commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage. +When it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became +rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all +events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss +Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of +gentle reproach: + +“Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my +room, and I will give a good brush to your hair.” + +With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the +girl. Then Miss Bartlett said “So what is to be done?” + +She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that +she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions +was all that she had counted upon. + +“What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle.” + +The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt +damp and chilly. One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers +close to Miss Bartlett’s toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic +shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt +unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted +them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless +and vague, the very ghosts of joy. + +“It has been raining for nearly four hours,” she said at last. + +Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. + +“How do you propose to silence him?” + +“The driver?” + +“My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson.” + +Lucy began to pace up and down the room. + +“I don’t understand,” she said at last. + +She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely +truthful. + +“How are you going to stop him talking about it?” + +“I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do.” + +“I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met +the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves.” + +“Exploits?” cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. + +“My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and +listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you +remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking +one person is an extra reason for liking another?” + +“Yes,” said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased. + +“Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man, +but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his +deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no +farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?” + +An idea rushed across Lucy’s brain, which, had she thought of it sooner +and made it part of her, might have proved victorious. + +“I propose to speak to him,” said she. + +Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm. + +“You see, Charlotte, your kindness—I shall never forget it. But—as you +said—it is my affair. Mine and his.” + +“And you are going to _implore_ him, to _beg_ him to keep silence?” + +“Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he +answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But +now I am not one little bit.” + +“But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you +have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can +be—how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her +sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I +had not arrived, what would have happened?” + +“I can’t think,” said Lucy gravely. + +Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning +it more vigorously. + +“What would have happened if I hadn’t arrived?” + +“I can’t think,” said Lucy again. + +“When he insulted you, how would you have replied?” + +“I hadn’t time to think. You came.” + +“Yes, but won’t you tell me now what you would have done?” + +“I should have—” She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She +went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. +She could not think what she would have done. + +“Come away from the window, dear,” said Miss Bartlett. “You will be +seen from the road.” + +Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin’s power. She could not modulate out +the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them +referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and +settle the matter, whatever it was, with him. + +Miss Bartlett became plaintive. + +“Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is +hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your +brother! He is young, but I know that his sister’s insult would rouse +in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are +still left some men who can reverence woman.” + +As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and +ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and +said: + +“It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try.” + +“What train?” + +“The train to Rome.” She looked at her gloves critically. + +The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given. + +“When does the train to Rome go?” + +“At eight.” + +“Signora Bertolini would be upset.” + +“We must face that,” said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had +given notice already. + +“She will make us pay for a whole week’s pension.” + +“I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the +Vyses’ hotel. Isn’t afternoon tea given there for nothing?” + +“Yes, but they pay extra for wine.” After this remark she remained +motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled +like a ghostly figure in a dream. + +They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to +lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, +began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the +discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, +who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk, +vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and +size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her +back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. +The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of +those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. +She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, +the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. +The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt +down by her cousin’s side and took her in her arms. + +Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she +was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not +love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she +said, after a long pause: + +“Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?” + +Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what +forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her +embrace a little, and she said: + +“Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!” + +“You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, +too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn.” + +“But no—” + +Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged +martyr. + +“Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had +hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and +stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and +old-fashioned—only fit to pack and unpack your things.” + +“Please—” + +“My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and +were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a +lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than +was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events.” + +“You mustn’t say these things,” said Lucy softly. + +She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, +heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence. + +“I have been a failure,” said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the +straps of Lucy’s trunk instead of strapping her own. “Failed to make +you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous +to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster.” + +“But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it +isn’t a disaster either.” + +“It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and +rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss +Lavish?” + +“Every right.” + +“When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true +that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I +do, when you tell her.” + +Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said: + +“Why need mother hear of it?” + +“But you tell her everything?” + +“I suppose I do generally.” + +“I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it. +Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her.” + +The girl would not be degraded to this. + +“Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in +any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never +speak of it either to her or to any one.” + +Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss +Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and +sent her to her own room. + +For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would +seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view +which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor +condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was +about to judge him her cousin’s voice had intervened, and, ever since, +it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, +could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss +Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor +inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time—indeed, +for years—she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented +to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in +which the young rush to destruction until they learn better—a +shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but +which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have +used them most. + +Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has +yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, +of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily +forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration +and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously +upon the soul. + +The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached +them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, +though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked +up, did not see her. + +To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It +struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she +would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary +intercourse was over. + +Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the +critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: + +“I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please.” + +Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: “Good-night, Mr. +Emerson.” + +His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done +her work. + +Lucy cried aloud: “It isn’t true. It can’t all be true. I want not to +be muddled. I want to grow older quickly.” + +Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. + +“Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get.” + +In the morning they left for Rome. + + + + +PART TWO + + + + +Chapter VIII +Medieval + + +The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for +the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They +were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that +filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet—none was +present—might have quoted, “Life like a dome of many coloured glass,” +or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against +the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; +within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of +man. + +Two pleasant people sat in the room. One—a boy of nineteen—was studying +a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay +upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed +and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human +frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did +continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did +she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light +fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. + +“Where aren’t they?” said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy’s brother. “I +tell you I’m getting fairly sick.” + +“For goodness’ sake go out of my drawing-room, then?” cried Mrs. +Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it +literally. + +Freddy did not move or reply. + +“I think things are coming to a head,” she observed, rather wanting her +son’s opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue +supplication. + +“Time they did.” + +“I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more.” + +“It’s his third go, isn’t it?” + +“Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind.” + +“I didn’t mean to be unkind.” Then he added: “But I do think Lucy might +have got this off her chest in Italy. I don’t know how girls manage +things, but she can’t have said ‘No’ properly before, or she wouldn’t +have to say it again now. Over the whole thing—I can’t explain—I do +feel so uncomfortable.” + +“Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!” + +“I feel—never mind.” + +He returned to his work. + +“Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: ‘Dear Mrs. +Vyse.’” + +“Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter.” + +“I said: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, +and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But—’” She stopped +reading, “I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He +has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so +forth. When it comes to the point, he can’t get on without me.” + +“Nor me.” + +“You?” + +Freddy nodded. + +“What do you mean?” + +“He asked me for my permission also.” + +She exclaimed: “How very odd of him!” + +“Why so?” asked the son and heir. “Why shouldn’t my permission be +asked?” + +“What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you +say?” + +“I said to Cecil, ‘Take her or leave her; it’s no business of mine!’” + +“What a helpful answer!” But her own answer, though more normal in its +wording, had been to the same effect. + +“The bother is this,” began Freddy. + +Then he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was. +Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window. + +“Freddy, you must come. There they still are!” + +“I don’t see you ought to go peeping like that.” + +“Peeping like that! Can’t I look out of my own window?” + +But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her +son, “Still page 322?” Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. For +a brief space they were silent. Close by, beyond the curtains, the +gentle murmur of a long conversation had never ceased. + +“The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully.” +He gave a nervous gulp. “Not content with ‘permission’, which I did +give—that is to say, I said, ‘I don’t mind’—well, not content with +that, he wanted to know whether I wasn’t off my head with joy. He +practically put it like this: Wasn’t it a splendid thing for Lucy and +for Windy Corner generally if he married her? And he would have an +answer—he said it would strengthen his hand.” + +“I hope you gave a careful answer, dear.” + +“I answered ‘No’” said the boy, grinding his teeth. “There! Fly into a +stew! I can’t help it—had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to +have asked me.” + +“Ridiculous child!” cried his mother. “You think you’re so holy and +truthful, but really it’s only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that +a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I +hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?” + +“Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn’t say yes. I +tried to laugh as if I didn’t mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed +too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot’s in it. +Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work.” + +“No,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the +subject, “I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between +them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately +insult him, and try to turn him out of my house.” + +“Not a bit!” he pleaded. “I only let out I didn’t like him. I don’t +hate him, but I don’t like him. What I mind is that he’ll tell Lucy.” + +He glanced at the curtains dismally. + +“Well, _I_ like him,” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “I know his mother; he’s +good, he’s clever, he’s rich, he’s well connected—Oh, you needn’t kick +the piano! He’s well connected—I’ll say it again if you like: he’s well +connected.” She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face +remained dissatisfied. She added: “And he has beautiful manners.” + +“I liked him till just now. I suppose it’s having him spoiling Lucy’s +first week at home; and it’s also something that Mr. Beebe said, not +knowing.” + +“Mr. Beebe?” said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. “I don’t +see how Mr. Beebe comes in.” + +“You know Mr. Beebe’s funny way, when you never quite know what he +means. He said: ‘Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.’ I was very cute, I +asked him what he meant. He said ‘Oh, he’s like me—better detached.’ I +couldn’t make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has +come after Lucy he hasn’t been so pleasant, at least—I can’t explain.” + +“You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he +may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties.” + +The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at +the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one +too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one’s +own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow +who would never wear another fellow’s cap. Unaware of his own +profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not +dislike a man for such foolish reasons. + +“Will this do?” called his mother. “‘Dear Mrs. Vyse,—Cecil has just +asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes +it.’ Then I put in at the top, ‘and I have told Lucy so.’ I must write +the letter out again—‘and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very +uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.’ +I said that because I didn’t want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. +She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a +thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid’s dirty thumb-marks +where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably—” + +“Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the +country?” + +“Don’t interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes—‘Young people must +decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she +tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her +first.’ No, I’ll cross that last bit out—it looks patronizing. I’ll +stop at ‘because she tells me everything.’ Or shall I cross that out, +too?” + +“Cross it out, too,” said Freddy. + +Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. + +“Then the whole thing runs: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse.—Cecil has just asked my +permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I +have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days +young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your +son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know—’” + +“Look out!” cried Freddy. + +The curtains parted. + +Cecil’s first movement was one of irritation. He couldn’t bear the +Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. +Instinctively he gave the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging +down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as +is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little +rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view +beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the +Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a +green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. + +Cecil entered. + +Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He +was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders +that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was +tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled +those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. +Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained +in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as +self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, +worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a +Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe +meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same +when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow’s cap. + +Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards +her young acquaintance. + +“Oh, Cecil!” she exclaimed—“oh, Cecil, do tell me!” + +“I promessi sposi,” said he. + +They stared at him anxiously. + +“She has accepted me,” he said, and the sound of the thing in English +made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. + +“I am so glad,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand +that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew +Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected +with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are +obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural +reminiscences. + +“Welcome as one of the family!” said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand +at the furniture. “This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you +will make our dear Lucy happy.” + +“I hope so,” replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling. + +“We mothers—” simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was +affected, sentimental, bombastic—all the things she hated most. Why +could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the middle of the room; +looking very cross and almost handsome? + +“I say, Lucy!” called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag. + +Lucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in at +them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw +her brother’s face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. He +said, “Steady on!” + +“Not a kiss for me?” asked her mother. + +Lucy kissed her also. + +“Would you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch all +about it?” Cecil suggested. “And I’d stop here and tell my mother.” + +“We go with Lucy?” said Freddy, as if taking orders. + +“Yes, you go with Lucy.” + +They passed into the sunlight. Cecil watched them cross the terrace, +and descend out of sight by the steps. They would descend—he knew their +ways—past the shrubbery, and past the tennis-lawn and the dahlia-bed, +until they reached the kitchen garden, and there, in the presence of +the potatoes and the peas, the great event would be discussed. + +Smiling indulgently, he lit a cigarette, and rehearsed the events that +had led to such a happy conclusion. + +He had known Lucy for several years, but only as a commonplace girl who +happened to be musical. He could still remember his depression that +afternoon at Rome, when she and her terrible cousin fell on him out of +the blue, and demanded to be taken to St. Peter’s. That day she had +seemed a typical tourist—shrill, crude, and gaunt with travel. But +Italy worked some marvel in her. It gave her light, and—which he held +more precious—it gave her shadow. Soon he detected in her a wonderful +reticence. She was like a woman of Leonardo da Vinci’s, whom we love +not so much for herself as for the things that she will not tell us. +The things are assuredly not of this life; no woman of Leonardo’s could +have anything so vulgar as a “story.” She did develop most wonderfully +day by day. + +So it happened that from patronizing civility he had slowly passed if +not to passion, at least to a profound uneasiness. Already at Rome he +had hinted to her that they might be suitable for each other. It had +touched him greatly that she had not broken away at the suggestion. Her +refusal had been clear and gentle; after it—as the horrid phrase +went—she had been exactly the same to him as before. Three months +later, on the margin of Italy, among the flower-clad Alps, he had asked +her again in bald, traditional language. She reminded him of a Leonardo +more than ever; her sunburnt features were shadowed by fantastic rock; +at his words she had turned and stood between him and the light with +immeasurable plains behind her. He walked home with her unashamed, +feeling not at all like a rejected suitor. The things that really +mattered were unshaken. + +So now he had asked her once more, and, clear and gentle as ever, she +had accepted him, giving no coy reasons for her delay, but simply +saying that she loved him and would do her best to make him happy. His +mother, too, would be pleased; she had counselled the step; he must +write her a long account. + +Glancing at his hand, in case any of Freddy’s chemicals had come off on +it, he moved to the writing table. There he saw “Dear Mrs. Vyse,” +followed by many erasures. He recoiled without reading any more, and +after a little hesitation sat down elsewhere, and pencilled a note on +his knee. + +Then he lit another cigarette, which did not seem quite as divine as +the first, and considered what might be done to make Windy Corner +drawing-room more distinctive. With that outlook it should have been a +successful room, but the trail of Tottenham Court Road was upon it; he +could almost visualize the motor-vans of Messrs. Shoolbred and Messrs. +Maple arriving at the door and depositing this chair, those varnished +book-cases, that writing-table. The table recalled Mrs. Honeychurch’s +letter. He did not want to read that letter—his temptations never lay +in that direction; but he worried about it none the less. It was his +own fault that she was discussing him with his mother; he had wanted +her support in his third attempt to win Lucy; he wanted to feel that +others, no matter who they were, agreed with him, and so he had asked +their permission. Mrs. Honeychurch had been civil, but obtuse in +essentials, while as for Freddy—“He is only a boy,” he reflected. “I +represent all that he despises. Why should he want me for a +brother-in-law?” + +The Honeychurches were a worthy family, but he began to realize that +Lucy was of another clay; and perhaps—he did not put it very +definitely—he ought to introduce her into more congenial circles as +soon as possible. + +“Mr. Beebe!” said the maid, and the new rector of Summer Street was +shown in; he had at once started on friendly relations, owing to Lucy’s +praise of him in her letters from Florence. + +Cecil greeted him rather critically. + +“I’ve come for tea, Mr. Vyse. Do you suppose that I shall get it?” + +“I should say so. Food is the thing one does get here—Don’t sit in that +chair; young Honeychurch has left a bone in it.” + +“Pfui!” + +“I know,” said Cecil. “I know. I can’t think why Mrs. Honeychurch +allows it.” + +For Cecil considered the bone and the Maples’ furniture separately; he +did not realize that, taken together, they kindled the room into the +life that he desired. + +“I’ve come for tea and for gossip. Isn’t this news?” + +“News? I don’t understand you,” said Cecil. “News?” + +Mr. Beebe, whose news was of a very different nature, prattled forward. + +“I met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have every reason to hope that I +am first in the field. He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!” + +“Has he indeed?” said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a +grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a +gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But +his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert +might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder. + +“Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not +to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been +run up opposite the church! I’ll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you.” + +“I’m shockingly stupid over local affairs,” said the young man +languidly. “I can’t even remember the difference between a Parish +Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, +or perhaps those aren’t the right names. I only go into the country to +see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy +and London are the only places where I don’t feel to exist on +sufferance.” + +Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, +determined to shift the subject. + +“Let me see, Mr. Vyse—I forget—what is your profession?” + +“I have no profession,” said Cecil. “It is another example of my +decadence. My attitude—quite an indefensible one—is that so long as I +am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought +to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don’t +care a straw about, but somehow, I’ve not been able to begin.” + +“You are very fortunate,” said Mr. Beebe. “It is a wonderful +opportunity, the possession of leisure.” + +His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to +answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must +feel, that others should have it also. + +“I am glad that you approve. I daren’t face the healthy person—for +example, Freddy Honeychurch.” + +“Oh, Freddy’s a good sort, isn’t he?” + +“Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is.” + +Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so +hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively +after Mr. Beebe’s mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular +regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his +liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and +science. + +“Where are the others?” said Mr. Beebe at last, “I insist on extracting +tea before evening service.” + +“I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so +coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that +she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the +chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary—I forget the faults of +Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?” + +“I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the +stairs.” + +“The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the +suet sufficiently small.” + +They both laughed, and things began to go better. + +“The faults of Freddy—” Cecil continued. + +“Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of +Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable.” + +“She has none,” said the young man, with grave sincerity. + +“I quite agree. At present she has none.” + +“At present?” + +“I’m not cynical. I’m only thinking of my pet theory about Miss +Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so +wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be +wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, +and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, +heroically bad—too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad.” + +Cecil found his companion interesting. + +“And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?” + +“Well, I must say I’ve only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was +not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has +been away. You saw her, didn’t you, at Rome and in the Alps. Oh, I +forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she wasn’t wonderful in +Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she would be.” + +“In what way?” + +Conversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing up and +down the terrace. + +“I could as easily tell you what tune she’ll play next. There was +simply the sense that she had found wings, and meant to use them. I can +show you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss Honeychurch as a +kite, Miss Bartlett holding the string. Picture number two: the string +breaks.” + +The sketch was in his diary, but it had been made afterwards, when he +viewed things artistically. At the time he had given surreptitious tugs +to the string himself. + +“But the string never broke?” + +“No. I mightn’t have seen Miss Honeychurch rise, but I should certainly +have heard Miss Bartlett fall.” + +“It has broken now,” said the young man in low, vibrating tones. + +Immediately he realized that of all the conceited, ludicrous, +contemptible ways of announcing an engagement this was the worst. He +cursed his love of metaphor; had he suggested that he was a star and +that Lucy was soaring up to reach him? + +“Broken? What do you mean?” + +“I meant,” said Cecil stiffly, “that she is going to marry me.” + +The clergyman was conscious of some bitter disappointment which he +could not keep out of his voice. + +“I am sorry; I must apologize. I had no idea you were intimate with +her, or I should never have talked in this flippant, superficial way. +Mr. Vyse, you ought to have stopped me.” And down the garden he saw +Lucy herself; yes, he was disappointed. + +Cecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to apologies, drew down +his mouth at the corners. Was this the reception his action would get +from the world? Of course, he despised the world as a whole; every +thoughtful man should; it is almost a test of refinement. But he was +sensitive to the successive particles of it which he encountered. + +Occasionally he could be quite crude. + +“I am sorry I have given you a shock,” he said dryly. “I fear that +Lucy’s choice does not meet with your approval.” + +“Not that. But you ought to have stopped me. I know Miss Honeychurch +only a little as time goes. Perhaps I oughtn’t to have discussed her so +freely with any one; certainly not with you.” + +“You are conscious of having said something indiscreet?” + +Mr. Beebe pulled himself together. Really, Mr. Vyse had the art of +placing one in the most tiresome positions. He was driven to use the +prerogatives of his profession. + +“No, I have said nothing indiscreet. I foresaw at Florence that her +quiet, uneventful childhood must end, and it has ended. I realized +dimly enough that she might take some momentous step. She has taken it. +She has learnt—you will let me talk freely, as I have begun freely—she +has learnt what it is to love: the greatest lesson, some people will +tell you, that our earthly life provides.” It was now time for him to +wave his hat at the approaching trio. He did not omit to do so. “She +has learnt through you,” and if his voice was still clerical, it was +now also sincere; “let it be your care that her knowledge is profitable +to her.” + +“Grazie tante!” said Cecil, who did not like parsons. + +“Have you heard?” shouted Mrs. Honeychurch as she toiled up the sloping +garden. “Oh, Mr. Beebe, have you heard the news?” + +Freddy, now full of geniality, whistled the wedding march. Youth seldom +criticizes the accomplished fact. + +“Indeed I have!” he cried. He looked at Lucy. In her presence he could +not act the parson any longer—at all events not without apology. “Mrs. +Honeychurch, I’m going to do what I am always supposed to do, but +generally I’m too shy. I want to invoke every kind of blessing on them, +grave and gay, great and small. I want them all their lives to be +supremely good and supremely happy as husband and wife, as father and +mother. And now I want my tea.” + +“You only asked for it just in time,” the lady retorted. “How dare you +be serious at Windy Corner?” + +He took his tone from her. There was no more heavy beneficence, no more +attempts to dignify the situation with poetry or the Scriptures. None +of them dared or was able to be serious any more. + +An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all +who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the +solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be +critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they +were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not +only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one +great thing with another—is the power over us of a temple of some alien +creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel +sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become +true believers, in case any true believer should be present. + +So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon +they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant +tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their +hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, +putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated +them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she +gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. +Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the “Fiasco”—family +honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised +well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had +been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as +earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of +joy. + + + + +Chapter IX +Lucy As a Work of Art + + +A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made +Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood, +for naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying +a presentable man. + +Cecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was +very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his +long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated +Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased +her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy +dowagers. + +At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy’s +figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned +nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated +by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left +with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had +been. + +“Do you go to much of this sort of thing?” he asked when they were +driving home. + +“Oh, now and then,” said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself. + +“Is it typical of country society?” + +“I suppose so. Mother, would it be?” + +“Plenty of society,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember +the hang of one of the dresses. + +Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and +said: + +“To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous.” + +“I am so sorry that you were stranded.” + +“Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an +engagement is regarded as public property—a kind of waste place where +every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women +smirking!” + +“One has to go through it, I suppose. They won’t notice us so much next +time.” + +“But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An +engagement—horrid word in the first place—is a private matter, and +should be treated as such.” + +Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially +correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, +rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the +continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something +quite different—personal love. Hence Cecil’s irritation and Lucy’s +belief that his irritation was just. + +“How tiresome!” she said. “Couldn’t you have escaped to tennis?” + +“I don’t play tennis—at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is +deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is +that of the Inglese Italianato.” + +“Inglese Italianato?” + +“E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?” + +She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a +quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, +had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from +possessing. + +“Well,” said he, “I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There +are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must +accept them.” + +“We all have our limitations, I suppose,” said wise Lucy. + +“Sometimes they are forced on us, though,” said Cecil, who saw from her +remark that she did not quite understand his position. + +“How?” + +“It makes a difference doesn’t it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, +or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?” + +She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. + +“Difference?” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. “I don’t see any +difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same +place.” + +“We were speaking of motives,” said Cecil, on whom the interruption +jarred. + +“My dear Cecil, look here.” She spread out her knees and perched her +card-case on her lap. “This is me. That’s Windy Corner. The rest of the +pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence +comes here.” + +“We weren’t talking of real fences,” said Lucy, laughing. + +“Oh, I see, dear—poetry.” + +She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. + +“I tell you who has no ‘fences,’ as you call them,” she said, “and +that’s Mr. Beebe.” + +“A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless.” + +Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect +what they meant. She missed Cecil’s epigram, but grasped the feeling +that prompted it. + +“Don’t you like Mr. Beebe?” she asked thoughtfully. + +“I never said so!” he cried. “I consider him far above the average. I +only denied—” And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was +brilliant. + +“Now, a clergyman that I do hate,” said she wanting to say something +sympathetic, “a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful +ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly +insincere—not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so +conceited, and he did say such unkind things.” + +“What sort of things?” + +“There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his +wife.” + +“Perhaps he had.” + +“No!” + +“Why ‘no’?” + +“He was such a nice old man, I’m sure.” + +Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. + +“Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the +point. He prefers it vague—said the old man had ‘practically’ murdered +his wife—had murdered her in the sight of God.” + +“Hush, dear!” said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. + +“But isn’t it intolerable that a person whom we’re told to imitate +should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to +him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but +he certainly wasn’t that.” + +“Poor old man! What was his name?” + +“Harris,” said Lucy glibly. + +“Let’s hope that Mrs. Harris there warn’t no sich person,” said her +mother. + +Cecil nodded intelligently. + +“Isn’t Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?” he asked. + +“I don’t know. I hate him. I’ve heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate +him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I _hate_ him.” + +“My goodness gracious me, child!” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “You’ll blow +my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to +hate any more clergymen.” + +He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy’s +moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo +on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here +lay her vocation; that a woman’s power and charm reside in mystery, not +in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the +beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he +contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain +approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. + +Nature—simplest of topics, he thought—lay around them. He praised the +pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted +the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The +outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went +wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch’s mouth twitched when he +spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. + +“I count myself a lucky person,” he concluded, “When I’m in London I +feel I could never live out of it. When I’m in the country I feel the +same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees +and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people +who live amongst them must be the best. It’s true that in nine cases +out of ten they don’t seem to notice anything. The country gentleman +and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of +companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of +Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. +Honeychurch?” + +Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, +who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt +irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. + +Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still +looked furiously cross—the result, he concluded, of too much moral +gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an +August wood. + +“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,’” he quoted, and +touched her knee with his own. + +She flushed again and said: “What height?” + +“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, +What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). +In height and in the splendour of the hills?’ + + +Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and hate clergymen no more. +What’s this place?” + +“Summer Street, of course,” said Lucy, and roused herself. + +The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. +Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was +occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled +spire. Mr. Beebe’s house was near the church. In height it scarcely +exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were +hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the +shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly +little villas—the villas that had competed with Cecil’s engagement, +having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy +had been acquired by Cecil. + +“Cissie” was the name of one of these villas, “Albert” of the other. +These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden +gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed +the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. “Albert” +was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and +lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed +in Nottingham lace. “Cissie” was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging +to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising +fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn +was yellow with dandelions. + +“The place is ruined!” said the ladies mechanically. “Summer Street +will never be the same again.” + +As the carriage passed, “Cissie’s” door opened, and a gentleman came +out of her. + +“Stop!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. +“Here’s Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down +at once!” + +Sir Harry Otway—who need not be described—came to the carriage and said +“Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can’t, I really can’t turn out Miss +Flack.” + +“Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was +signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew’s +time?” + +“But what can I do?” He lowered his voice. “An old lady, so very +vulgar, and almost bedridden.” + +“Turn her out,” said Cecil bravely. + +Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full +warning of Mr. Flack’s intentions, and might have bought the plot +before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had +known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it +being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and +the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. +He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,—a most reasonable and +respectful man—who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic +roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, +however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches +to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked +to relieve the façade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a +column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. + +Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, “and +all the capitals different—one with dragons in the foliage, another +approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack’s +initials—every one different.” For he had read his Ruskin. He built his +villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an +immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. + +This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness +as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch’s carriage. He had failed in his duties +to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. +He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. +All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for “Cissie”—someone +really desirable. + +“The rent is absurdly low,” he told them, “and perhaps I am an easy +landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the +peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves.” + +Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or +despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the +more fruitful. + +“You ought to find a tenant at once,” he said maliciously. “It would be +a perfect paradise for a bank clerk.” + +“Exactly!” said Sir Harry excitedly. “That is exactly what I fear, Mr. +Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has +improved—a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from +a station in these days of bicycles?” + +“Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,” said Lucy. + +Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied +that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most +appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless +neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. + +“Sir Harry!” she exclaimed, “I have an idea. How would you like +spinsters?” + +“My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?” + +“Yes; I met them abroad.” + +“Gentlewomen?” he asked tentatively. + +“Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them +last week—Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I’m really not joking. +They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell +them to write to you?” + +“Indeed you may!” he cried. “Here we are with the difficulty solved +already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities—please tell them they +shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents’ fees. Oh, the +agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I +wrote—a tactful letter, you know—asking her to explain her social +position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if +one cares about that! And several references I took up were most +unsatisfactory—people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the +deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The +deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!” + +She nodded. + +“My advice,” put in Mrs. Honeychurch, “is to have nothing to do with +Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me +from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them +that make the house smell stuffy. It’s a sad thing, but I’d far rather +let to some one who is going up in the world than to someone who has +come down.” + +“I think I follow you,” said Sir Harry; “but it is, as you say, a very +sad thing.” + +“The Misses Alan aren’t that!” cried Lucy. + +“Yes, they are,” said Cecil. “I haven’t met them but I should say they +were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood.” + +“Don’t listen to him, Sir Harry—he’s tiresome.” + +“It’s I who am tiresome,” he replied. “I oughtn’t to come with my +troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway +will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no +real help.” + +“Then may I write to my Misses Alan?” + +“Please!” + +But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed: + +“Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of +canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then +the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man.” + +“Really—” he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her +remark. + +“Men don’t gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there’s an end of +them—they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they’re vulgar, +they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn’t spread so. Give me a +man—of course, provided he’s clean.” + +Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments +to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much +distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, +should descend from the carriage and inspect “Cissie” for herself. She +was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a +house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they +were on a small scale. + +Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother. + +“Mrs. Honeychurch,” he said, “what if we two walk home and leave you?” + +“Certainly!” was her cordial reply. + +Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed +at them knowingly, said, “Aha! young people, young people!” and then +hastened to unlock the house. + +“Hopeless vulgarian!” exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of +earshot. + +“Oh, Cecil!” + +“I can’t help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man.” + +“He isn’t clever, but really he is nice.” + +“No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he +would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife +would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little +god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and +every one—even your mother—is taken in.” + +“All that you say is quite true,” said Lucy, though she felt +discouraged. “I wonder whether—whether it matters so very much.” + +“It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party. +Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he’ll get some vulgar +tenant in that villa—some woman so really vulgar that he’ll notice it. +_Gentlefolks!_ Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let’s +forget him.” + +This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and +Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered +to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, +nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any +minute, “It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy”? And what would she +reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety +enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some +time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, +during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps. + +“Which way shall we go?” she asked him. + +Nature—simplest of topics, she thought—was around them. Summer Street +lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged +from the highroad. + +“Are there two ways?” + +“Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we’re got up smart.” + +“I’d rather go through the wood,” said Cecil, with that subdued +irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. “Why is it, +Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never +once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?” + +“Haven’t I? The wood, then,” said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but +pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave +her in doubt as to his meaning. + +She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did +explain before they had gone a dozen yards. + +“I had got an idea—I dare say wrongly—that you feel more at home with +me in a room.” + +“A room?” she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. + +“Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real +country like this.” + +“Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the +sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person.” + +“I don’t know that you aren’t. I connect you with a view—a certain type +of view. Why shouldn’t you connect me with a room?” + +She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing: + +“Do you know that you’re right? I do. I must be a poetess after all. +When I think of you it’s always as in a room. How funny!” + +To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. + +“A drawing-room, pray? With no view?” + +“Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?” + +“I’d rather,” he said reproachfully, “that you connected me with the +open air.” + +She said again, “Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?” + +As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too +difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every +now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of +the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy +Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy +in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to +Italy, it had lost none of its charm. + +Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines—another tiny +green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool. + +She exclaimed, “The Sacred Lake!” + +“Why do you call it that?” + +“I can’t remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It’s only a +puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal +of water comes down after heavy rains, and can’t get away at once, and +the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe +there. He is very fond of it.” + +“And you?” + +He meant, “Are you fond of it?” But she answered dreamily, “I bathed +here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row.” + +At another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths of +prudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of the fresh +air, he was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He looked at her as +she stood by the pool’s edge. She was got up smart, as she phrased it, +and she reminded him of some brilliant flower that has no leaves of its +own, but blooms abruptly out of a world of green. + +“Who found you out?” + +“Charlotte,” she murmured. “She was stopping with us. +Charlotte—Charlotte.” + +“Poor girl!” + +She smiled gravely. A certain scheme, from which hitherto he had +shrunk, now appeared practical. + +“Lucy!” + +“Yes, I suppose we ought to be going,” was her reply. + +“Lucy, I want to ask something of you that I have never asked before.” + +At the serious note in his voice she stepped frankly and kindly towards +him. + +“What, Cecil?” + +“Hitherto never—not even that day on the lawn when you agreed to marry +me—” + +He became self-conscious and kept glancing round to see if they were +observed. His courage had gone. + +“Yes?” + +“Up to now I have never kissed you.” + +She was as scarlet as if he had put the thing most indelicately. + +“No—more you have,” she stammered. + +“Then I ask you—may I now?” + +“Of course, you may, Cecil. You might before. I can’t run at you, you +know.” + +At that supreme moment he was conscious of nothing but absurdities. Her +reply was inadequate. She gave such a business-like lift to her veil. +As he approached her he found time to wish that he could recoil. As he +touched her, his gold pince-nez became dislodged and was flattened +between them. + +Such was the embrace. He considered, with truth, that it had been a +failure. Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forget +civility and consideration and all the other curses of a refined +nature. Above all, it should never ask for leave where there is a right +of way. Why could he not do as any labourer or navvy—nay, as any young +man behind the counter would have done? He recast the scene. Lucy was +standing flowerlike by the water, he rushed up and took her in his +arms; she rebuked him, permitted him and revered him ever after for his +manliness. For he believed that women revere men for their manliness. + +They left the pool in silence, after this one salutation. He waited for +her to make some remark which should show him her inmost thoughts. At +last she spoke, and with fitting gravity. + +“Emerson was the name, not Harris.” + +“What name?” + +“The old man’s.” + +“What old man?” + +“That old man I told you about. The one Mr. Eager was so unkind to.” + +He could not know that this was the most intimate conversation they had +ever had. + + + + +Chapter X +Cecil as a Humourist + + +The society out of which Cecil proposed to rescue Lucy was perhaps no +very splendid affair, yet it was more splendid than her antecedents +entitled her to. Her father, a prosperous local solicitor, had built +Windy Corner, as a speculation at the time the district was opening up, +and, falling in love with his own creation, had ended by living there +himself. Soon after his marriage the social atmosphere began to alter. +Other houses were built on the brow of that steep southern slope and +others, again, among the pine-trees behind, and northward on the chalk +barrier of the downs. Most of these houses were larger than Windy +Corner, and were filled by people who came, not from the district, but +from London, and who mistook the Honeychurches for the remnants of an +indigenous aristocracy. He was inclined to be frightened, but his wife +accepted the situation without either pride or humility. “I cannot +think what people are doing,” she would say, “but it is extremely +fortunate for the children.” She called everywhere; her calls were +returned with enthusiasm, and by the time people found out that she was +not exactly of their _milieu_, they liked her, and it did not seem to +matter. When Mr. Honeychurch died, he had the satisfaction—which few +honest solicitors despise—of leaving his family rooted in the best +society obtainable. + +The best obtainable. Certainly many of the immigrants were rather dull, +and Lucy realized this more vividly since her return from Italy. +Hitherto she had accepted their ideals without questioning—their kindly +affluence, their inexplosive religion, their dislike of paper-bags, +orange-peel, and broken bottles. A Radical out and out, she learnt to +speak with horror of Suburbia. Life, so far as she troubled to conceive +it, was a circle of rich, pleasant people, with identical interests and +identical foes. In this circle, one thought, married, and died. Outside +it were poverty and vulgarity for ever trying to enter, just as the +London fog tries to enter the pine-woods pouring through the gaps in +the northern hills. But, in Italy, where any one who chooses may warm +himself in equality, as in the sun, this conception of life vanished. +Her senses expanded; she felt that there was no one whom she might not +get to like, that social barriers were irremovable, doubtless, but not +particularly high. You jump over them just as you jump into a peasant’s +olive-yard in the Apennines, and he is glad to see you. She returned +with new eyes. + +So did Cecil; but Italy had quickened Cecil, not to tolerance, but to +irritation. He saw that the local society was narrow, but, instead of +saying, “Does that very much matter?” he rebelled, and tried to +substitute for it the society he called broad. He did not realize that +Lucy had consecrated her environment by the thousand little civilities +that create a tenderness in time, and that though her eyes saw its +defects, her heart refused to despise it entirely. Nor did he realize a +more important point—that if she was too great for this society, she +was too great for all society, and had reached the stage where personal +intercourse would alone satisfy her. A rebel she was, but not of the +kind he understood—a rebel who desired, not a wider dwelling-room, but +equality beside the man she loved. For Italy was offering her the most +priceless of all possessions—her own soul. + +Playing bumble-puppy with Minnie Beebe, niece to the rector, and aged +thirteen—an ancient and most honourable game, which consists in +striking tennis-balls high into the air, so that they fall over the net +and immoderately bounce; some hit Mrs. Honeychurch; others are lost. +The sentence is confused, but the better illustrates Lucy’s state of +mind, for she was trying to talk to Mr. Beebe at the same time. + +“Oh, it has been such a nuisance—first he, then they—no one knowing +what they wanted, and everyone so tiresome.” + +“But they really are coming now,” said Mr. Beebe. “I wrote to Miss +Teresa a few days ago—she was wondering how often the butcher called, +and my reply of once a month must have impressed her favourably. They +are coming. I heard from them this morning. + +“I shall hate those Miss Alans!” Mrs. Honeychurch cried. “Just because +they’re old and silly one’s expected to say ‘How sweet!’ I hate their +‘if’-ing and ‘but’-ing and ‘and’-ing. And poor Lucy—serve her +right—worn to a shadow.” + +Mr. Beebe watched the shadow springing and shouting over the +tennis-court. Cecil was absent—one did not play bumble-puppy when he +was there. + +“Well, if they are coming—No, Minnie, not Saturn.” Saturn was a +tennis-ball whose skin was partially unsewn. When in motion his orb was +encircled by a ring. “If they are coming, Sir Harry will let them move +in before the twenty-ninth, and he will cross out the clause about +whitewashing the ceilings, because it made them nervous, and put in the +fair wear and tear one.—That doesn’t count. I told you not Saturn.” + +“Saturn’s all right for bumble-puppy,” cried Freddy, joining them. +“Minnie, don’t you listen to her.” + +“Saturn doesn’t bounce.” + +“Saturn bounces enough.” + +“No, he doesn’t.” + +“Well; he bounces better than the Beautiful White Devil.” + +“Hush, dear,” said Mrs. Honeychurch. + +“But look at Lucy—complaining of Saturn, and all the time’s got the +Beautiful White Devil in her hand, ready to plug it in. That’s right, +Minnie, go for her—get her over the shins with the racquet—get her over +the shins!” + +Lucy fell, the Beautiful White Devil rolled from her hand. + +Mr. Beebe picked it up, and said: “The name of this ball is Vittoria +Corombona, please.” But his correction passed unheeded. + +Freddy possessed to a high degree the power of lashing little girls to +fury, and in half a minute he had transformed Minnie from a +well-mannered child into a howling wilderness. Up in the house Cecil +heard them, and, though he was full of entertaining news, he did not +come down to impart it, in case he got hurt. He was not a coward and +bore necessary pain as well as any man. But he hated the physical +violence of the young. How right it was! Sure enough it ended in a cry. + +“I wish the Miss Alans could see this,” observed Mr. Beebe, just as +Lucy, who was nursing the injured Minnie, was in turn lifted off her +feet by her brother. + +“Who are the Miss Alans?” Freddy panted. + +“They have taken Cissie Villa.” + +“That wasn’t the name—” + +Here his foot slipped, and they all fell most agreeably on to the +grass. An interval elapses. + +“Wasn’t what name?” asked Lucy, with her brother’s head in her lap. + +“Alan wasn’t the name of the people Sir Harry’s let to.” + +“Nonsense, Freddy! You know nothing about it.” + +“Nonsense yourself! I’ve this minute seen him. He said to me: ‘Ahem! +Honeychurch,’”—Freddy was an indifferent mimic—“‘ahem! ahem! I have at +last procured really dee-sire-rebel tenants.’ I said, ‘ooray, old boy!’ +and slapped him on the back.” + +“Exactly. The Miss Alans?” + +“Rather not. More like Anderson.” + +“Oh, good gracious, there isn’t going to be another muddle!” Mrs. +Honeychurch exclaimed. “Do you notice, Lucy, I’m always right? I _said_ +don’t interfere with Cissie Villa. I’m always right. I’m quite uneasy +at being always right so often.” + +“It’s only another muddle of Freddy’s. Freddy doesn’t even know the +name of the people he pretends have taken it instead.” + +“Yes, I do. I’ve got it. Emerson.” + +“What name?” + +“Emerson. I’ll bet you anything you like.” + +“What a weathercock Sir Harry is,” said Lucy quietly. “I wish I had +never bothered over it at all.” + +Then she lay on her back and gazed at the cloudless sky. Mr. Beebe, +whose opinion of her rose daily, whispered to his niece that _that_ was +the proper way to behave if any little thing went wrong. + +Meanwhile the name of the new tenants had diverted Mrs. Honeychurch +from the contemplation of her own abilities. + +“Emerson, Freddy? Do you know what Emersons they are?” + +“I don’t know whether they’re any Emersons,” retorted Freddy, who was +democratic. Like his sister and like most young people, he was +naturally attracted by the idea of equality, and the undeniable fact +that there are different kinds of Emersons annoyed him beyond measure. + +“I trust they are the right sort of person. All right, Lucy”—she was +sitting up again—“I see you looking down your nose and thinking your +mother’s a snob. But there is a right sort and a wrong sort, and it’s +affectation to pretend there isn’t.” + +“Emerson’s a common enough name,” Lucy remarked. + +She was gazing sideways. Seated on a promontory herself, she could see +the pine-clad promontories descending one beyond another into the +Weald. The further one descended the garden, the more glorious was this +lateral view. + +“I was merely going to remark, Freddy, that I trusted they were no +relations of Emerson the philosopher, a most trying man. Pray, does +that satisfy you?” + +“Oh, yes,” he grumbled. “And you will be satisfied, too, for they’re +friends of Cecil; so”—elaborate irony—“you and the other country +families will be able to call in perfect safety.” + +“_Cecil?_” exclaimed Lucy. + +“Don’t be rude, dear,” said his mother placidly. “Lucy, don’t screech. +It’s a new bad habit you’re getting into.” + +“But has Cecil—” + +“Friends of Cecil’s,” he repeated, “‘and so really dee-sire-rebel. +Ahem! Honeychurch, I have just telegraphed to them.’” + +She got up from the grass. + +It was hard on Lucy. Mr. Beebe sympathized with her very much. While +she believed that her snub about the Miss Alans came from Sir Harry +Otway, she had borne it like a good girl. She might well “screech” when +she heard that it came partly from her lover. Mr. Vyse was a +tease—something worse than a tease: he took a malicious pleasure in +thwarting people. The clergyman, knowing this, looked at Miss +Honeychurch with more than his usual kindness. + +When she exclaimed, “But Cecil’s Emersons—they can’t possibly be the +same ones—there is that—” he did not consider that the exclamation was +strange, but saw in it an opportunity of diverting the conversation +while she recovered her composure. He diverted it as follows: + +“The Emersons who were at Florence, do you mean? No, I don’t suppose it +will prove to be them. It is probably a long cry from them to friends +of Mr. Vyse’s. Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, the oddest people! The queerest +people! For our part we liked them, didn’t we?” He appealed to Lucy. +“There was a great scene over some violets. They picked violets and +filled all the vases in the room of these very Miss Alans who have +failed to come to Cissie Villa. Poor little ladies! So shocked and so +pleased. It used to be one of Miss Catharine’s great stories. ‘My dear +sister loves flowers,’ it began. They found the whole room a mass of +blue—vases and jugs—and the story ends with ‘So ungentlemanly and yet +so beautiful.’ It is all very difficult. Yes, I always connect those +Florentine Emersons with violets.” + +“Fiasco’s done you this time,” remarked Freddy, not seeing that his +sister’s face was very red. She could not recover herself. Mr. Beebe +saw it, and continued to divert the conversation. + +“These particular Emersons consisted of a father and a son—the son a +goodly, if not a good young man; not a fool, I fancy, but very +immature—pessimism, et cetera. Our special joy was the father—such a +sentimental darling, and people declared he had murdered his wife.” + +In his normal state Mr. Beebe would never have repeated such gossip, +but he was trying to shelter Lucy in her little trouble. He repeated +any rubbish that came into his head. + +“Murdered his wife?” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “Lucy, don’t desert us—go +on playing bumble-puppy. Really, the Pension Bertolini must have been +the oddest place. That’s the second murderer I’ve heard of as being +there. Whatever was Charlotte doing to stop? By-the-by, we really must +ask Charlotte here some time.” + +Mr. Beebe could recall no second murderer. He suggested that his +hostess was mistaken. At the hint of opposition she warmed. She was +perfectly sure that there had been a second tourist of whom the same +story had been told. The name escaped her. What was the name? Oh, what +was the name? She clasped her knees for the name. Something in +Thackeray. She struck her matronly forehead. + +Lucy asked her brother whether Cecil was in. + +“Oh, don’t go!” he cried, and tried to catch her by the ankles. + +“I must go,” she said gravely. “Don’t be silly. You always overdo it +when you play.” + +As she left them her mother’s shout of “Harris!” shivered the tranquil +air, and reminded her that she had told a lie and had never put it +right. Such a senseless lie, too, yet it shattered her nerves and made +her connect these Emersons, friends of Cecil’s, with a pair of +nondescript tourists. Hitherto truth had come to her naturally. She saw +that for the future she must be more vigilant, and be—absolutely +truthful? Well, at all events, she must not tell lies. She hurried up +the garden, still flushed with shame. A word from Cecil would soothe +her, she was sure. + +“Cecil!” + +“Hullo!” he called, and leant out of the smoking-room window. He seemed +in high spirits. “I was hoping you’d come. I heard you all +bear-gardening, but there’s better fun up here. I, even I, have won a +great victory for the Comic Muse. George Meredith’s right—the cause of +Comedy and the cause of Truth are really the same; and I, even I, have +found tenants for the distressful Cissie Villa. Don’t be angry! Don’t +be angry! You’ll forgive me when you hear it all.” + +He looked very attractive when his face was bright, and he dispelled +her ridiculous forebodings at once. + +“I have heard,” she said. “Freddy has told us. Naughty Cecil! I suppose +I must forgive you. Just think of all the trouble I took for nothing! +Certainly the Miss Alans are a little tiresome, and I’d rather have +nice friends of yours. But you oughtn’t to tease one so.” + +“Friends of mine?” he laughed. “But, Lucy, the whole joke is to come! +Come here.” But she remained standing where she was. “Do you know where +I met these desirable tenants? In the National Gallery, when I was up +to see my mother last week.” + +“What an odd place to meet people!” she said nervously. “I don’t quite +understand.” + +“In the Umbrian Room. Absolute strangers. They were admiring Luca +Signorelli—of course, quite stupidly. However, we got talking, and they +refreshed me not a little. They had been to Italy.” + +“But, Cecil—” proceeded hilariously. + +“In the course of conversation they said that they wanted a country +cottage—the father to live there, the son to run down for week-ends. I +thought, ‘What a chance of scoring off Sir Harry!’ and I took their +address and a London reference, found they weren’t actual +blackguards—it was great sport—and wrote to him, making out—” + +“Cecil! No, it’s not fair. I’ve probably met them before—” + +He bore her down. + +“Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes a snob. That old man +will do the neighbourhood a world of good. Sir Harry is too disgusting +with his ‘decayed gentlewomen.’ I meant to read him a lesson some time. +No, Lucy, the classes ought to mix, and before long you’ll agree with +me. There ought to be intermarriage—all sorts of things. I believe in +democracy—” + +“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You don’t know what the word means.” + +He stared at her, and felt again that she had failed to be +Leonardesque. “No, you don’t!” + +Her face was inartistic—that of a peevish virago. + +“It isn’t fair, Cecil. I blame you—I blame you very much indeed. You +had no business to undo my work about the Miss Alans, and make me look +ridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but do you realize that +it is all at my expense? I consider it most disloyal of you.” + +She left him. + +“Temper!” he thought, raising his eyebrows. + +No, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought that +his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not +minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value +educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who +was silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would +bring them to Windy Corner. + + + + +Chapter XI +In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat + + +The Comic Muse, though able to look after her own interests, did not +disdain the assistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bringing the Emersons +to Windy Corner struck her as decidedly good, and she carried through +the negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway signed the agreement, +met Mr. Emerson, who was duly disillusioned. The Miss Alans were duly +offended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom they held +responsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe planned pleasant moments for the +new-comers, and told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on them as +soon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample was the Muse’s equipment that +she permitted Mr. Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop his +head, to be forgotten, and to die. + +Lucy—to descend from bright heaven to earth, whereon there are shadows +because there are hills—Lucy was at first plunged into despair, but +settled after a little thought that it did not matter the very least. +Now that she was engaged, the Emersons would scarcely insult her and +were welcome into the neighbourhood. And Cecil was welcome to bring +whom he would into the neighbourhood. Therefore Cecil was welcome to +bring the Emersons into the neighbourhood. But, as I say, this took a +little thinking, and—so illogical are girls—the event remained rather +greater and rather more dreadful than it should have done. She was glad +that a visit to Mrs. Vyse now fell due; the tenants moved into Cissie +Villa while she was safe in the London flat. + +“Cecil—Cecil darling,” she whispered the evening she arrived, and crept +into his arms. + +Cecil, too, became demonstrative. He saw that the needful fire had been +kindled in Lucy. At last she longed for attention, as a woman should, +and looked up to him because he was a man. + +“So you do love me, little thing?” he murmured. + +“Oh, Cecil, I do, I do! I don’t know what I should do without you.” + +Several days passed. Then she had a letter from Miss Bartlett. A +coolness had sprung up between the two cousins, and they had not +corresponded since they parted in August. The coolness dated from what +Charlotte would call “the flight to Rome,” and in Rome it had increased +amazingly. For the companion who is merely uncongenial in the mediaeval +world becomes exasperating in the classical. Charlotte, unselfish in +the Forum, would have tried a sweeter temper than Lucy’s, and once, in +the Baths of Caracalla, they had doubted whether they could continue +their tour. Lucy had said she would join the Vyses—Mrs. Vyse was an +acquaintance of her mother, so there was no impropriety in the plan and +Miss Bartlett had replied that she was quite used to being abandoned +suddenly. Finally nothing happened; but the coolness remained, and, for +Lucy, was even increased when she opened the letter and read as +follows. It had been forwarded from Windy Corner. + +“TUNBRIDGE WELLS, +“_September_. + + +“DEAREST LUCIA, + + +“I have news of you at last! Miss Lavish has been bicycling in your +parts, but was not sure whether a call would be welcome. Puncturing her +tire near Summer Street, and it being mended while she sat very +woebegone in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her astonishment, a +door open opposite and the younger Emerson man come out. He said his +father had just taken the house. He _said_ he did not know that you +lived in the neighbourhood (?). He never suggested giving Eleanor a cup +of tea. Dear Lucy, I am much worried, and I advise you to make a clean +breast of his past behaviour to your mother, Freddy, and Mr. Vyse, who +will forbid him to enter the house, etc. That was a great misfortune, +and I dare say you have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I +remember how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry about +it all, and should not feel easy unless I warned you. + + +“Believe me, +“Your anxious and loving cousin, +“CHARLOTTE.” + + +Lucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows: + +“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, S.W. + + + + +“DEAR CHARLOTTE, + +“Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. Emerson forgot himself on the +mountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you said she +would blame you for not being always with me. I have kept that promise, +and cannot possibly tell her now. I have said both to her and Cecil +that I met the Emersons at Florence, and that they are respectable +people—which I _do_ think—and the reason that he offered Miss Lavish no +tea was probably that he had none himself. She should have tried at the +Rectory. I cannot begin making a fuss at this stage. You must see that +it would be too absurd. If the Emersons heard I had complained of them, +they would think themselves of importance, which is exactly what they +are not. I like the old father, and look forward to seeing him again. +As for the son, I am sorry for _him_ when we meet, rather than for +myself. They are known to Cecil, who is very well and spoke of you the +other day. We expect to be married in January. + +“Miss Lavish cannot have told you much about me, for I am not at Windy +Corner at all, but here. Please do not put ‘Private’ outside your +envelope again. No one opens my letters. + + +“Yours affectionately, +“L. M. HONEYCHURCH.” + + +Secrecy has this disadvantage: we lose the sense of proportion; we +cannot tell whether our secret is important or not. Were Lucy and her +cousin closeted with a great thing which would destroy Cecil’s life if +he discovered it, or with a little thing which he would laugh at? Miss +Bartlett suggested the former. Perhaps she was right. It had become a +great thing now. Left to herself, Lucy would have told her mother and +her lover ingenuously, and it would have remained a little thing. +“Emerson, not Harris”; it was only that a few weeks ago. She tried to +tell Cecil even now when they were laughing about some beautiful lady +who had smitten his heart at school. But her body behaved so +ridiculously that she stopped. + +She and her secret stayed ten days longer in the deserted Metropolis +visiting the scenes they were to know so well later on. It did her no +harm, Cecil thought, to learn the framework of society, while society +itself was absent on the golf-links or the moors. The weather was cool, +and it did her no harm. In spite of the season, Mrs. Vyse managed to +scrape together a dinner-party consisting entirely of the grandchildren +of famous people. The food was poor, but the talk had a witty weariness +that impressed the girl. One was tired of everything, it seemed. One +launched into enthusiasms only to collapse gracefully, and pick oneself +up amid sympathetic laughter. In this atmosphere the Pension Bertolini +and Windy Corner appeared equally crude, and Lucy saw that her London +career would estrange her a little from all that she had loved in the +past. + +The grandchildren asked her to play the piano. + +She played Schumann. “Now some Beethoven” called Cecil, when the +querulous beauty of the music had died. She shook her head and played +Schumann again. The melody rose, unprofitably magical. It broke; it was +resumed broken, not marching once from the cradle to the grave. The +sadness of the incomplete—the sadness that is often Life, but should +never be Art—throbbed in its disjected phrases, and made the nerves of +the audience throb. Not thus had she played on the little draped piano +at the Bertolini, and “Too much Schumann” was not the remark that Mr. +Beebe had passed to himself when she returned. + +When the guests were gone, and Lucy had gone to bed, Mrs. Vyse paced up +and down the drawing-room, discussing her little party with her son. +Mrs. Vyse was a nice woman, but her personality, like many another’s, +had been swamped by London, for it needs a strong head to live among +many people. The too vast orb of her fate had crushed her; and she had +seen too many seasons, too many cities, too many men, for her +abilities, and even with Cecil she was mechanical, and behaved as if he +was not one son, but, so to speak, a filial crowd. + +“Make Lucy one of us,” she said, looking round intelligently at the end +of each sentence, and straining her lips apart until she spoke again. +“Lucy is becoming wonderful—wonderful.” + +“Her music always was wonderful.” + +“Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurch taint, most excellent +Honeychurches, but you know what I mean. She is not always quoting +servants, or asking one how the pudding is made.” + +“Italy has done it.” + +“Perhaps,” she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented Italy +to her. “It is just possible. Cecil, mind you marry her next January. +She is one of us already.” + +“But her music!” he exclaimed. “The style of her! How she kept to +Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right +for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall +have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest +country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and +then—not till then—let them come to London. I don’t believe in these +London educations—” He broke off, remembering that he had had one +himself, and concluded, “At all events, not for women.” + +“Make her one of us,” repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed. + +As she was dozing off, a cry—the cry of nightmare—rang from Lucy’s +room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought +it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand +on her cheek. + +“I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse—it is these dreams.” + +“Bad dreams?” + +“Just dreams.” + +The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: “You +should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than +ever. Dream of that.” + +Lucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs. +Vyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored. +Darkness enveloped the flat. + + + + +Chapter XII +Twelfth Chapter + + +It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains, +and the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn. +All that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer +Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon +dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or +of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life’s amenities, leant over +his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe. + +“Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little.” + +“M’m.” + +“They might amuse you.” + +Freddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new +people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just +moved in. + +“I suggested we should hinder them,” said Mr. Beebe. “They are worth +it.” Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to +Cissie Villa. “Hullo!” he cried, shouting in at the open door, through +which much squalor was visible. + +A grave voice replied, “Hullo!” + +“I’ve brought someone to see you.” + +“I’ll be down in a minute.” + +The passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed +to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The +sitting-room itself was blocked with books. + +“Are these people great readers?” Freddy whispered. “Are they that +sort?” + +“I fancy they know how to read—a rare accomplishment. What have they +got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of +All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German. +Um—um—Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your +generation knows its own business, Honeychurch.” + +“Mr. Beebe, look at that,” said Freddy in awestruck tones. + +On the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this +inscription: “Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes.” + +“I know. Isn’t it jolly? I like that. I’m certain that’s the old man’s +doing.” + +“How very odd of him!” + +“Surely you agree?” + +But Freddy was his mother’s son and felt that one ought not to go on +spoiling the furniture. + +“Pictures!” the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room. +“Giotto—they got that at Florence, I’ll be bound.” + +“The same as Lucy’s got.” + +“Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?” + +“She came back yesterday.” + +“I suppose she had a good time?” + +“Yes, very,” said Freddy, taking up a book. “She and Cecil are thicker +than ever.” + +“That’s good hearing.” + +“I wish I wasn’t such a fool, Mr. Beebe.” + +Mr. Beebe ignored the remark. + +“Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it’ll be very different +now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books.” + +“So will you.” + +“Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards. +Cecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful. +There are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil +says—” + +“What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson—we think we’ll +come another time.” + +George ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking. + +“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour.” + +Then Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was +shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George’s face +wanted washing. At all events he greeted him with, “How d’ye do? Come +and have a bathe.” + +“Oh, all right,” said George, impassive. + +Mr. Beebe was highly entertained. + +“‘How d’ye do? how d’ye do? Come and have a bathe,’” he chuckled. +“That’s the best conversational opening I’ve ever heard. But I’m afraid +it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has been +introduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with ‘How +do you do? Come and have a bathe’? And yet you will tell me that the +sexes are equal.” + +“I tell you that they shall be,” said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly +descending the stairs. “Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they +shall be comrades, and George thinks the same.” + +“We are to raise ladies to our level?” the clergyman inquired. + +“The Garden of Eden,” pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, “which you +place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no +longer despise our bodies.” + +Mr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere. + +“In this—not in other things—we men are ahead. We despise the body less +than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the +garden.” + +“I say, what about this bathe?” murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass +of philosophy that was approaching him. + +“I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature +when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must +discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is +our heritage.” + +“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at +Florence.” + +“How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George +for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry. +Marriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr. +Vyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National +Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I +hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal +landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game +laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to +bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!” + +“Not a bit!” mumbled Freddy. “I must—that is to say, I have to—have the +pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope.” + +“_Call_, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your +grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious +country.” + +Mr. Beebe came to the rescue. + +“Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return +our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized +about the ten days’ interval. It does not count that I helped you with +the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to +bathe this afternoon.” + +“Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back +to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you +good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can’t believe +he’s well.” + +George bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of +one who has handled furniture. + +“Do you really want this bathe?” Freddy asked him. “It is only a pond, +don’t you know. I dare say you are used to something better.” + +“Yes—I have said ‘Yes’ already.” + +Mr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of +the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little +time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes +and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing +the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who +could not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition +looked like a failure, and neither of his companions would utter a +word. He spoke of Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or +dissenting with slight but determined gestures that were as +inexplicable as the motions of the tree-tops above their heads. + +“And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realize +that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?” + +“I did not. Miss Lavish told me.” + +“When I was a young man, I always meant to write a ‘History of +Coincidence.’” + +No enthusiasm. + +“Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we +suppose. For example, it isn’t purely coincidentally that you are here +now, when one comes to reflect.” + +To his relief, George began to talk. + +“It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung +together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate—flung together, drawn apart. The +twelve winds blow us—we settle nothing—” + +“You have not reflected at all,” rapped the clergyman. “Let me give you +a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don’t say, ‘I didn’t +do this,’ for you did it, ten to one. Now I’ll cross-question you. +Where did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?” + +“Italy.” + +“And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss +Honeychurch?” + +“National Gallery.” + +“Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence +and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our +friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it.” + +“It is Fate that I am here,” persisted George. “But you can call it +Italy if it makes you less unhappy.” + +Mr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he +was infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George. + +“And so for this and for other reasons my ‘History of Coincidence’ is +still to write.” + +Silence. + +Wishing to round off the episode, he added; “We are all so glad that +you have come.” + +Silence. + +“Here we are!” called Freddy. + +“Oh, good!” exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow. + +“In there’s the pond. I wish it was bigger,” he added apologetically. + +They climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond, +set in its little alp of green—only a pond, but large enough to contain +the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the +rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like +a beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool. + +“It’s distinctly successful, as ponds go,” said Mr. Beebe. “No +apologies are necessary for the pond.” + +George sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his +boots. + +“Aren’t those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in +seed. What’s the name of this aromatic plant?” + +No one knew, or seemed to care. + +“These abrupt changes of vegetation—this little spongeous tract of +water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or +brittle—heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming.” + +“Mr. Beebe, aren’t you bathing?” called Freddy, as he stripped himself. + +Mr. Beebe thought he was not. + +“Water’s wonderful!” cried Freddy, prancing in. + +“Water’s water,” murmured George. Wetting his hair first—a sure sign of +apathy—he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were +a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his +muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and +watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their +heads. + +“Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,” went Freddy, swimming for two strokes +in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud. + +“Is it worth it?” asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded +margin. + +The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed +the question properly. + +“Hee-poof—I’ve swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water’s wonderful, +water’s simply ripping.” + +“Water’s not so bad,” said George, reappearing from his plunge, and +sputtering at the sun. + +“Water’s wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do.” + +“Apooshoo, kouf.” + +Mr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible, +looked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the +pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other +against the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and +rural Deans receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind—these +things not even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the +intrusion of man? + +“I may as well wash too”; and soon his garments made a third little +pile on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water. + +It was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as Freddy +said, it reminded one of swimming in a salad. The three gentlemen +rotated in the pool breast high, after the fashion of the nymphs in +Götterdämmerung. But either because the rains had given a freshness or +because the sun was shedding a most glorious heat, or because two of +the gentlemen were young in years and the third young in spirit—for +some reason or other a change came over them, and they forgot Italy and +Botany and Fate. They began to play. Mr. Beebe and Freddy splashed each +other. A little deferentially, they splashed George. He was quiet: they +feared they had offended him. Then all the forces of youth burst out. +He smiled, flung himself at them, splashed them, ducked them, kicked +them, muddied them, and drove them out of the pool. + +“Race you round it, then,” cried Freddy, and they raced in the +sunshine, and George took a short cut and dirtied his shins, and had to +bathe a second time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run—a memorable sight. + +They ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, they played at being +Indians in the willow-herbs and in the bracken, they bathed to get +clean. And all the time three little bundles lay discreetly on the +sward, proclaiming: + +“No. We are what matters. Without us shall no enterprise begin. To us +shall all flesh turn in the end.” + +“A try! A try!” yelled Freddy, snatching up George’s bundle and placing +it beside an imaginary goal-post. + +“Socker rules,” George retorted, scattering Freddy’s bundle with a +kick. + +“Goal!” + +“Goal!” + +“Pass!” + +“Take care my watch!” cried Mr. Beebe. + +Clothes flew in all directions. + +“Take care my hat! No, that’s enough, Freddy. Dress now. No, I say!” + +But the two young men were delirious. Away they twinkled into the +trees, Freddy with a clerical waistcoat under his arm, George with a +wide-awake hat on his dripping hair. + +“That’ll do!” shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering that after all he was in +his own parish. Then his voice changed as if every pine-tree was a +Rural Dean. “Hi! Steady on! I see people coming you fellows!” + +Yells, and widening circles over the dappled earth. + +“Hi! hi! _Ladies!_” + +Neither George nor Freddy was truly refined. Still, they did not hear +Mr. Beebe’s last warning or they would have avoided Mrs. Honeychurch, +Cecil, and Lucy, who were walking down to call on old Mrs. Butterworth. +Freddy dropped the waistcoat at their feet, and dashed into some +bracken. George whooped in their faces, turned and scudded away down +the path to the pond, still clad in Mr. Beebe’s hat. + +“Gracious alive!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch. “Whoever were those +unfortunate people? Oh, dears, look away! And poor Mr. Beebe, too! +Whatever has happened?” + +“Come this way immediately,” commanded Cecil, who always felt that he +must lead women, though he knew not whither, and protect them, though +he knew not against what. He led them now towards the bracken where +Freddy sat concealed. + +“Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! Was that his waistcoat we left in the path? Cecil, +Mr. Beebe’s waistcoat—” + +No business of ours, said Cecil, glancing at Lucy, who was all parasol +and evidently “minded.” + +“I fancy Mr. Beebe jumped back into the pond.” + +“This way, please, Mrs. Honeychurch, this way.” + +They followed him up the bank attempting the tense yet nonchalant +expression that is suitable for ladies on such occasions. + +“Well, _I_ can’t help it,” said a voice close ahead, and Freddy reared +a freckled face and a pair of snowy shoulders out of the fronds. “I +can’t be trodden on, can I?” + +“Good gracious me, dear; so it’s you! What miserable management! Why +not have a comfortable bath at home, with hot and cold laid on?” + +“Look here, mother, a fellow must wash, and a fellow’s got to dry, and +if another fellow—” + +“Dear, no doubt you’re right as usual, but you are in no position to +argue. Come, Lucy.” They turned. “Oh, look—don’t look! Oh, poor Mr. +Beebe! How unfortunate again—” + +For Mr. Beebe was just crawling out of the pond, on whose surface +garments of an intimate nature did float; while George, the world-weary +George, shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish. + +“And me, I’ve swallowed one,” answered he of the bracken. “I’ve +swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die—Emerson you +beast, you’ve got on my bags.” + +“Hush, dears,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remain +shocked. “And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All these +colds come of not drying thoroughly.” + +“Mother, do come away,” said Lucy. “Oh for goodness’ sake, do come.” + +“Hullo!” cried George, so that again the ladies stopped. + +He regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and +personable against the shadowy woods, he called: + +“Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!” + +“Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow.” + +Miss Honeychurch bowed. + +That evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the +pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call +to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose +influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for +youth. + + + + +Chapter XIII +How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome + + +How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she had +always rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories, which +surely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that she and +George would meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army of +coats and collars and boots that lay wounded over the sunlit earth? She +had imagined a young Mr. Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or +indifferent or furtively impudent. She was prepared for all of these. +But she had never imagined one who would be happy and greet her with +the shout of the morning star. + +Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she +reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degree +of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the +scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to the +stage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too +much. “I will bow,” she had thought. “I will not shake hands with him. +That will be just the proper thing.” She had bowed—but to whom? To +gods, to heroes, to the nonsense of school-girls! She had bowed across +the rubbish that cumbers the world. + +So ran her thoughts, while her faculties were busy with Cecil. It was +another of those dreadful engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth had wanted +to see him, and he did not want to be seen. He did not want to hear +about hydrangeas, why they change their colour at the seaside. He did +not want to join the C. O. S. When cross he was always elaborate, and +made long, clever answers where “Yes” or “No” would have done. Lucy +soothed him and tinkered at the conversation in a way that promised +well for their married peace. No one is perfect, and surely it is wiser +to discover the imperfections before wedlock. Miss Bartlett, indeed, +though not in word, had taught the girl that this our life contains +nothing satisfactory. Lucy, though she disliked the teacher, regarded +the teaching as profound, and applied it to her lover. + +“Lucy,” said her mother, when they got home, “is anything the matter +with Cecil?” + +The question was ominous; up till now Mrs. Honeychurch had behaved with +charity and restraint. + +“No, I don’t think so, mother; Cecil’s all right.” + +“Perhaps he’s tired.” + +Lucy compromised: perhaps Cecil was a little tired. + +“Because otherwise”—she pulled out her bonnet-pins with gathering +displeasure—“because otherwise I cannot account for him.” + +“I do think Mrs. Butterworth is rather tiresome, if you mean that.” + +“Cecil has told you to think so. You were devoted to her as a little +girl, and nothing will describe her goodness to you through the typhoid +fever. No—it is just the same thing everywhere.” + +“Let me just put your bonnet away, may I?” + +“Surely he could answer her civilly for one half-hour?” + +“Cecil has a very high standard for people,” faltered Lucy, seeing +trouble ahead. “It’s part of his ideals—it is really that that makes +him sometimes seem—” + +“Oh, rubbish! If high ideals make a young man rude, the sooner he gets +rid of them the better,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, handing her the bonnet. + +“Now, mother! I’ve seen you cross with Mrs. Butterworth yourself!” + +“Not in that way. At times I could wring her neck. But not in that way. +No. It is the same with Cecil all over.” + +“By-the-by—I never told you. I had a letter from Charlotte while I was +away in London.” + +This attempt to divert the conversation was too puerile, and Mrs. +Honeychurch resented it. + +“Since Cecil came back from London, nothing appears to please him. +Whenever I speak he winces;—I see him, Lucy; it is useless to +contradict me. No doubt I am neither artistic nor literary nor +intellectual nor musical, but I cannot help the drawing-room furniture; +your father bought it and we must put up with it, will Cecil kindly +remember.” + +“I—I see what you mean, and certainly Cecil oughtn’t to. But he does +not mean to be uncivil—he once explained—it is the _things_ that upset +him—he is easily upset by ugly things—he is not uncivil to _people_.” + +“Is it a thing or a person when Freddy sings?” + +“You can’t expect a really musical person to enjoy comic songs as we +do.” + +“Then why didn’t he leave the room? Why sit wriggling and sneering and +spoiling everyone’s pleasure?” + +“We mustn’t be unjust to people,” faltered Lucy. Something had +enfeebled her, and the case for Cecil, which she had mastered so +perfectly in London, would not come forth in an effective form. The two +civilizations had clashed—Cecil hinted that they might—and she was +dazzled and bewildered, as though the radiance that lies behind all +civilization had blinded her eyes. Good taste and bad taste were only +catchwords, garments of diverse cut; and music itself dissolved to a +whisper through pine-trees, where the song is not distinguishable from +the comic song. + +She remained in much embarrassment, while Mrs. Honeychurch changed her +frock for dinner; and every now and then she said a word, and made +things no better. There was no concealing the fact, Cecil had meant to +be supercilious, and he had succeeded. And Lucy—she knew not why—wished +that the trouble could have come at any other time. + +“Go and dress, dear; you’ll be late.” + +“All right, mother—” + +“Don’t say ‘All right’ and stop. Go.” + +She obeyed, but loitered disconsolately at the landing window. It faced +north, so there was little view, and no view of the sky. Now, as in the +winter, the pine-trees hung close to her eyes. One connected the +landing window with depression. No definite problem menaced her, but +she sighed to herself, “Oh, dear, what shall I do, what shall I do?” It +seemed to her that everyone else was behaving very badly. And she ought +not to have mentioned Miss Bartlett’s letter. She must be more careful; +her mother was rather inquisitive, and might have asked what it was +about. Oh, dear, what should she do?—and then Freddy came bounding +upstairs, and joined the ranks of the ill-behaved. + +“I say, those are topping people.” + +“My dear baby, how tiresome you’ve been! You have no business to take +them bathing in the Sacred Lake; it’s much too public. It was all right +for you but most awkward for everyone else. Do be more careful. You +forget the place is growing half suburban.” + +“I say, is anything on to-morrow week?” + +“Not that I know of.” + +“Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday tennis.” + +“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Freddy, I wouldn’t do that with all this +muddle.” + +“What’s wrong with the court? They won’t mind a bump or two, and I’ve +ordered new balls.” + +“I meant _it’s_ better not. I really mean it.” + +He seized her by the elbows and humorously danced her up and down the +passage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed with +temper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and they +impeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurch +opened her door and said: “Lucy, what a noise you’re making! I have +something to say to you. Did you say you had had a letter from +Charlotte?” and Freddy ran away. + +“Yes. I really can’t stop. I must dress too.” + +“How’s Charlotte?” + +“All right.” + +“Lucy!” + +The unfortunate girl returned. + +“You’ve a bad habit of hurrying away in the middle of one’s sentences. +Did Charlotte mention her boiler?” + +“Her _what?_” + +“Don’t you remember that her boiler was to be had out in October, and +her bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?” + +“I can’t remember all Charlotte’s worries,” said Lucy bitterly. “I +shall have enough of my own, now that you are not pleased with Cecil.” + +Mrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She did not. She said: “Come +here, old lady—thank you for putting away my bonnet—kiss me.” And, +though nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment that her mother and +Windy Corner and the Weald in the declining sun were perfect. + +So the grittiness went out of life. It generally did at Windy Corner. +At the last minute, when the social machine was clogged hopelessly, one +member or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. Cecil despised +their methods—perhaps rightly. At all events, they were not his own. + +Dinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they drew +up their heavy chairs and fell to. Fortunately, the men were hungry. +Nothing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then Freddy said: + +“Lucy, what’s Emerson like?” + +“I saw him in Florence,” said Lucy, hoping that this would pass for a +reply. + +“Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?” + +“Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here.” + +“He is the clever sort, like myself,” said Cecil. + +Freddy looked at him doubtfully. + +“How well did you know them at the Bertolini?” asked Mrs. Honeychurch. + +“Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did.” + +“Oh, that reminds me—you never told me what Charlotte said in her +letter.” + +“One thing and another,” said Lucy, wondering whether she would get +through the meal without a lie. “Among other things, that an awful +friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if +she’d come up and see us, and mercifully didn’t.” + +“Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind.” + +“She was a novelist,” said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one, +for nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands +of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those +women who (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek +notoriety by print. Her attitude was: “If books must be written, let +them be written by men”; and she developed it at great length, while +Cecil yawned and Freddy played at “This year, next year, now, never,” +with his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother’s +wrath. But soon the conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to +gather in the darkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original +ghost—that touch of lips on her cheek—had surely been laid long ago; it +could be nothing to her that a man had kissed her on a mountain once. +But it had begotten a spectral family—Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett’s +letter, Mr. Beebe’s memories of violets—and one or other of these was +bound to haunt her before Cecil’s very eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who +returned now, and with appalling vividness. + +“I have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of Charlotte’s. How is +she?” + +“I tore the thing up.” + +“Didn’t she say how she was? How does she sound? Cheerful?” + +“Oh, yes I suppose so—no—not very cheerful, I suppose.” + +“Then, depend upon it, it _is_ the boiler. I know myself how water +preys upon one’s mind. I would rather anything else—even a misfortune +with the meat.” + +Cecil laid his hand over his eyes. + +“So would I,” asserted Freddy, backing his mother up—backing up the +spirit of her remark rather than the substance. + +“And I have been thinking,” she added rather nervously, “surely we +could squeeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice holiday +while the plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not seen poor +Charlotte for so long.” + +It was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not protest +violently after her mother’s goodness to her upstairs. + +“Mother, no!” she pleaded. “It’s impossible. We can’t have Charlotte on +the top of the other things; we’re squeezed to death as it is. Freddy’s +got a friend coming Tuesday, there’s Cecil, and you’ve promised to take +in Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare. It simply can’t be +done.” + +“Nonsense! It can.” + +“If Minnie sleeps in the bath. Not otherwise.” + +“Minnie can sleep with you.” + +“I won’t have her.” + +“Then, if you’re so selfish, Mr. Floyd must share a room with Freddy.” + +“Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett,” moaned Cecil, again +laying his hand over his eyes. + +“It’s impossible,” repeated Lucy. “I don’t want to make difficulties, +but it really isn’t fair on the maids to fill up the house so.” + +Alas! + +“The truth is, dear, you don’t like Charlotte.” + +“No, I don’t. And no more does Cecil. She gets on our nerves. You +haven’t seen her lately, and don’t realize how tiresome she can be, +though so good. So please, mother, don’t worry us this last summer; but +spoil us by not asking her to come.” + +“Hear, hear!” said Cecil. + +Mrs. Honeychurch, with more gravity than usual, and with more feeling +than she usually permitted herself, replied: “This isn’t very kind of +you two. You have each other and all these woods to walk in, so full of +beautiful things; and poor Charlotte has only the water turned off and +plumbers. You are young, dears, and however clever young people are, +and however many books they read, they will never guess what it feels +like to grow old.” + +Cecil crumbled his bread. + +“I must say Cousin Charlotte was very kind to me that year I called on +my bike,” put in Freddy. “She thanked me for coming till I felt like +such a fool, and fussed round no end to get an egg boiled for my tea +just right.” + +“I know, dear. She is kind to everyone, and yet Lucy makes this +difficulty when we try to give her some little return.” + +But Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss +Bartlett. She had tried herself too often and too recently. One might +lay up treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss +Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: “I +can’t help it, mother. I don’t like Charlotte. I admit it’s horrid of +me.” + +“From your own account, you told her as much.” + +“Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried—” + +The ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping +the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the +same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy +Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible +world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real. + +“I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well,” said +Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the +admirable cooking. + +“I didn’t mean the egg was _well_ boiled,” corrected Freddy, “because +in point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I +don’t care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed.” + +Cecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers, +hydrangeas, maids—of such were their lives compact. “May me and Lucy +get down from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence. +“We don’t want no dessert.” + + + + +Chapter XIV +How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely + + +Of course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she felt sure +that she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferior +spare room—something with no view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And, +equally of course, George Emerson could come to tennis on the Sunday +week. + +Lucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she only +faced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed inwards. If +at times strange images rose from the depths, she put them down to +nerves. When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset +her nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this might +upset her nerves. She was nervous at night. When she talked to +George—they met again almost immediately at the Rectory—his voice moved +her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she +really wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to +nerves, which love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had +suffered from “things that came out of nothing and meant she didn’t +know what.” Now Cecil had explained psychology to her one wet +afternoon, and all the troubles of youth in an unknown world could be +dismissed. + +It is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, “She loves young +Emerson.” A reader in Lucy’s place would not find it obvious. Life is +easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome “nerves” +or any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved +Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the +phrases should have been reversed? + +But the external situation—she will face that bravely. + +The meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing between +Mr. Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy, +and George had replied. She was anxious to show that she was not shy, +and was glad that he did not seem shy either. + +“A nice fellow,” said Mr. Beebe afterwards “He will work off his +crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life +gracefully.” + +Lucy said, “He seems in better spirits. He laughs more.” + +“Yes,” replied the clergyman. “He is waking up.” + +That was all. But, as the week wore on, more of her defences fell, and +she entertained an image that had physical beauty. In spite of the +clearest directions, Miss Bartlett contrived to bungle her arrival. She +was due at the South-Eastern station at Dorking, whither Mrs. +Honeychurch drove to meet her. She arrived at the London and Brighton +station, and had to hire a cab up. No one was at home except Freddy and +his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her for a +solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o’clock, and these, with +little Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper +lawn for tea. + +“I shall never forgive myself,” said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising +from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain. “I +have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But I insist on +paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate.” + +“Our visitors never do such dreadful things,” said Lucy, while her +brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown +unsubstantial, exclaimed in irritable tones: “Just what I’ve been +trying to convince Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour.” + +“I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor,” said Miss Bartlett, and +looked at her frayed glove. + +“All right, if you’d really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob to +the driver.” + +Miss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies. Could +any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four +half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: “But +who am I to give the sovereign to?” + +“Let’s leave it all till mother comes back,” suggested Lucy. + +“No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not +hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the +prompt settling of accounts.” + +Here Freddy’s friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need +be quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett’s quid. A +solution seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously +drinking his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance, +and turned round. + +But this did not do, either. + +“Please—please—I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me +wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost.” + +“Freddy owes me fifteen shillings,” interposed Cecil. “So it will work +out right if you give the pound to me.” + +“Fifteen shillings,” said Miss Bartlett dubiously. “How is that, Mr. +Vyse?” + +“Because, don’t you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and +we shall avoid this deplorable gambling.” + +Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered +up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. +For a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his +peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had +marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this +stupefying twaddle. + +“But I don’t see that!” exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched +the iniquitous transaction. “I don’t see why Mr. Vyse is to have the +quid.” + +“Because of the fifteen shillings and the five,” they said solemnly. +“Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see.” + +“But I don’t see—” + +They tried to stifle her with cake. + +“No, thank you. I’m done. I don’t see why—Freddy, don’t poke me. Miss +Honeychurch, your brother’s hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd’s ten +shillings? Ow! No, I don’t see and I never shall see why Miss +What’s-her-name shouldn’t pay that bob for the driver.” + +“I had forgotten the driver,” said Miss Bartlett, reddening. “Thank +you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me +change for half a crown?” + +“I’ll get it,” said the young hostess, rising with decision. + +“Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I’ll get +Euphemia to change it, and we’ll start the whole thing again from the +beginning.” + +“Lucy—Lucy—what a nuisance I am!” protested Miss Bartlett, and followed +her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they +were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite +briskly: “Have you told him about him yet?” + +“No, I haven’t,” replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue +for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. “Let me see—a +sovereign’s worth of silver.” + +She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett’s sudden transitions were +too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke +or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had +been a ruse to surprise the soul. + +“No, I haven’t told Cecil or any one,” she remarked, when she returned. +“I promised you I shouldn’t. Here is your money—all shillings, except +two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely +now.” + +Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St. +John ascending, which had been framed. + +“How dreadful!” she murmured, “how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse +should come to hear of it from some other source.” + +“Oh, no, Charlotte,” said the girl, entering the battle. “George +Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?” + +Miss Bartlett considered. “For instance, the driver. I saw him looking +through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth.” + +Lucy shuddered a little. “We shall get the silly affair on our nerves +if we aren’t careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold +of Cecil?” + +“We must think of every possibility.” + +“Oh, it’s all right.” + +“Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know.” + +“I don’t care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but +even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at +it.” + +“To contradict it?” + +“No, to laugh at it.” But she knew in her heart that she could not +trust him, for he desired her untouched. + +“Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to +what they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different.” + +“Now, Charlotte!” She struck at her playfully. “You kind, anxious +thing. What _would_ you have me do? First you say ‘Don’t tell’; and +then you say, ‘Tell’. Which is it to be? Quick!” + +Miss Bartlett sighed “I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I +blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able +to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You +will never forgive me.” + +“Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don’t.” + +For the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with +a teaspoon. + +“Dear, one moment—we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have +you seen the young one yet?” + +“Yes, I have.” + +“What happened?” + +“We met at the Rectory.” + +“What line is he taking up?” + +“No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really +all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it +bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won’t be +any nuisance, Charlotte.” + +“Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion.” + +Lucy paused. “Cecil said one day—and I thought it so profound—that +there are two kinds of cads—the conscious and the subconscious.” She +paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil’s profundity. +Through the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a +novel. It was a new one from Smith’s library. Her mother must have +returned from the station. + +“Once a cad, always a cad,” droned Miss Bartlett. + +“What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into +all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don’t think we +ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a +person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does; +it makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn’t +admire me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him, +and has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He +has improved; he doesn’t always look as if he’s going to burst into +tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager’s office at one of the big +railways—not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa +was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. There! Now +for the garden.” She took hold of her guest by the arm. “Suppose we +don’t talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to +have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting.” + +Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an +unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one +cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly +people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the +entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of +them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her +brain. + + + + +Chapter XV +The Disaster Within + + +The Sunday after Miss Bartlett’s arrival was a glorious day, like most +of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up +the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of +mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the +heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves +unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in +either arose the tinkle of church bells. + +The garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which +lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent +sounds, as of females preparing for worship. “The men say they won’t +go”—“Well, I don’t blame them”—Minnie says, “need she go?”—“Tell her, +no nonsense”—“Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!”—“Dearest Lucia, may I +trespass upon you for a pin?” For Miss Bartlett had announced that she +at all events was one for church. + +The sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by +Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies +whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down +at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan; +on George Emerson cleaning his father’s boots; and lastly, to complete +the catalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned +previously. The ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and +movement may engender shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be +caressed all the morning by the sun and to raise its covers slightly, +as though acknowledging the caress. + +Presently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise +dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her +throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies—an +engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a +little—not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not +to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may +frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo +and the western hills. + +“Lucy! Lucy! What’s that book? Who’s been taking a book out of the +shelf and leaving it about to spoil?” + +“It’s only the library book that Cecil’s been reading.” + +“But pick it up, and don’t stand idling there like a flamingo.” + +Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a +Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time +to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful +how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like +the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning +she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and +Cecil had said, “What! you aren’t forgetting your Italy already?” And +this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view +and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely +conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun. + +“Lucy—have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?” + +She hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a +Sunday fluster. + +“It’s a special collection—I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar +clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice +bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book’s all warped. +(Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press. +Minnie!” + +“Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch—” from the upper regions. + +“Minnie, don’t be late. Here comes the horse”—it was always the horse, +never the carriage. “Where’s Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is +she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but +blouses. Poor Charlotte—How I do detest blouses! Minnie!” + +Paganism is infectious—more infectious than diphtheria or piety—and the +Rector’s niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn’t see +why. Why shouldn’t she sit in the sun with the young men? The young +men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs. +Honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss +Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling +down the stairs. + +“Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change—nothing but +sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me—” + +“Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely +frock! You put us all to shame.” + +“If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear +them?” said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and +placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued, +and then they drove off. + +“Good-bye! Be good!” called out Cecil. + +Lucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of “church +and so on” they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had +said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to +overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil +respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a +spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that +might grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject +pained her, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow the +Emersons were different. + +She saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages down +the road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie +Villa. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father +and son smoking in the garden. + +“Introduce me,” said her mother. “Unless the young man considers that +he knows me already.” + +He probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them +formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how +glad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was +glad too; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind +with Mr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic, +and asked him how he liked his new house. + +“Very much,” he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice; +she had never known him offended before. He added: “We find, though, +that the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out. +Women mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it.” + +“I believe that there was some misunderstanding,” said Mrs. Honeychurch +uneasily. + +“Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person,” +said George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. “He +thought we should be artistic. He is disappointed.” + +“And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to +give it up. What do you think?” He appealed to Lucy. + +“Oh, stop now you have come,” said Lucy lightly. She must avoid +censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned, +though his name was never mentioned. + +“So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet +it does seem so unkind.” + +“There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world,” said George, +watching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages. + +“Yes!” exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. “That’s exactly what I say. Why all +this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?” + +“There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain +amount of light,” he continued in measured tones. “We cast a shadow on +something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to +place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place +where you won’t do harm—yes, choose a place where you won’t do very +much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine.” + +“Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you’re clever!” + +“Eh—?” + +“I see you’re going to be clever. I hope you didn’t go behaving like +that to poor Freddy.” + +George’s eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would +get on rather well. + +“No, I didn’t,” he said. “He behaved that way to me. It is his +philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of +Interrogation first.” + +“What _do_ you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don’t explain. He +looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you +mind tennis on Sunday—?” + +“George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish +between Sunday—” + +“Very well, George doesn’t mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That’s +settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so +pleased.” + +He thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potter +about in these days. + +She turned to George: “And then he wants to give up his house to the +Miss Alans.” + +“I know,” said George, and put his arm round his father’s neck. The +kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him came +out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape—a touch of the +morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never +spoken against affection. + +Miss Bartlett approached. + +“You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett,” said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly. +“You met her with my daughter in Florence.” + +“Yes, indeed!” said the old man, and made as if he would come out of +the garden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the +victoria. Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension +Bertolini again, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine. +It was the old, old battle of the room with the view. + +George did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and was +ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: “I—I’ll come up +to tennis if I can manage it,” and went into the house. Perhaps +anything that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went +straight to her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as +clumsy as girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and +need help. To one of her upbringing, and of her destination, the +weakness of men was a truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at +Florence, when George threw her photographs into the River Arno. + +“George, don’t go,” cried his father, who thought it a great treat for +people if his son would talk to them. “George has been in such good +spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon.” + +Lucy caught her cousin’s eye. Something in its mute appeal made her +reckless. “Yes,” she said, raising her voice, “I do hope he will.” Then +she went to the carriage and murmured, “The old man hasn’t been told; I +knew it was all right.” Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they drove +away. + +Satisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence +escapade; yet Lucy’s spirits should not have leapt up as if she had +sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted it +with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses’ hoofs sang a +tune to her: “He has not told, he has not told.” Her brain expanded the +melody: “He has not told his father—to whom he tells all things. It was +not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone.” She raised her +hand to her cheek. “He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did! +But he has not told. He will not tell.” + +She longed to shout the words: “It is all right. It’s a secret between +us two for ever. Cecil will never hear.” She was even glad that Miss +Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening at +Florence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or +little, was guarded. + +Only three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted +her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so +safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said: + +“The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved +enormously.” + +“How are my protégés?” asked Cecil, who took no real interest in them, +and had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them to Windy +Corner for educational purposes. + +“Protégés!” she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only relationship +which Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector and protected. He +had no glimpse of the comradeship after which the girl’s soul yearned. + +“You shall see for yourself how your protégés are. George Emerson is +coming up this afternoon. He is a most interesting man to talk to. Only +don’t—” She nearly said, “Don’t protect him.” But the bell was ringing +for lunch, and, as often happened, Cecil had paid no great attention to +her remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her forte. + +Lunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Some +one had to be soothed—either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not +visible to the mortal eye—a Being who whispered to her soul: “It will +not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London to +entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men.” But to-day she felt she +had received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her +brother here. The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning, +would never be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they +asked her to play. She had seen Gluck’s Armide that year, and played +from memory the music of the enchanted garden—the music to which Renaud +approaches, beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never +gains, never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of +fairyland. Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to +get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: “Now play +us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.” + +She closed the instrument. + +“Not very dutiful,” said her mother’s voice. + +Fearing that she had offended Cecil, she turned quickly round. There +George was. He had crept in without interrupting her. + +“Oh, I had no idea!” she exclaimed, getting very red; and then, without +a word of greeting, she reopened the piano. Cecil should have the +Parsifal, and anything else that he liked. + +“Our performer has changed her mind,” said Miss Bartlett, perhaps +implying, she will play the music to Mr. Emerson. Lucy did not know +what to do nor even what she wanted to do. She played a few bars of the +Flower Maidens’ song very badly and then she stopped. + +“I vote tennis,” said Freddy, disgusted at the scrappy entertainment. + +“Yes, so do I.” Once more she closed the unfortunate piano. “I vote you +have a men’s four.” + +“All right.” + +“Not for me, thank you,” said Cecil. “I will not spoil the set.” He +never realized that it may be an act of kindness in a bad player to +make up a fourth. + +“Oh, come along Cecil. I’m bad, Floyd’s rotten, and so I dare say’s +Emerson.” + +George corrected him: “I am not bad.” + +One looked down one’s nose at this. “Then certainly I won’t play,” said +Cecil, while Miss Bartlett, under the impression that she was snubbing +George, added: “I agree with you, Mr. Vyse. You had much better not +play. Much better not.” + +Minnie, rushing in where Cecil feared to tread, announced that she +would play. “I shall miss every ball anyway, so what does it matter?” +But Sunday intervened and stamped heavily upon the kindly suggestion. + +“Then it will have to be Lucy,” said Mrs. Honeychurch; “you must fall +back on Lucy. There is no other way out of it. Lucy, go and change your +frock.” + +Lucy’s Sabbath was generally of this amphibious nature. She kept it +without hypocrisy in the morning, and broke it without reluctance in +the afternoon. As she changed her frock, she wondered whether Cecil was +sneering at her; really she must overhaul herself and settle everything +up before she married him. + +Mr. Floyd was her partner. She liked music, but how much better tennis +seemed. How much better to run about in comfortable clothes than to sit +at the piano and feel girt under the arms. Once more music appeared to +her the employment of a child. George served, and surprised her by his +anxiety to win. She remembered how he had sighed among the tombs at +Santa Croce because things wouldn’t fit; how after the death of that +obscure Italian he had leant over the parapet by the Arno and said to +her: “I shall want to live, I tell you.” He wanted to live now, to win +at tennis, to stand for all he was worth in the sun—the sun which had +begun to decline and was shining in her eyes; and he did win. + +Ah, how beautiful the Weald looked! The hills stood out above its +radiance, as Fiesole stands above the Tuscan Plain, and the South +Downs, if one chose, were the mountains of Carrara. She might be +forgetting her Italy, but she was noticing more things in her England. +One could play a new game with the view, and try to find in its +innumerable folds some town or village that would do for Florence. Ah, +how beautiful the Weald looked! + +But now Cecil claimed her. He chanced to be in a lucid critical mood, +and would not sympathize with exaltation. He had been rather a nuisance +all through the tennis, for the novel that he was reading was so bad +that he was obliged to read it aloud to others. He would stroll round +the precincts of the court and call out: “I say, listen to this, Lucy. +Three split infinitives.” + +“Dreadful!” said Lucy, and missed her stroke. When they had finished +their set, he still went on reading; there was some murder scene, and +really everyone must listen to it. Freddy and Mr. Floyd were obliged to +hunt for a lost ball in the laurels, but the other two acquiesced. + +“The scene is laid in Florence.” + +“What fun, Cecil! Read away. Come, Mr. Emerson, sit down after all your +energy.” She had “forgiven” George, as she put it, and she made a point +of being pleasant to him. + +He jumped over the net and sat down at her feet asking: “You—and are +you tired?” + +“Of course I’m not!” + +“Do you mind being beaten?” + +She was going to answer, “No,” when it struck her that she did mind, so +she answered, “Yes.” She added merrily, “I don’t see _you’re_ such a +splendid player, though. The light was behind you, and it was in my +eyes.” + +“I never said I was.” + +“Why, you did!” + +“You didn’t attend.” + +“You said—oh, don’t go in for accuracy at this house. We all +exaggerate, and we get very angry with people who don’t.” + +“‘The scene is laid in Florence,’” repeated Cecil, with an upward note. + +Lucy recollected herself. + +“‘Sunset. Leonora was speeding—’” + +Lucy interrupted. “Leonora? Is Leonora the heroine? Who’s the book by?” + +“Joseph Emery Prank. ‘Sunset. Leonora speeding across the square. Pray +the saints she might not arrive too late. Sunset—the sunset of Italy. +Under Orcagna’s Loggia—the Loggia de’ Lanzi, as we sometimes call it +now—’” + +Lucy burst into laughter. “‘Joseph Emery Prank’ indeed! Why it’s Miss +Lavish! It’s Miss Lavish’s novel, and she’s publishing it under +somebody else’s name.” + +“Who may Miss Lavish be?” + +“Oh, a dreadful person—Mr. Emerson, you remember Miss Lavish?” + +Excited by her pleasant afternoon, she clapped her hands. + +George looked up. “Of course I do. I saw her the day I arrived at +Summer Street. It was she who told me that you lived here.” + +“Weren’t you pleased?” She meant “to see Miss Lavish,” but when he bent +down to the grass without replying, it struck her that she could mean +something else. She watched his head, which was almost resting against +her knee, and she thought that the ears were reddening. “No wonder the +novel’s bad,” she added. “I never liked Miss Lavish. But I suppose one +ought to read it as one’s met her.” + +“All modern books are bad,” said Cecil, who was annoyed at her +inattention, and vented his annoyance on literature. “Every one writes +for money in these days.” + +“Oh, Cecil—!” + +“It is so. I will inflict Joseph Emery Prank on you no longer.” + +Cecil, this afternoon seemed such a twittering sparrow. The ups and +downs in his voice were noticeable, but they did not affect her. She +had dwelt amongst melody and movement, and her nerves refused to answer +to the clang of his. Leaving him to be annoyed, she gazed at the black +head again. She did not want to stroke it, but she saw herself wanting +to stroke it; the sensation was curious. + +“How do you like this view of ours, Mr. Emerson?” + +“I never notice much difference in views.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“Because they’re all alike. Because all that matters in them is +distance and air.” + +“H’m!” said Cecil, uncertain whether the remark was striking or not. + +“My father”—he looked up at her (and he was a little flushed)—“says +that there is only one perfect view—the view of the sky straight over +our heads, and that all these views on earth are but bungled copies of +it.” + +“I expect your father has been reading Dante,” said Cecil, fingering +the novel, which alone permitted him to lead the conversation. + +“He told us another day that views are really crowds—crowds of trees +and houses and hills—and are bound to resemble each other, like human +crowds—and that the power they have over us is sometimes supernatural, +for the same reason.” + +Lucy’s lips parted. + +“For a crowd is more than the people who make it up. Something gets +added to it—no one knows how—just as something has got added to those +hills.” + +He pointed with his racquet to the South Downs. + +“What a splendid idea!” she murmured. “I shall enjoy hearing your +father talk again. I’m so sorry he’s not so well.” + +“No, he isn’t well.” + +“There’s an absurd account of a view in this book,” said Cecil. “Also +that men fall into two classes—those who forget views and those who +remember them, even in small rooms.” + +“Mr. Emerson, have you any brothers or sisters?” + +“None. Why?” + +“You spoke of ‘us.’” + +“My mother, I was meaning.” + +Cecil closed the novel with a bang. + +“Oh, Cecil—how you made me jump!” + +“I will inflict Joseph Emery Prank on you no longer.” + +“I can just remember us all three going into the country for the day +and seeing as far as Hindhead. It is the first thing that I remember.” + +Cecil got up; the man was ill-bred—he hadn’t put on his coat after +tennis—he didn’t do. He would have strolled away if Lucy had not +stopped him. + +“Cecil, do read the thing about the view.” + +“Not while Mr. Emerson is here to entertain us.” + +“No—read away. I think nothing’s funnier than to hear silly things read +out loud. If Mr. Emerson thinks us frivolous, he can go.” + +This struck Cecil as subtle, and pleased him. It put their visitor in +the position of a prig. Somewhat mollified, he sat down again. + +“Mr. Emerson, go and find tennis balls.” She opened the book. Cecil +must have his reading and anything else that he liked. But her +attention wandered to George’s mother, who—according to Mr. Eager—had +been murdered in the sight of God and—according to her son—had seen as +far as Hindhead. + +“Am I really to go?” asked George. + +“No, of course not really,” she answered. + +“Chapter two,” said Cecil, yawning. “Find me chapter two, if it isn’t +bothering you.” + +Chapter two was found, and she glanced at its opening sentences. + +She thought she had gone mad. + +“Here—hand me the book.” + +She heard her voice saying: “It isn’t worth reading—it’s too silly to +read—I never saw such rubbish—it oughtn’t to be allowed to be printed.” + +He took the book from her. + +“‘Leonora,’” he read, “‘sat pensive and alone. Before her lay the rich +champaign of Tuscany, dotted over with many a smiling village. The +season was spring.’” + +Miss Lavish knew, somehow, and had printed the past in draggled prose, +for Cecil to read and for George to hear. + +“‘A golden haze,’” he read. He read: “‘Afar off the towers of Florence, +while the bank on which she sat was carpeted with violets. All +unobserved Antonio stole up behind her—’” + +Lest Cecil should see her face she turned to George and saw his face. + +He read: “‘There came from his lips no wordy protestation such as +formal lovers use. No eloquence was his, nor did he suffer from the +lack of it. He simply enfolded her in his manly arms.’” + +“This isn’t the passage I wanted,” he informed them, “there is another +much funnier, further on.” He turned over the leaves. + +“Should we go in to tea?” said Lucy, whose voice remained steady. + +She led the way up the garden, Cecil following her, George last. She +thought a disaster was averted. But when they entered the shrubbery it +came. The book, as if it had not worked mischief enough, had been +forgotten, and Cecil must go back for it; and George, who loved +passionately, must blunder against her in the narrow path. + +“No—” she gasped, and, for the second time, was kissed by him. + +As if no more was possible, he slipped back; Cecil rejoined her; they +reached the upper lawn alone. + + + + +Chapter XVI +Lying to George + + +But Lucy had developed since the spring. That is to say, she was now +better able to stifle the emotions of which the conventions and the +world disapprove. Though the danger was greater, she was not shaken by +deep sobs. She said to Cecil, “I am not coming in to tea—tell mother—I +must write some letters,” and went up to her room. Then she prepared +for action. Love felt and returned, love which our bodies exact and our +hearts have transfigured, love which is the most real thing that we +shall ever meet, reappeared now as the world’s enemy, and she must +stifle it. + +She sent for Miss Bartlett. + +The contest lay not between love and duty. Perhaps there never is such +a contest. It lay between the real and the pretended, and Lucy’s first +aim was to defeat herself. As her brain clouded over, as the memory of +the views grew dim and the words of the book died away, she returned to +her old shibboleth of nerves. She “conquered her breakdown.” Tampering +with the truth, she forgot that the truth had ever been. Remembering +that she was engaged to Cecil, she compelled herself to confused +remembrances of George; he was nothing to her; he never had been +anything; he had behaved abominably; she had never encouraged him. The +armour of falsehood is subtly wrought out of darkness, and hides a man +not only from others, but from his own soul. In a few moments Lucy was +equipped for battle. + +“Something too awful has happened,” she began, as soon as her cousin +arrived. “Do you know anything about Miss Lavish’s novel?” + +Miss Bartlett looked surprised, and said that she had not read the +book, nor known that it was published; Eleanor was a reticent woman at +heart. + +“There is a scene in it. The hero and heroine make love. Do you know +about that?” + +“Dear—?” + +“Do you know about it, please?” she repeated. “They are on a hillside, +and Florence is in the distance.” + +“My good Lucia, I am all at sea. I know nothing about it whatever.” + +“There are violets. I cannot believe it is a coincidence. Charlotte, +Charlotte, how _could_ you have told her? I have thought before +speaking; it _must_ be you.” + +“Told her what?” she asked, with growing agitation. + +“About that dreadful afternoon in February.” + +Miss Bartlett was genuinely moved. “Oh, Lucy, dearest girl—she hasn’t +put that in her book?” + +Lucy nodded. + +“Not so that one could recognize it. Yes.” + +“Then never—never—never more shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine.” + +“So you did tell?” + +“I did just happen—when I had tea with her at Rome—in the course of +conversation—” + +“But Charlotte—what about the promise you gave me when we were packing? +Why did you tell Miss Lavish, when you wouldn’t even let me tell +mother?” + +“I will never forgive Eleanor. She has betrayed my confidence.” + +“Why did you tell her, though? This is a most serious thing.” + +Why does any one tell anything? The question is eternal, and it was not +surprising that Miss Bartlett should only sigh faintly in response. She +had done wrong—she admitted it, she only hoped that she had not done +harm; she had told Eleanor in the strictest confidence. + +Lucy stamped with irritation. + +“Cecil happened to read out the passage aloud to me and to Mr. Emerson; +it upset Mr. Emerson and he insulted me again. Behind Cecil’s back. +Ugh! Is it possible that men are such brutes? Behind Cecil’s back as we +were walking up the garden.” + +Miss Bartlett burst into self-accusations and regrets. + +“What is to be done now? Can you tell me?” + +“Oh, Lucy—I shall never forgive myself, never to my dying day. Fancy if +your prospects—” + +“I know,” said Lucy, wincing at the word. “I see now why you wanted me +to tell Cecil, and what you meant by ‘some other source.’ You knew that +you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was not reliable.” + +It was Miss Bartlett’s turn to wince. “However,” said the girl, +despising her cousin’s shiftiness, “What’s done’s done. You have put me +in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?” + +Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She +was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She +stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the +necessary rage. + +“He must—that man must have such a setting down that he won’t forget. +And who’s to give it him? I can’t tell mother now—owing to you. Nor +Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I +shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That’s why I’ve sent for you. +What’s wanted is a man with a whip.” + +Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip. + +“Yes—but it’s no good agreeing. What’s to be _done?_ We women go +maundering on. What _does_ a girl do when she comes across a cad?” + +“I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all +events. From the very first moment—when he said his father was having a +bath.” + +“Oh, bother the credit and who’s been right or wrong! We’ve both made a +muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he +to be left unpunished, or isn’t he? I want to know.” + +Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved +her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved +feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad’s white flannels +among the laurels. + +“You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. +Can’t you speak again to him now?” + +“Willingly would I move heaven and earth—” + +“I want something more definite,” said Lucy contemptuously. “Will you +speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all +happened because you broke your word.” + +“Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine.” + +Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. + +“Yes or no, please; yes or no.” + +“It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle.” George +Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. + +“Very well,” said Lucy, with an angry gesture. “No one will help me. I +will speak to him myself.” And immediately she realized that this was +what her cousin had intended all along. + +“Hullo, Emerson!” called Freddy from below. “Found the lost ball? Good +man! Want any tea?” And there was an irruption from the house on to the +terrace. + +“Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you—” + +They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the +rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning +to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The +Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her +blood before saying: + +“Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down +the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the +room, of course.” + +“Lucy, do you mind doing it?” + +“How can you ask such a ridiculous question?” + +“Poor Lucy—” She stretched out her hand. “I seem to bring nothing but +misfortune wherever I go.” Lucy nodded. She remembered their last +evening at Florence—the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss +Bartlett’s toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a +second time. Eluding her cousin’s caress, she led the way downstairs. + +“Try the jam,” Freddy was saying. “The jam’s jolly good.” + +George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the +dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: + +“No—nothing to eat.” + +“You go down to the others,” said Lucy; “Charlotte and I will give Mr. +Emerson all he wants. Where’s mother?” + +“She’s started on her Sunday writing. She’s in the drawing-room.” + +“That’s all right. You go away.” + +He went off singing. + +Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly +frightened, took up a book and pretended to read. + +She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: “I +can’t have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out of this +house, and never come into it again as long as I live here—” flushing +as she spoke and pointing to the door. “I hate a row. Go please.” + +“What—” + +“No discussion.” + +“But I can’t—” + +She shook her head. “Go, please. I do not want to call in Mr. Vyse.” + +“You don’t mean,” he said, absolutely ignoring Miss Bartlett—“you don’t +mean that you are going to marry that man?” + +The line was unexpected. + +She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity wearied her. “You are +merely ridiculous,” she said quietly. + +Then his words rose gravely over hers: “You cannot live with Vyse. He’s +only for an acquaintance. He is for society and cultivated talk. He +should know no one intimately, least of all a woman.” + +It was a new light on Cecil’s character. + +“Have you ever talked to Vyse without feeling tired?” + +“I can scarcely discuss—” + +“No, but have you ever? He is the sort who are all right so long as +they keep to things—books, pictures—but kill when they come to people. +That’s why I’ll speak out through all this muddle even now. It’s +shocking enough to lose you in any case, but generally a man must deny +himself joy, and I would have held back if your Cecil had been a +different person. I would never have let myself go. But I saw him first +in the National Gallery, when he winced because my father mispronounced +the names of great painters. Then he brings us here, and we find it is +to play some silly trick on a kind neighbour. That is the man all +over—playing tricks on people, on the most sacred form of life that he +can find. Next, I meet you together, and find him protecting and +teaching you and your mother to be shocked, when it was for _you_ to +settle whether you were shocked or no. Cecil all over again. He daren’t +let a woman decide. He’s the type who’s kept Europe back for a thousand +years. Every moment of his life he’s forming you, telling you what’s +charming or amusing or ladylike, telling you what a man thinks womanly; +and you, you of all women, listen to his voice instead of to your own. +So it was at the Rectory, when I met you both again; so it has been the +whole of this afternoon. Therefore—not ‘therefore I kissed you,’ +because the book made me do that, and I wish to goodness I had more +self-control. I’m not ashamed. I don’t apologize. But it has frightened +you, and you may not have noticed that I love you. Or would you have +told me to go, and dealt with a tremendous thing so lightly? But +therefore—therefore I settled to fight him.” + +Lucy thought of a very good remark. + +“You say Mr. Vyse wants me to listen to him, Mr. Emerson. Pardon me for +suggesting that you have caught the habit.” + +And he took the shoddy reproof and touched it into immortality. He +said: + +“Yes, I have,” and sank down as if suddenly weary. “I’m the same kind +of brute at bottom. This desire to govern a woman—it lies very deep, +and men and women must fight it together before they shall enter the +garden. But I do love you surely in a better way than he does.” He +thought. “Yes—really in a better way. I want you to have your own +thoughts even when I hold you in my arms.” He stretched them towards +her. “Lucy, be quick—there’s no time for us to talk now—come to me as +you came in the spring, and afterwards I will be gentle and explain. I +have cared for you since that man died. I cannot live without you, ‘No +good,’ I thought; ‘she is marrying someone else’; but I meet you again +when all the world is glorious water and sun. As you came through the +wood I saw that nothing else mattered. I called. I wanted to live and +have my chance of joy.” + +“And Mr. Vyse?” said Lucy, who kept commendably calm. “Does he not +matter? That I love Cecil and shall be his wife shortly? A detail of no +importance, I suppose?” + +But he stretched his arms over the table towards her. + +“May I ask what you intend to gain by this exhibition?” + +He said: “It is our last chance. I shall do all that I can.” And as if +he had done all else, he turned to Miss Bartlett, who sat like some +portent against the skies of the evening. “You wouldn’t stop us this +second time if you understood,” he said. “I have been into the dark, +and I am going back into it, unless you will try to understand.” + +Her long, narrow head drove backwards and forwards, as though +demolishing some invisible obstacle. She did not answer. + +“It is being young,” he said quietly, picking up his racquet from the +floor and preparing to go. “It is being certain that Lucy cares for me +really. It is that love and youth matter intellectually.” + +In silence the two women watched him. His last remark, they knew, was +nonsense, but was he going after it or not? Would not he, the cad, the +charlatan, attempt a more dramatic finish? No. He was apparently +content. He left them, carefully closing the front door; and when they +looked through the hall window, they saw him go up the drive and begin +to climb the slopes of withered fern behind the house. Their tongues +were loosed, and they burst into stealthy rejoicings. + +“Oh, Lucia—come back here—oh, what an awful man!” + +Lucy had no reaction—at least, not yet. “Well, he amuses me,” she said. +“Either I’m mad, or else he is, and I’m inclined to think it’s the +latter. One more fuss through with you, Charlotte. Many thanks. I +think, though, that this is the last. My admirer will hardly trouble me +again.” + +And Miss Bartlett, too, essayed the roguish: + +“Well, it isn’t everyone who could boast such a conquest, dearest, is +it? Oh, one oughtn’t to laugh, really. It might have been very serious. +But you were so sensible and brave—so unlike the girls of my day.” + +“Let’s go down to them.” + +But, once in the open air, she paused. Some emotion—pity, terror, love, +but the emotion was strong—seized her, and she was aware of autumn. +Summer was ending, and the evening brought her odours of decay, the +more pathetic because they were reminiscent of spring. That something +or other mattered intellectually? A leaf, violently agitated, danced +past her, while other leaves lay motionless. That the earth was +hastening to re-enter darkness, and the shadows of those trees over +Windy Corner? + +“Hullo, Lucy! There’s still light enough for another set, if you two’ll +hurry.” + +“Mr. Emerson has had to go.” + +“What a nuisance! That spoils the four. I say, Cecil, do play, do, +there’s a good chap. It’s Floyd’s last day. Do play tennis with us, +just this once.” + +Cecil’s voice came: “My dear Freddy, I am no athlete. As you well +remarked this very morning, ‘There are some chaps who are no good for +anything but books’; I plead guilty to being such a chap, and will not +inflict myself on you.” + +The scales fell from Lucy’s eyes. How had she stood Cecil for a moment? +He was absolutely intolerable, and the same evening she broke off her +engagement. + + + + +Chapter XVII +Lying to Cecil + + +He was bewildered. He had nothing to say. He was not even angry, but +stood, with a glass of whiskey between his hands, trying to think what +had led her to such a conclusion. + +She had chosen the moment before bed, when, in accordance with their +bourgeois habit, she always dispensed drinks to the men. Freddy and Mr. +Floyd were sure to retire with their glasses, while Cecil invariably +lingered, sipping at his while she locked up the sideboard. + +“I am very sorry about it,” she said; “I have carefully thought things +over. We are too different. I must ask you to release me, and try to +forget that there ever was such a foolish girl.” + +It was a suitable speech, but she was more angry than sorry, and her +voice showed it. + +“Different—how—how—” + +“I haven’t had a really good education, for one thing,” she continued, +still on her knees by the sideboard. “My Italian trip came too late, +and I am forgetting all that I learnt there. I shall never be able to +talk to your friends, or behave as a wife of yours should.” + +“I don’t understand you. You aren’t like yourself. You’re tired, Lucy.” + +“Tired!” she retorted, kindling at once. “That is exactly like you. You +always think women don’t mean what they say.” + +“Well, you sound tired, as if something has worried you.” + +“What if I do? It doesn’t prevent me from realizing the truth. I can’t +marry you, and you will thank me for saying so some day.” + +“You had that bad headache yesterday—All right”—for she had exclaimed +indignantly: “I see it’s much more than headaches. But give me a +moment’s time.” He closed his eyes. “You must excuse me if I say stupid +things, but my brain has gone to pieces. Part of it lives three minutes +back, when I was sure that you loved me, and the other part—I find it +difficult—I am likely to say the wrong thing.” + +It struck her that he was not behaving so badly, and her irritation +increased. She again desired a struggle, not a discussion. To bring on +the crisis, she said: + +“There are days when one sees clearly, and this is one of them. Things +must come to a breaking-point some time, and it happens to be to-day. +If you want to know, quite a little thing decided me to speak to +you—when you wouldn’t play tennis with Freddy.” + +“I never do play tennis,” said Cecil, painfully bewildered; “I never +could play. I don’t understand a word you say.” + +“You can play well enough to make up a four. I thought it abominably +selfish of you.” + +“No, I can’t—well, never mind the tennis. Why couldn’t you—couldn’t you +have warned me if you felt anything wrong? You talked of our wedding at +lunch—at least, you let me talk.” + +“I knew you wouldn’t understand,” said Lucy quite crossly. “I might +have known there would have been these dreadful explanations. Of +course, it isn’t the tennis—that was only the last straw to all I have +been feeling for weeks. Surely it was better not to speak until I felt +certain.” She developed this position. “Often before I have wondered if +I was fitted for your wife—for instance, in London; and are you fitted +to be my husband? I don’t think so. You don’t like Freddy, nor my +mother. There was always a lot against our engagement, Cecil, but all +our relations seemed pleased, and we met so often, and it was no good +mentioning it until—well, until all things came to a point. They have +to-day. I see clearly. I must speak. That’s all.” + +“I cannot think you were right,” said Cecil gently. “I cannot tell why, +but though all that you say sounds true, I feel that you are not +treating me fairly. It’s all too horrible.” + +“What’s the good of a scene?” + +“No good. But surely I have a right to hear a little more.” + +He put down his glass and opened the window. From where she knelt, +jangling her keys, she could see a slit of darkness, and, peering into +it, as if it would tell him that “little more,” his long, thoughtful +face. + +“Don’t open the window; and you’d better draw the curtain, too; Freddy +or any one might be outside.” He obeyed. “I really think we had better +go to bed, if you don’t mind. I shall only say things that will make me +unhappy afterwards. As you say it is all too horrible, and it is no +good talking.” + +But to Cecil, now that he was about to lose her, she seemed each moment +more desirable. He looked at her, instead of through her, for the first +time since they were engaged. From a Leonardo she had become a living +woman, with mysteries and forces of her own, with qualities that even +eluded art. His brain recovered from the shock, and, in a burst of +genuine devotion, he cried: “But I love you, and I did think you loved +me!” + +“I did not,” she said. “I thought I did at first. I am sorry, and ought +to have refused you this last time, too.” + +He began to walk up and down the room, and she grew more and more vexed +at his dignified behaviour. She had counted on his being petty. It +would have made things easier for her. By a cruel irony she was drawing +out all that was finest in his disposition. + +“You don’t love me, evidently. I dare say you are right not to. But it +would hurt a little less if I knew why.” + +“Because”—a phrase came to her, and she accepted it—“you’re the sort +who can’t know any one intimately.” + +A horrified look came into his eyes. + +“I don’t mean exactly that. But you will question me, though I beg you +not to, and I must say something. It is that, more or less. When we +were only acquaintances, you let me be myself, but now you’re always +protecting me.” Her voice swelled. “I won’t be protected. I will choose +for myself what is ladylike and right. To shield me is an insult. Can’t +I be trusted to face the truth but I must get it second-hand through +you? A woman’s place! You despise my mother—I know you do—because she’s +conventional and bothers over puddings; but, oh goodness!”—she rose to +her feet—“conventional, Cecil, you’re that, for you may understand +beautiful things, but you don’t know how to use them; and you wrap +yourself up in art and books and music, and would try to wrap up me. I +won’t be stifled, not by the most glorious music, for people are more +glorious, and you hide them from me. That’s why I break off my +engagement. You were all right as long as you kept to things, but when +you came to people—” She stopped. + +There was a pause. Then Cecil said with great emotion: + +“It is true.” + +“True on the whole,” she corrected, full of some vague shame. + +“True, every word. It is a revelation. It is—I.” + +“Anyhow, those are my reasons for not being your wife.” + +He repeated: “‘The sort that can know no one intimately.’ It is true. I +fell to pieces the very first day we were engaged. I behaved like a cad +to Beebe and to your brother. You are even greater than I thought.” She +withdrew a step. “I’m not going to worry you. You are far too good to +me. I shall never forget your insight; and, dear, I only blame you for +this: you might have warned me in the early stages, before you felt you +wouldn’t marry me, and so have given me a chance to improve. I have +never known you till this evening. I have just used you as a peg for my +silly notions of what a woman should be. But this evening you are a +different person: new thoughts—even a new voice—” + +“What do you mean by a new voice?” she asked, seized with +incontrollable anger. + +“I mean that a new person seems speaking through you,” said he. + +Then she lost her balance. She cried: “If you think I am in love with +some one else, you are very much mistaken.” + +“Of course I don’t think that. You are not that kind, Lucy.” + +“Oh, yes, you do think it. It’s your old idea, the idea that has kept +Europe back—I mean the idea that women are always thinking of men. If a +girl breaks off her engagement, everyone says: ‘Oh, she had someone +else in her mind; she hopes to get someone else.’ It’s disgusting, +brutal! As if a girl can’t break it off for the sake of freedom.” + +He answered reverently: “I may have said that in the past. I shall +never say it again. You have taught me better.” + +She began to redden, and pretended to examine the windows again. + +“Of course, there is no question of ‘someone else’ in this, no +‘jilting’ or any such nauseous stupidity. I beg your pardon most humbly +if my words suggested that there was. I only meant that there was a +force in you that I hadn’t known of up till now.” + +“All right, Cecil, that will do. Don’t apologize to me. It was my +mistake.” + +“It is a question between ideals, yours and mine—pure abstract ideals, +and yours are the nobler. I was bound up in the old vicious notions, +and all the time you were splendid and new.” His voice broke. “I must +actually thank you for what you have done—for showing me what I really +am. Solemnly, I thank you for showing me a true woman. Will you shake +hands?” + +“Of course I will,” said Lucy, twisting up her other hand in the +curtains. “Good-night, Cecil. Good-bye. That’s all right. I’m sorry +about it. Thank you very much for your gentleness.” + +“Let me light your candle, shall I?” + +They went into the hall. + +“Thank you. Good-night again. God bless you, Lucy!” + +“Good-bye, Cecil.” + +She watched him steal up-stairs, while the shadows from three banisters +passed over her face like the beat of wings. On the landing he paused +strong in his renunciation, and gave her a look of memorable beauty. +For all his culture, Cecil was an ascetic at heart, and nothing in his +love became him like the leaving of it. + +She could never marry. In the tumult of her soul, that stood firm. +Cecil believed in her; she must some day believe in herself. She must +be one of the women whom she had praised so eloquently, who care for +liberty and not for men; she must forget that George loved her, that +George had been thinking through her and gained her this honourable +release, that George had gone away into—what was it?—the darkness. + +She put out the lamp. + +It did not do to think, nor, for the matter of that, to feel. She gave +up trying to understand herself, and joined the vast armies of the +benighted, who follow neither the heart nor the brain, and march to +their destiny by catch-words. The armies are full of pleasant and pious +folk. But they have yielded to the only enemy that matters—the enemy +within. They have sinned against passion and truth, and vain will be +their strife after virtue. As the years pass, they are censured. Their +pleasantry and their piety show cracks, their wit becomes cynicism, +their unselfishness hypocrisy; they feel and produce discomfort +wherever they go. They have sinned against Eros and against Pallas +Athene, and not by any heavenly intervention, but by the ordinary +course of nature, those allied deities will be avenged. + +Lucy entered this army when she pretended to George that she did not +love him, and pretended to Cecil that she loved no one. The night +received her, as it had received Miss Bartlett thirty years before. + + + + +Chapter XVIII +Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants + + +Windy Corner lay, not on the summit of the ridge, but a few hundred +feet down the southern slope, at the springing of one of the great +buttresses that supported the hill. On either side of it was a shallow +ravine, filled with ferns and pine-trees, and down the ravine on the +left ran the highway into the Weald. + +Whenever Mr. Beebe crossed the ridge and caught sight of these noble +dispositions of the earth, and, poised in the middle of them, Windy +Corner,—he laughed. The situation was so glorious, the house so +commonplace, not to say impertinent. The late Mr. Honeychurch had +affected the cube, because it gave him the most accommodation for his +money, and the only addition made by his widow had been a small turret, +shaped like a rhinoceros’ horn, where she could sit in wet weather and +watch the carts going up and down the road. So impertinent—and yet the +house “did,” for it was the home of people who loved their surroundings +honestly. Other houses in the neighborhood had been built by expensive +architects, over others their inmates had fidgeted sedulously, yet all +these suggested the accidental, the temporary; while Windy Corner +seemed as inevitable as an ugliness of Nature’s own creation. One might +laugh at the house, but one never shuddered. Mr. Beebe was bicycling +over this Monday afternoon with a piece of gossip. He had heard from +the Miss Alans. These admirable ladies, since they could not go to +Cissie Villa, had changed their plans. They were going to Greece +instead. + +“Since Florence did my poor sister so much good,” wrote Miss Catharine, +“we do not see why we should not try Athens this winter. Of course, +Athens is a plunge, and the doctor has ordered her special digestive +bread; but, after all, we can take that with us, and it is only getting +first into a steamer and then into a train. But is there an English +Church?” And the letter went on to say: “I do not expect we shall go +any further than Athens, but if you knew of a really comfortable +pension at Constantinople, we should be so grateful.” + +Lucy would enjoy this letter, and the smile with which Mr. Beebe +greeted Windy Corner was partly for her. She would see the fun of it, +and some of its beauty, for she must see some beauty. Though she was +hopeless about pictures, and though she dressed so unevenly—oh, that +cerise frock yesterday at church!—she must see some beauty in life, or +she could not play the piano as she did. He had a theory that musicians +are incredibly complex, and know far less than other artists what they +want and what they are; that they puzzle themselves as well as their +friends; that their psychology is a modern development, and has not yet +been understood. This theory, had he known it, had possibly just been +illustrated by facts. Ignorant of the events of yesterday he was only +riding over to get some tea, to see his niece, and to observe whether +Miss Honeychurch saw anything beautiful in the desire of two old ladies +to visit Athens. + +A carriage was drawn up outside Windy Corner, and just as he caught +sight of the house it started, bowled up the drive, and stopped +abruptly when it reached the main road. Therefore it must be the horse, +who always expected people to walk up the hill in case they tired him. +The door opened obediently, and two men emerged, whom Mr. Beebe +recognized as Cecil and Freddy. They were an odd couple to go driving; +but he saw a trunk beside the coachman’s legs. Cecil, who wore a +bowler, must be going away, while Freddy (a cap)—was seeing him to the +station. They walked rapidly, taking the short cuts, and reached the +summit while the carriage was still pursuing the windings of the road. + +They shook hands with the clergyman, but did not speak. + +“So you’re off for a minute, Mr. Vyse?” he asked. + +Cecil said, “Yes,” while Freddy edged away. + +“I was coming to show you this delightful letter from those friends of +Miss Honeychurch.” He quoted from it. “Isn’t it wonderful? Isn’t it +romance? Most certainly they will go to Constantinople. They are taken +in a snare that cannot fail. They will end by going round the world.” + +Cecil listened civilly, and said he was sure that Lucy would be amused +and interested. + +“Isn’t Romance capricious! I never notice it in you young people; you +do nothing but play lawn tennis, and say that romance is dead, while +the Miss Alans are struggling with all the weapons of propriety against +the terrible thing. ‘A really comfortable pension at Constantinople!’ +So they call it out of decency, but in their hearts they want a pension +with magic windows opening on the foam of perilous seas in fairyland +forlorn! No ordinary view will content the Miss Alans. They want the +Pension Keats.” + +“I’m awfully sorry to interrupt, Mr. Beebe,” said Freddy, “but have you +any matches?” + +“I have,” said Cecil, and it did not escape Mr. Beebe’s notice that he +spoke to the boy more kindly. + +“You have never met these Miss Alans, have you, Mr. Vyse?” + +“Never.” + +“Then you don’t see the wonder of this Greek visit. I haven’t been to +Greece myself, and don’t mean to go, and I can’t imagine any of my +friends going. It is altogether too big for our little lot. Don’t you +think so? Italy is just about as much as we can manage. Italy is +heroic, but Greece is godlike or devilish—I am not sure which, and in +either case absolutely out of our suburban focus. All right, Freddy—I +am not being clever, upon my word I am not—I took the idea from another +fellow; and give me those matches when you’ve done with them.” He lit a +cigarette, and went on talking to the two young men. “I was saying, if +our poor little Cockney lives must have a background, let it be +Italian. Big enough in all conscience. The ceiling of the Sistine +Chapel for me. There the contrast is just as much as I can realize. But +not the Parthenon, not the frieze of Phidias at any price; and here +comes the victoria.” + +“You’re quite right,” said Cecil. “Greece is not for our little lot”; +and he got in. Freddy followed, nodding to the clergyman, whom he +trusted not to be pulling one’s leg, really. And before they had gone a +dozen yards he jumped out, and came running back for Vyse’s match-box, +which had not been returned. As he took it, he said: “I’m so glad you +only talked about books. Cecil’s hard hit. Lucy won’t marry him. If +you’d gone on about her, as you did about them, he might have broken +down.” + +“But when—” + +“Late last night. I must go.” + +“Perhaps they won’t want me down there.” + +“No—go on. Good-bye.” + +“Thank goodness!” exclaimed Mr. Beebe to himself, and struck the saddle +of his bicycle approvingly, “It was the one foolish thing she ever did. +Oh, what a glorious riddance!” And, after a little thought, he +negotiated the slope into Windy Corner, light of heart. The house was +again as it ought to be—cut off forever from Cecil’s pretentious world. + +He would find Miss Minnie down in the garden. + +In the drawing-room Lucy was tinkling at a Mozart Sonata. He hesitated +a moment, but went down the garden as requested. There he found a +mournful company. It was a blustering day, and the wind had taken and +broken the dahlias. Mrs. Honeychurch, who looked cross, was tying them +up, while Miss Bartlett, unsuitably dressed, impeded her with offers of +assistance. At a little distance stood Minnie and the “garden-child,” a +minute importation, each holding either end of a long piece of bass. + +“Oh, how do you do, Mr. Beebe? Gracious what a mess everything is! Look +at my scarlet pompoms, and the wind blowing your skirts about, and the +ground so hard that not a prop will stick in, and then the carriage +having to go out, when I had counted on having Powell, who—give +everyone their due—does tie up dahlias properly.” + +Evidently Mrs. Honeychurch was shattered. + +“How do you do?” said Miss Bartlett, with a meaning glance, as though +conveying that more than dahlias had been broken off by the autumn +gales. + +“Here, Lennie, the bass,” cried Mrs. Honeychurch. The garden-child, who +did not know what bass was, stood rooted to the path with horror. +Minnie slipped to her uncle and whispered that everyone was very +disagreeable to-day, and that it was not her fault if dahlia-strings +would tear longways instead of across. + +“Come for a walk with me,” he told her. “You have worried them as much +as they can stand. Mrs. Honeychurch, I only called in aimlessly. I +shall take her up to tea at the Beehive Tavern, if I may.” + +“Oh, must you? Yes do.—Not the scissors, thank you, Charlotte, when +both my hands are full already—I’m perfectly certain that the orange +cactus will go before I can get to it.” + +Mr. Beebe, who was an adept at relieving situations, invited Miss +Bartlett to accompany them to this mild festivity. + +“Yes, Charlotte, I don’t want you—do go; there’s nothing to stop about +for, either in the house or out of it.” + +Miss Bartlett said that her duty lay in the dahlia bed, but when she +had exasperated everyone, except Minnie, by a refusal, she turned round +and exasperated Minnie by an acceptance. As they walked up the garden, +the orange cactus fell, and Mr. Beebe’s last vision was of the +garden-child clasping it like a lover, his dark head buried in a wealth +of blossom. + +“It is terrible, this havoc among the flowers,” he remarked. + +“It is always terrible when the promise of months is destroyed in a +moment,” enunciated Miss Bartlett. + +“Perhaps we ought to send Miss Honeychurch down to her mother. Or will +she come with us?” + +“I think we had better leave Lucy to herself, and to her own pursuits.” + +“They’re angry with Miss Honeychurch because she was late for +breakfast,” whispered Minnie, “and Floyd has gone, and Mr. Vyse has +gone, and Freddy won’t play with me. In fact, Uncle Arthur, the house +is not _at all_ what it was yesterday.” + +“Don’t be a prig,” said her Uncle Arthur. “Go and put on your boots.” + +He stepped into the drawing-room, where Lucy was still attentively +pursuing the Sonatas of Mozart. She stopped when he entered. + +“How do you do? Miss Bartlett and Minnie are coming with me to tea at +the Beehive. Would you come too?” + +“I don’t think I will, thank you.” + +“No, I didn’t suppose you would care to much.” + +Lucy turned to the piano and struck a few chords. + +“How delicate those Sonatas are!” said Mr. Beebe, though at the bottom +of his heart, he thought them silly little things. + +Lucy passed into Schumann. + +“Miss Honeychurch!” + +“Yes.” + +“I met them on the hill. Your brother told me.” + +“Oh he did?” She sounded annoyed. Mr. Beebe felt hurt, for he had +thought that she would like him to be told. + +“I needn’t say that it will go no further.” + +“Mother, Charlotte, Cecil, Freddy, you,” said Lucy, playing a note for +each person who knew, and then playing a sixth note. + +“If you’ll let me say so, I am very glad, and I am certain that you +have done the right thing.” + +“So I hoped other people would think, but they don’t seem to.” + +“I could see that Miss Bartlett thought it unwise.” + +“So does mother. Mother minds dreadfully.” + +“I am very sorry for that,” said Mr. Beebe with feeling. + +Mrs. Honeychurch, who hated all changes, did mind, but not nearly as +much as her daughter pretended, and only for the minute. It was really +a ruse of Lucy’s to justify her despondency—a ruse of which she was not +herself conscious, for she was marching in the armies of darkness. + +“And Freddy minds.” + +“Still, Freddy never hit it off with Vyse much, did he? I gathered that +he disliked the engagement, and felt it might separate him from you.” + +“Boys are so odd.” + +Minnie could be heard arguing with Miss Bartlett through the floor. Tea +at the Beehive apparently involved a complete change of apparel. Mr. +Beebe saw that Lucy—very properly—did not wish to discuss her action, +so after a sincere expression of sympathy, he said, “I have had an +absurd letter from Miss Alan. That was really what brought me over. I +thought it might amuse you all.” + +“How delightful!” said Lucy, in a dull voice. + +For the sake of something to do, he began to read her the letter. After +a few words her eyes grew alert, and soon she interrupted him with +“Going abroad? When do they start?” + +“Next week, I gather.” + +“Did Freddy say whether he was driving straight back?” + +“No, he didn’t.” + +“Because I do hope he won’t go gossiping.” + +So she did want to talk about her broken engagement. Always +complaisant, he put the letter away. But she, at once exclaimed in a +high voice, “Oh, do tell me more about the Miss Alans! How perfectly +splendid of them to go abroad!” + +“I want them to start from Venice, and go in a cargo steamer down the +Illyrian coast!” + +She laughed heartily. “Oh, delightful! I wish they’d take me.” + +“Has Italy filled you with the fever of travel? Perhaps George Emerson +is right. He says that ‘Italy is only an euphuism for Fate.’” + +“Oh, not Italy, but Constantinople. I have always longed to go to +Constantinople. Constantinople is practically Asia, isn’t it?” + +Mr. Beebe reminded her that Constantinople was still unlikely, and that +the Miss Alans only aimed at Athens, “with Delphi, perhaps, if the +roads are safe.” But this made no difference to her enthusiasm. She had +always longed to go to Greece even more, it seemed. He saw, to his +surprise, that she was apparently serious. + +“I didn’t realize that you and the Miss Alans were still such friends, +after Cissie Villa.” + +“Oh, that’s nothing; I assure you Cissie Villa’s nothing to me; I would +give anything to go with them.” + +“Would your mother spare you again so soon? You have scarcely been home +three months.” + +“She _must_ spare me!” cried Lucy, in growing excitement. “I simply +_must_ go away. I have to.” She ran her fingers hysterically through +her hair. “Don’t you see that I _have_ to go away? I didn’t realize at +the time—and of course I want to see Constantinople so particularly.” + +“You mean that since you have broken off your engagement you feel—” + +“Yes, yes. I knew you’d understand.” + +Mr. Beebe did not quite understand. Why could not Miss Honeychurch +repose in the bosom of her family? Cecil had evidently taken up the +dignified line, and was not going to annoy her. Then it struck him that +her family itself might be annoying. He hinted this to her, and she +accepted the hint eagerly. + +“Yes, of course; to go to Constantinople until they are used to the +idea and everything has calmed down.” + +“I am afraid it has been a bothersome business,” he said gently. + +“No, not at all. Cecil was very kind indeed; only—I had better tell you +the whole truth, since you have heard a little—it was that he is so +masterful. I found that he wouldn’t let me go my own way. He would +improve me in places where I can’t be improved. Cecil won’t let a woman +decide for herself—in fact, he daren’t. What nonsense I do talk! But +that is the kind of thing.” + +“It is what I gathered from my own observation of Mr. Vyse; it is what +I gather from all that I have known of you. I do sympathize and agree +most profoundly. I agree so much that you must let me make one little +criticism: Is it worth while rushing off to Greece?” + +“But I must go somewhere!” she cried. “I have been worrying all the +morning, and here comes the very thing.” She struck her knees with +clenched fists, and repeated: “I must! And the time I shall have with +mother, and all the money she spent on me last spring. You all think +much too highly of me. I wish you weren’t so kind.” At this moment Miss +Bartlett entered, and her nervousness increased. “I must get away, ever +so far. I must know my own mind and where I want to go.” + +“Come along; tea, tea, tea,” said Mr. Beebe, and bustled his guests out +of the front-door. He hustled them so quickly that he forgot his hat. +When he returned for it he heard, to his relief and surprise, the +tinkling of a Mozart Sonata. + +“She is playing again,” he said to Miss Bartlett. + +“Lucy can always play,” was the acid reply. + +“One is very thankful that she has such a resource. She is evidently +much worried, as, of course, she ought to be. I know all about it. The +marriage was so near that it must have been a hard struggle before she +could wind herself up to speak.” + +Miss Bartlett gave a kind of wriggle, and he prepared for a discussion. +He had never fathomed Miss Bartlett. As he had put it to himself at +Florence, “she might yet reveal depths of strangeness, if not of +meaning.” But she was so unsympathetic that she must be reliable. He +assumed that much, and he had no hesitation in discussing Lucy with +her. Minnie was fortunately collecting ferns. + +She opened the discussion with: “We had much better let the matter +drop.” + +“I wonder.” + +“It is of the highest importance that there should be no gossip in +Summer Street. It would be _death_ to gossip about Mr. Vyse’s dismissal +at the present moment.” + +Mr. Beebe raised his eyebrows. Death is a strong word—surely too +strong. There was no question of tragedy. He said: “Of course, Miss +Honeychurch will make the fact public in her own way, and when she +chooses. Freddy only told me because he knew she would not mind.” + +“I know,” said Miss Bartlett civilly. “Yet Freddy ought not to have +told even you. One cannot be too careful.” + +“Quite so.” + +“I do implore absolute secrecy. A chance word to a chattering friend, +and—” + +“Exactly.” He was used to these nervous old maids and to the +exaggerated importance that they attach to words. A rector lives in a +web of petty secrets, and confidences and warnings, and the wiser he is +the less he will regard them. He will change the subject, as did Mr. +Beebe, saying cheerfully: “Have you heard from any Bertolini people +lately? I believe you keep up with Miss Lavish. It is odd how we of +that pension, who seemed such a fortuitous collection, have been +working into one another’s lives. Two, three, four, six of us—no, +eight; I had forgotten the Emersons—have kept more or less in touch. We +must really give the Signora a testimonial.” + +And, Miss Bartlett not favouring the scheme, they walked up the hill in +a silence which was only broken by the rector naming some fern. On the +summit they paused. The sky had grown wilder since he stood there last +hour, giving to the land a tragic greatness that is rare in Surrey. +Grey clouds were charging across tissues of white, which stretched and +shredded and tore slowly, until through their final layers there +gleamed a hint of the disappearing blue. Summer was retreating. The +wind roared, the trees groaned, yet the noise seemed insufficient for +those vast operations in heaven. The weather was breaking up, breaking, +broken, and it is a sense of the fit rather than of the supernatural +that equips such crises with the salvos of angelic artillery. Mr. +Beebe’s eyes rested on Windy Corner, where Lucy sat, practising Mozart. +No smile came to his lips, and, changing the subject again, he said: +“We shan’t have rain, but we shall have darkness, so let us hurry on. +The darkness last night was appalling.” + +They reached the Beehive Tavern at about five o’clock. That amiable +hostelry possesses a verandah, in which the young and the unwise do +dearly love to sit, while guests of more mature years seek a pleasant +sanded room, and have tea at a table comfortably. Mr. Beebe saw that +Miss Bartlett would be cold if she sat out, and that Minnie would be +dull if she sat in, so he proposed a division of forces. They would +hand the child her food through the window. Thus he was incidentally +enabled to discuss the fortunes of Lucy. + +“I have been thinking, Miss Bartlett,” he said, “and, unless you very +much object, I would like to reopen that discussion.” She bowed. +“Nothing about the past. I know little and care less about that; I am +absolutely certain that it is to your cousin’s credit. She has acted +loftily and rightly, and it is like her gentle modesty to say that we +think too highly of her. But the future. Seriously, what do you think +of this Greek plan?” He pulled out the letter again. “I don’t know +whether you overheard, but she wants to join the Miss Alans in their +mad career. It’s all—I can’t explain—it’s wrong.” + +Miss Bartlett read the letter in silence, laid it down, seemed to +hesitate, and then read it again. + +“I can’t see the point of it myself.” + +To his astonishment, she replied: “There I cannot agree with you. In it +I spy Lucy’s salvation.” + +“Really. Now, why?” + +“She wanted to leave Windy Corner.” + +“I know—but it seems so odd, so unlike her, so—I was going to +say—selfish.” + +“It is natural, surely—after such painful scenes—that she should desire +a change.” + +Here, apparently, was one of those points that the male intellect +misses. Mr. Beebe exclaimed: “So she says herself, and since another +lady agrees with her, I must own that I am partially convinced. Perhaps +she must have a change. I have no sisters or—and I don’t understand +these things. But why need she go as far as Greece?” + +“You may well ask that,” replied Miss Bartlett, who was evidently +interested, and had almost dropped her evasive manner. “Why Greece? +(What is it, Minnie dear—jam?) Why not Tunbridge Wells? Oh, Mr. Beebe! +I had a long and most unsatisfactory interview with dear Lucy this +morning. I cannot help her. I will say no more. Perhaps I have already +said too much. I am not to talk. I wanted her to spend six months with +me at Tunbridge Wells, and she refused.” + +Mr. Beebe poked at a crumb with his knife. + +“But my feelings are of no importance. I know too well that I get on +Lucy’s nerves. Our tour was a failure. She wanted to leave Florence, +and when we got to Rome she did not want to be in Rome, and all the +time I felt that I was spending her mother’s money—.” + +“Let us keep to the future, though,” interrupted Mr. Beebe. “I want +your advice.” + +“Very well,” said Charlotte, with a choky abruptness that was new to +him, though familiar to Lucy. “I for one will help her to go to Greece. +Will you?” + +Mr. Beebe considered. + +“It is absolutely necessary,” she continued, lowering her veil and +whispering through it with a passion, an intensity, that surprised him. +“I know—I _know_.” The darkness was coming on, and he felt that this +odd woman really did know. “She must not stop here a moment, and we +must keep quiet till she goes. I trust that the servants know nothing. +Afterwards—but I may have said too much already. Only, Lucy and I are +helpless against Mrs. Honeychurch alone. If you help we may succeed. +Otherwise—” + +“Otherwise—?” + +“Otherwise,” she repeated as if the word held finality. + +“Yes, I will help her,” said the clergyman, setting his jaw firm. +“Come, let us go back now, and settle the whole thing up.” + +Miss Bartlett burst into florid gratitude. The tavern sign—a beehive +trimmed evenly with bees—creaked in the wind outside as she thanked +him. Mr. Beebe did not quite understand the situation; but then, he did +not desire to understand it, nor to jump to the conclusion of “another +man” that would have attracted a grosser mind. He only felt that Miss +Bartlett knew of some vague influence from which the girl desired to be +delivered, and which might well be clothed in the fleshly form. Its +very vagueness spurred him into knight-errantry. His belief in +celibacy, so reticent, so carefully concealed beneath his tolerance and +culture, now came to the surface and expanded like some delicate +flower. “They that marry do well, but they that refrain do better.” So +ran his belief, and he never heard that an engagement was broken off +but with a slight feeling of pleasure. In the case of Lucy, the feeling +was intensified through dislike of Cecil; and he was willing to go +further—to place her out of danger until she could confirm her +resolution of virginity. The feeling was very subtle and quite +undogmatic, and he never imparted it to any other of the characters in +this entanglement. Yet it existed, and it alone explains his action +subsequently, and his influence on the action of others. The compact +that he made with Miss Bartlett in the tavern, was to help not only +Lucy, but religion also. + +They hurried home through a world of black and grey. He conversed on +indifferent topics: the Emersons’ need of a housekeeper; servants; +Italian servants; novels about Italy; novels with a purpose; could +literature influence life? Windy Corner glimmered. In the garden, Mrs. +Honeychurch, now helped by Freddy, still wrestled with the lives of her +flowers. + +“It gets too dark,” she said hopelessly. “This comes of putting off. We +might have known the weather would break up soon; and now Lucy wants to +go to Greece. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.” + +“Mrs. Honeychurch,” he said, “go to Greece she must. Come up to the +house and let’s talk it over. Do you, in the first place, mind her +breaking with Vyse?” + +“Mr. Beebe, I’m thankful—simply thankful.” + +“So am I,” said Freddy. + +“Good. Now come up to the house.” + +They conferred in the dining-room for half an hour. + +Lucy would never have carried the Greek scheme alone. It was expensive +and dramatic—both qualities that her mother loathed. Nor would +Charlotte have succeeded. The honours of the day rested with Mr. Beebe. +By his tact and common sense, and by his influence as a clergyman—for a +clergyman who was not a fool influenced Mrs. Honeychurch greatly—he +bent her to their purpose, “I don’t see why Greece is necessary,” she +said; “but as you do, I suppose it is all right. It must be something I +can’t understand. Lucy! Let’s tell her. Lucy!” + +“She is playing the piano,” Mr. Beebe said. He opened the door, and +heard the words of a song: + +“Look not thou on beauty’s charming.” + + +“I didn’t know that Miss Honeychurch sang, too.” + +“Sit thou still when kings are arming, +Taste not when the wine-cup glistens——” + + +“It’s a song that Cecil gave her. How odd girls are!” + +“What’s that?” called Lucy, stopping short. + +“All right, dear,” said Mrs. Honeychurch kindly. She went into the +drawing-room, and Mr. Beebe heard her kiss Lucy and say: “I am sorry I +was so cross about Greece, but it came on the top of the dahlias.” + +Rather a hard voice said: “Thank you, mother; that doesn’t matter a +bit.” + +“And you are right, too—Greece will be all right; you can go if the +Miss Alans will have you.” + +“Oh, splendid! Oh, thank you!” + +Mr. Beebe followed. Lucy still sat at the piano with her hands over the +keys. She was glad, but he had expected greater gladness. Her mother +bent over her. Freddy, to whom she had been singing, reclined on the +floor with his head against her, and an unlit pipe between his lips. +Oddly enough, the group was beautiful. Mr. Beebe, who loved the art of +the past, was reminded of a favourite theme, the _Santa Conversazione_, +in which people who care for one another are painted chatting together +about noble things—a theme neither sensual nor sensational, and +therefore ignored by the art of to-day. Why should Lucy want either to +marry or to travel when she had such friends at home? + +“Taste not when the wine-cup glistens, +Speak not when the people listens,” + + +she continued. + +“Here’s Mr. Beebe.” + +“Mr. Beebe knows my rude ways.” + +“It’s a beautiful song and a wise one,” said he. “Go on.” + +“It isn’t very good,” she said listlessly. “I forget why—harmony or +something.” + +“I suspected it was unscholarly. It’s so beautiful.” + +“The tune’s right enough,” said Freddy, “but the words are rotten. Why +throw up the sponge?” + +“How stupidly you talk!” said his sister. The _Santa Conversazione_ was +broken up. After all, there was no reason that Lucy should talk about +Greece or thank him for persuading her mother, so he said good-bye. + +Freddy lit his bicycle lamp for him in the porch, and with his usual +felicity of phrase, said: “This has been a day and a half.” + +“Stop thine ear against the singer—” + + +“Wait a minute; she is finishing.” + +“From the red gold keep thy finger; +Vacant heart and hand and eye +Easy live and quiet die.” + + +“I love weather like this,” said Freddy. + +Mr. Beebe passed into it. + +The two main facts were clear. She had behaved splendidly, and he had +helped her. He could not expect to master the details of so big a +change in a girl’s life. If here and there he was dissatisfied or +puzzled, he must acquiesce; she was choosing the better part. + +“Vacant heart and hand and eye—” + + +Perhaps the song stated “the better part” rather too strongly. He half +fancied that the soaring accompaniment—which he did not lose in the +shout of the gale—really agreed with Freddy, and was gently criticizing +the words that it adorned: + +“Vacant heart and hand and eye +Easy live and quiet die.” + + +However, for the fourth time Windy Corner lay poised below him—now as a +beacon in the roaring tides of darkness. + + + + +Chapter XIX +Lying to Mr. Emerson + + +The Miss Alans were found in their beloved temperance hotel near +Bloomsbury—a clean, airless establishment much patronized by provincial +England. They always perched there before crossing the great seas, and +for a week or two would fidget gently over clothes, guide-books, +mackintosh squares, digestive bread, and other Continental necessaries. +That there are shops abroad, even in Athens, never occurred to them, +for they regarded travel as a species of warfare, only to be undertaken +by those who have been fully armed at the Haymarket Stores. Miss +Honeychurch, they trusted, would take care to equip herself duly. +Quinine could now be obtained in tabloids; paper soap was a great help +towards freshening up one’s face in the train. Lucy promised, a little +depressed. + +“But, of course, you know all about these things, and you have Mr. Vyse +to help you. A gentleman is such a stand-by.” + +Mrs. Honeychurch, who had come up to town with her daughter, began to +drum nervously upon her card-case. + +“We think it so good of Mr. Vyse to spare you,” Miss Catharine +continued. “It is not every young man who would be so unselfish. But +perhaps he will come out and join you later on.” + +“Or does his work keep him in London?” said Miss Teresa, the more acute +and less kindly of the two sisters. + +“However, we shall see him when he sees you off. I do so long to see +him.” + +“No one will see Lucy off,” interposed Mrs. Honeychurch. “She doesn’t +like it.” + +“No, I hate seeings-off,” said Lucy. + +“Really? How funny! I should have thought that in this case—” + +“Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, you aren’t going? It is such a pleasure to have +met you!” + +They escaped, and Lucy said with relief: “That’s all right. We just got +through that time.” + +But her mother was annoyed. “I should be told, dear, that I am +unsympathetic. But I cannot see why you didn’t tell your friends about +Cecil and be done with it. There all the time we had to sit fencing, +and almost telling lies, and be seen through, too, I dare say, which is +most unpleasant.” + +Lucy had plenty to say in reply. She described the Miss Alans’ +character: they were such gossips, and if one told them, the news would +be everywhere in no time. + +“But why shouldn’t it be everywhere in no time?” + +“Because I settled with Cecil not to announce it until I left England. +I shall tell them then. It’s much pleasanter. How wet it is! Let’s turn +in here.” + +“Here” was the British Museum. Mrs. Honeychurch refused. If they must +take shelter, let it be in a shop. Lucy felt contemptuous, for she was +on the tack of caring for Greek sculpture, and had already borrowed a +mythical dictionary from Mr. Beebe to get up the names of the goddesses +and gods. + +“Oh, well, let it be shop, then. Let’s go to Mudie’s. I’ll buy a +guide-book.” + +“You know, Lucy, you and Charlotte and Mr. Beebe all tell me I’m so +stupid, so I suppose I am, but I shall never understand this +hole-and-corner work. You’ve got rid of Cecil—well and good, and I’m +thankful he’s gone, though I did feel angry for the minute. But why not +announce it? Why this hushing up and tip-toeing?” + +“It’s only for a few days.” + +“But why at all?” + +Lucy was silent. She was drifting away from her mother. It was quite +easy to say, “Because George Emerson has been bothering me, and if he +hears I’ve given up Cecil may begin again”—quite easy, and it had the +incidental advantage of being true. But she could not say it. She +disliked confidences, for they might lead to self-knowledge and to that +king of terrors—Light. Ever since that last evening at Florence she had +deemed it unwise to reveal her soul. + +Mrs. Honeychurch, too, was silent. She was thinking, “My daughter won’t +answer me; she would rather be with those inquisitive old maids than +with Freddy and me. Any rag, tag, and bobtail apparently does if she +can leave her home.” And as in her case thoughts never remained +unspoken long, she burst out with: “You’re tired of Windy Corner.” + +This was perfectly true. Lucy had hoped to return to Windy Corner when +she escaped from Cecil, but she discovered that her home existed no +longer. It might exist for Freddy, who still lived and thought +straight, but not for one who had deliberately warped the brain. She +did not acknowledge that her brain was warped, for the brain itself +must assist in that acknowledgment, and she was disordering the very +instruments of life. She only felt, “I do not love George; I broke off +my engagement because I did not love George; I must go to Greece +because I do not love George; it is more important that I should look +up gods in the dictionary than that I should help my mother; everyone +else is behaving very badly.” She only felt irritable and petulant, and +anxious to do what she was not expected to do, and in this spirit she +proceeded with the conversation. + +“Oh, mother, what rubbish you talk! Of course I’m not tired of Windy +Corner.” + +“Then why not say so at once, instead of considering half an hour?” + +She laughed faintly, “Half a _minute_ would be nearer.” + +“Perhaps you would like to stay away from your home altogether?” + +“Hush, mother! People will hear you”; for they had entered Mudie’s. She +bought Baedeker, and then continued: “Of course I want to live at home; +but as we are talking about it, I may as well say that I shall want to +be away in the future more than I have been. You see, I come into my +money next year.” + +Tears came into her mother’s eyes. + +Driven by nameless bewilderment, by what is in older people termed +“eccentricity,” Lucy determined to make this point clear. “I’ve seen +the world so little—I felt so out of things in Italy. I have seen so +little of life; one ought to come up to London more—not a cheap ticket +like to-day, but to stop. I might even share a flat for a little with +some other girl.” + +“And mess with typewriters and latch-keys,” exploded Mrs. Honeychurch. +“And agitate and scream, and be carried off kicking by the police. And +call it a Mission—when no one wants you! And call it Duty—when it means +that you can’t stand your own home! And call it Work—when thousands of +men are starving with the competition as it is! And then to prepare +yourself, find two doddering old ladies, and go abroad with them.” + +“I want more independence,” said Lucy lamely; she knew that she wanted +something, and independence is a useful cry; we can always say that we +have not got it. She tried to remember her emotions in Florence: those +had been sincere and passionate, and had suggested beauty rather than +short skirts and latch-keys. But independence was certainly her cue. + +“Very well. Take your independence and be gone. Rush up and down and +round the world, and come back as thin as a lath with the bad food. +Despise the house that your father built and the garden that he +planted, and our dear view—and then share a flat with another girl.” + +Lucy screwed up her mouth and said: “Perhaps I spoke hastily.” + +“Oh, goodness!” her mother flashed. “How you do remind me of Charlotte +Bartlett!” + +“_Charlotte?_” flashed Lucy in her turn, pierced at last by a vivid +pain. + +“More every moment.” + +“I don’t know what you mean, mother; Charlotte and I are not the very +least alike.” + +“Well, I see the likeness. The same eternal worrying, the same taking +back of words. You and Charlotte trying to divide two apples among +three people last night might be sisters.” + +“What rubbish! And if you dislike Charlotte so, it’s rather a pity you +asked her to stop. I warned you about her; I begged you, implored you +not to, but of course it was not listened to.” + +“There you go.” + +“I beg your pardon?” + +“Charlotte again, my dear; that’s all; her very words.” + +Lucy clenched her teeth. “My point is that you oughtn’t to have asked +Charlotte to stop. I wish you would keep to the point.” And the +conversation died off into a wrangle. + +She and her mother shopped in silence, spoke little in the train, +little again in the carriage, which met them at Dorking Station. It had +poured all day and as they ascended through the deep Surrey lanes +showers of water fell from the over-hanging beech-trees and rattled on +the hood. Lucy complained that the hood was stuffy. Leaning forward, +she looked out into the steaming dusk, and watched the carriage-lamp +pass like a search-light over mud and leaves, and reveal nothing +beautiful. “The crush when Charlotte gets in will be abominable,” she +remarked. For they were to pick up Miss Bartlett at Summer Street, +where she had been dropped as the carriage went down, to pay a call on +Mr. Beebe’s old mother. “We shall have to sit three a side, because the +trees drop, and yet it isn’t raining. Oh, for a little air!” Then she +listened to the horse’s hoofs—“He has not told—he has not told.” That +melody was blurred by the soft road. “_Can’t_ we have the hood down?” +she demanded, and her mother, with sudden tenderness, said: “Very well, +old lady, stop the horse.” And the horse was stopped, and Lucy and +Powell wrestled with the hood, and squirted water down Mrs. +Honeychurch’s neck. But now that the hood was down, she did see +something that she would have missed—there were no lights in the +windows of Cissie Villa, and round the garden gate she fancied she saw +a padlock. + +“Is that house to let again, Powell?” she called. + +“Yes, miss,” he replied. + +“Have they gone?” + +“It is too far out of town for the young gentleman, and his father’s +rheumatism has come on, so he can’t stop on alone, so they are trying +to let furnished,” was the answer. + +“They have gone, then?” + +“Yes, miss, they have gone.” + +Lucy sank back. The carriage stopped at the Rectory. She got out to +call for Miss Bartlett. So the Emersons had gone, and all this bother +about Greece had been unnecessary. Waste! That word seemed to sum up +the whole of life. Wasted plans, wasted money, wasted love, and she had +wounded her mother. Was it possible that she had muddled things away? +Quite possible. Other people had. When the maid opened the door, she +was unable to speak, and stared stupidly into the hall. + +Miss Bartlett at once came forward, and after a long preamble asked a +great favour: might she go to church? Mr. Beebe and his mother had +already gone, but she had refused to start until she obtained her +hostess’s full sanction, for it would mean keeping the horse waiting a +good ten minutes more. + +“Certainly,” said the hostess wearily. “I forgot it was Friday. Let’s +all go. Powell can go round to the stables.” + +“Lucy dearest—” + +“No church for me, thank you.” + +A sigh, and they departed. The church was invisible, but up in the +darkness to the left there was a hint of colour. This was a stained +window, through which some feeble light was shining, and when the door +opened Lucy heard Mr. Beebe’s voice running through the litany to a +minute congregation. Even their church, built upon the slope of the +hill so artfully, with its beautiful raised transept and its spire of +silvery shingle—even their church had lost its charm; and the thing one +never talked about—religion—was fading like all the other things. + +She followed the maid into the Rectory. + +Would she object to sitting in Mr. Beebe’s study? There was only that +one fire. + +She would not object. + +Some one was there already, for Lucy heard the words: “A lady to wait, +sir.” + +Old Mr. Emerson was sitting by the fire, with his foot upon a +gout-stool. + +“Oh, Miss Honeychurch, that you should come!” he quavered; and Lucy saw +an alteration in him since last Sunday. + +Not a word would come to her lips. George she had faced, and could have +faced again, but she had forgotten how to treat his father. + +“Miss Honeychurch, dear, we are so sorry! George is so sorry! He +thought he had a right to try. I cannot blame my boy, and yet I wish he +had told me first. He ought not to have tried. I knew nothing about it +at all.” + +If only she could remember how to behave! + +He held up his hand. “But you must not scold him.” + +Lucy turned her back, and began to look at Mr. Beebe’s books. + +“I taught him,” he quavered, “to trust in love. I said: ‘When love +comes, that is reality.’ I said: ‘Passion does not blind. No. Passion +is sanity, and the woman you love, she is the only person you will ever +really understand.’” He sighed: “True, everlastingly true, though my +day is over, and though there is the result. Poor boy! He is so sorry! +He said he knew it was madness when you brought your cousin in; that +whatever you felt you did not mean. Yet”—his voice gathered strength: +he spoke out to make certain—“Miss Honeychurch, do you remember Italy?” + +Lucy selected a book—a volume of Old Testament commentaries. Holding it +up to her eyes, she said: “I have no wish to discuss Italy or any +subject connected with your son.” + +“But you do remember it?” + +“He has misbehaved himself from the first.” + +“I only was told that he loved you last Sunday. I never could judge +behaviour. I—I—suppose he has.” + +Feeling a little steadier, she put the book back and turned round to +him. His face was drooping and swollen, but his eyes, though they were +sunken deep, gleamed with a child’s courage. + +“Why, he has behaved abominably,” she said. “I am glad he is sorry. Do +you know what he did?” + +“Not ‘abominably,’” was the gentle correction. “He only tried when he +should not have tried. You have all you want, Miss Honeychurch: you are +going to marry the man you love. Do not go out of George’s life saying +he is abominable.” + +“No, of course,” said Lucy, ashamed at the reference to Cecil. +“‘Abominable’ is much too strong. I am sorry I used it about your son. +I think I will go to church, after all. My mother and my cousin have +gone. I shall not be so very late—” + +“Especially as he has gone under,” he said quietly. + +“What was that?” + +“Gone under naturally.” He beat his palms together in silence; his head +fell on his chest. + +“I don’t understand.” + +“As his mother did.” + +“But, Mr. Emerson—_Mr. Emerson_—what are you talking about?” + +“When I wouldn’t have George baptized,” said he. + +Lucy was frightened. + +“And she agreed that baptism was nothing, but he caught that fever when +he was twelve and she turned round. She thought it a judgement.” He +shuddered. “Oh, horrible, when we had given up that sort of thing and +broken away from her parents. Oh, horrible—worst of all—worse than +death, when you have made a little clearing in the wilderness, planted +your little garden, let in your sunlight, and then the weeds creep in +again! A judgement! And our boy had typhoid because no clergyman had +dropped water on him in church! Is it possible, Miss Honeychurch? Shall +we slip back into the darkness for ever?” + +“I don’t know,” gasped Lucy. “I don’t understand this sort of thing. I +was not meant to understand it.” + +“But Mr. Eager—he came when I was out, and acted according to his +principles. I don’t blame him or any one... but by the time George was +well she was ill. He made her think about sin, and she went under +thinking about it.” + +It was thus that Mr. Emerson had murdered his wife in the sight of God. + +“Oh, how terrible!” said Lucy, forgetting her own affairs at last. + +“He was not baptized,” said the old man. “I did hold firm.” And he +looked with unwavering eyes at the rows of books, as if—at what +cost!—he had won a victory over them. “My boy shall go back to the +earth untouched.” + +She asked whether young Mr. Emerson was ill. + +“Oh—last Sunday.” He started into the present. “George last Sunday—no, +not ill: just gone under. He is never ill. But he is his mother’s son. +Her eyes were his, and she had that forehead that I think so beautiful, +and he will not think it worth while to live. It was always touch and +go. He will live; but he will not think it worth while to live. He will +never think anything worth while. You remember that church at +Florence?” + +Lucy did remember, and how she had suggested that George should collect +postage stamps. + +“After you left Florence—horrible. Then we took the house here, and he +goes bathing with your brother, and became better. You saw him +bathing?” + +“I am so sorry, but it is no good discussing this affair. I am deeply +sorry about it.” + +“Then there came something about a novel. I didn’t follow it at all; I +had to hear so much, and he minded telling me; he finds me too old. Ah, +well, one must have failures. George comes down to-morrow, and takes me +up to his London rooms. He can’t bear to be about here, and I must be +where he is.” + +“Mr. Emerson,” cried the girl, “don’t leave at least, not on my +account. I am going to Greece. Don’t leave your comfortable house.” + +It was the first time her voice had been kind and he smiled. “How good +everyone is! And look at Mr. Beebe housing me—came over this morning +and heard I was going! Here I am so comfortable with a fire.” + +“Yes, but you won’t go back to London. It’s absurd.” + +“I must be with George; I must make him care to live, and down here he +can’t. He says the thought of seeing you and of hearing about you—I am +not justifying him: I am only saying what has happened.” + +“Oh, Mr. Emerson”—she took hold of his hand—“you mustn’t. I’ve been +bother enough to the world by now. I can’t have you moving out of your +house when you like it, and perhaps losing money through it—all on my +account. You must stop! I am just going to Greece.” + +“All the way to Greece?” + +Her manner altered. + +“To Greece?” + +“So you must stop. You won’t talk about this business, I know. I can +trust you both.” + +“Certainly you can. We either have you in our lives, or leave you to +the life that you have chosen.” + +“I shouldn’t want—” + +“I suppose Mr. Vyse is very angry with George? No, it was wrong of +George to try. We have pushed our beliefs too far. I fancy that we +deserve sorrow.” + +She looked at the books again—black, brown, and that acrid theological +blue. They surrounded the visitors on every side; they were piled on +the tables, they pressed against the very ceiling. To Lucy who could +not see that Mr. Emerson was profoundly religious, and differed from +Mr. Beebe chiefly by his acknowledgment of passion—it seemed dreadful +that the old man should crawl into such a sanctum, when he was unhappy, +and be dependent on the bounty of a clergyman. + +More certain than ever that she was tired, he offered her his chair. + +“No, please sit still. I think I will sit in the carriage.” + +“Miss Honeychurch, you do sound tired.” + +“Not a bit,” said Lucy, with trembling lips. + +“But you are, and there’s a look of George about you. And what were you +saying about going abroad?” + +She was silent. + +“Greece”—and she saw that he was thinking the word over—“Greece; but +you were to be married this year, I thought.” + +“Not till January, it wasn’t,” said Lucy, clasping her hands. Would she +tell an actual lie when it came to the point? + +“I suppose that Mr. Vyse is going with you. I hope—it isn’t because +George spoke that you are both going?” + +“No.” + +“I hope that you will enjoy Greece with Mr. Vyse.” + +“Thank you.” + +At that moment Mr. Beebe came back from church. His cassock was covered +with rain. “That’s all right,” he said kindly. “I counted on you two +keeping each other company. It’s pouring again. The entire +congregation, which consists of your cousin, your mother, and my +mother, stands waiting in the church, till the carriage fetches it. Did +Powell go round?” + +“I think so; I’ll see.” + +“No—of course, I’ll see. How are the Miss Alans?” + +“Very well, thank you.” + +“Did you tell Mr. Emerson about Greece?” + +“I—I did.” + +“Don’t you think it very plucky of her, Mr. Emerson, to undertake the +two Miss Alans? Now, Miss Honeychurch, go back—keep warm. I think three +is such a courageous number to go travelling.” And he hurried off to +the stables. + +“He is not going,” she said hoarsely. “I made a slip. Mr. Vyse does +stop behind in England.” + +Somehow it was impossible to cheat this old man. To George, to Cecil, +she would have lied again; but he seemed so near the end of things, so +dignified in his approach to the gulf, of which he gave one account, +and the books that surrounded him another, so mild to the rough paths +that he had traversed, that the true chivalry—not the worn-out chivalry +of sex, but the true chivalry that all the young may show to all the +old—awoke in her, and, at whatever risk, she told him that Cecil was +not her companion to Greece. And she spoke so seriously that the risk +became a certainty, and he, lifting his eyes, said: “You are leaving +him? You are leaving the man you love?” + +“I—I had to.” + +“Why, Miss Honeychurch, why?” + +Terror came over her, and she lied again. She made the long, convincing +speech that she had made to Mr. Beebe, and intended to make to the +world when she announced that her engagement was no more. He heard her +in silence, and then said: “My dear, I am worried about you. It seems +to me”—dreamily; she was not alarmed—“that you are in a muddle.” + +She shook her head. + +“Take an old man’s word; there’s nothing worse than a muddle in all the +world. It is easy to face Death and Fate, and the things that sound so +dreadful. It is on my muddles that I look back with horror—on the +things that I might have avoided. We can help one another but little. I +used to think I could teach young people the whole of life, but I know +better now, and all my teaching of George has come down to this: beware +of muddle. Do you remember in that church, when you pretended to be +annoyed with me and weren’t? Do you remember before, when you refused +the room with the view? Those were muddles—little, but ominous—and I am +fearing that you are in one now.” She was silent. “Don’t trust me, Miss +Honeychurch. Though life is very glorious, it is difficult.” She was +still silent. “‘Life’ wrote a friend of mine, ‘is a public performance +on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.’ +I think he puts it well. Man has to pick up the use of his functions as +he goes along—especially the function of Love.” Then he burst out +excitedly; “That’s it; that’s what I mean. You love George!” And after +his long preamble, the three words burst against Lucy like waves from +the open sea. + +“But you do,” he went on, not waiting for contradiction. “You love the +boy body and soul, plainly, directly, as he loves you, and no other +word expresses it. You won’t marry the other man for his sake.” + +“How dare you!” gasped Lucy, with the roaring of waters in her ears. +“Oh, how like a man!—I mean, to suppose that a woman is always thinking +about a man.” + +“But you are.” + +She summoned physical disgust. + +“You’re shocked, but I mean to shock you. It’s the only hope at times. +I can reach you no other way. You must marry, or your life will be +wasted. You have gone too far to retreat. I have no time for the +tenderness, and the comradeship, and the poetry, and the things that +really matter, and _for which_ you marry. I know that, with George, you +will find them, and that you love him. Then be his wife. He is already +part of you. Though you fly to Greece, and never see him again, or +forget his very name, George will work in your thoughts till you die. +It isn’t possible to love and to part. You will wish that it was. You +can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out +of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is +eternal.” + +Lucy began to cry with anger, and though her anger passed away soon, +her tears remained. + +“I only wish poets would say this, too: love is of the body; not the +body, but of the body. Ah! the misery that would be saved if we +confessed that! Ah! for a little directness to liberate the soul! Your +soul, dear Lucy! I hate the word now, because of all the cant with +which superstition has wrapped it round. But we have souls. I cannot +say how they came nor whither they go, but we have them, and I see you +ruining yours. I cannot bear it. It is again the darkness creeping in; +it is hell.” Then he checked himself. “What nonsense I have talked—how +abstract and remote! And I have made you cry! Dear girl, forgive my +prosiness; marry my boy. When I think what life is, and how seldom love +is answered by love—Marry him; it is one of the moments for which the +world was made.” + +She could not understand him; the words were indeed remote. Yet as he +spoke the darkness was withdrawn, veil after veil, and she saw to the +bottom of her soul. + +“Then, Lucy—” + +“You’ve frightened me,” she moaned. “Cecil—Mr. Beebe—the ticket’s +bought—everything.” She fell sobbing into the chair. “I’m caught in the +tangle. I must suffer and grow old away from him. I cannot break the +whole of life for his sake. They trusted me.” + +A carriage drew up at the front-door. + +“Give George my love—once only. Tell him ‘muddle.’” Then she arranged +her veil, while the tears poured over her cheeks inside. + +“Lucy—” + +“No—they are in the hall—oh, please not, Mr. Emerson—they trust me—” + +“But why should they, when you have deceived them?” + +Mr. Beebe opened the door, saying: “Here’s my mother.” + +“You’re not worthy of their trust.” + +“What’s that?” said Mr. Beebe sharply. + +“I was saying, why should you trust her when she deceived you?” + +“One minute, mother.” He came in and shut the door. + +“I don’t follow you, Mr. Emerson. To whom do you refer? Trust whom?” + +“I mean she has pretended to you that she did not love George. They +have loved one another all along.” + +Mr. Beebe looked at the sobbing girl. He was very quiet, and his white +face, with its ruddy whiskers, seemed suddenly inhuman. A long black +column, he stood and awaited her reply. + +“I shall never marry him,” quavered Lucy. + +A look of contempt came over him, and he said, “Why not?” + +“Mr. Beebe—I have misled you—I have misled myself—” + +“Oh, rubbish, Miss Honeychurch!” + +“It is not rubbish!” said the old man hotly. “It’s the part of people +that you don’t understand.” + +Mr. Beebe laid his hand on the old man’s shoulder pleasantly. + +“Lucy! Lucy!” called voices from the carriage. + +“Mr. Beebe, could you help me?” + +He looked amazed at the request, and said in a low, stern voice: “I am +more grieved than I can possibly express. It is lamentable, +lamentable—incredible.” + +“What’s wrong with the boy?” fired up the other again. + +“Nothing, Mr. Emerson, except that he no longer interests me. Marry +George, Miss Honeychurch. He will do admirably.” + +He walked out and left them. They heard him guiding his mother +up-stairs. + +“Lucy!” the voices called. + +She turned to Mr. Emerson in despair. But his face revived her. It was +the face of a saint who understood. + +“Now it is all dark. Now Beauty and Passion seem never to have existed. +I know. But remember the mountains over Florence and the view. Ah, +dear, if I were George, and gave you one kiss, it would make you brave. +You have to go cold into a battle that needs warmth, out into the +muddle that you have made yourself; and your mother and all your +friends will despise you, oh, my darling, and rightly, if it is ever +right to despise. George still dark, all the tussle and the misery +without a word from him. Am I justified?” Into his own eyes tears came. +“Yes, for we fight for more than Love or Pleasure; there is Truth. +Truth counts, Truth does count.” + +“You kiss me,” said the girl. “You kiss me. I will try.” + +He gave her a sense of deities reconciled, a feeling that, in gaining +the man she loved, she would gain something for the whole world. +Throughout the squalor of her homeward drive—she spoke at once—his +salutation remained. He had robbed the body of its taint, the world’s +taunts of their sting; he had shown her the holiness of direct desire. +She “never exactly understood,” she would say in after years, “how he +managed to strengthen her. It was as if he had made her see the whole +of everything at once.” + + + + +Chapter XX +The End of the Middle Ages + + +The Miss Alans did go to Greece, but they went by themselves. They +alone of this little company will double Malea and plough the waters of +the Saronic gulf. They alone will visit Athens and Delphi, and either +shrine of intellectual song—that upon the Acropolis, encircled by blue +seas; that under Parnassus, where the eagles build and the bronze +charioteer drives undismayed towards infinity. Trembling, anxious, +cumbered with much digestive bread, they did proceed to Constantinople, +they did go round the world. The rest of us must be contented with a +fair, but a less arduous, goal. Italiam petimus: we return to the +Pension Bertolini. + +George said it was his old room. + +“No, it isn’t,” said Lucy; “because it is the room I had, and I had +your father’s room. I forget why; Charlotte made me, for some reason.” + +He knelt on the tiled floor, and laid his face in her lap. + +“George, you baby, get up.” + +“Why shouldn’t I be a baby?” murmured George. + +Unable to answer this question, she put down his sock, which she was +trying to mend, and gazed out through the window. It was evening and +again the spring. + +“Oh, bother Charlotte,” she said thoughtfully. “What can such people be +made of?” + +“Same stuff as parsons are made of.” + +“Nonsense!” + +“Quite right. It is nonsense.” + +“Now you get up off the cold floor, or you’ll be starting rheumatism +next, and you stop laughing and being so silly.” + +“Why shouldn’t I laugh?” he asked, pinning her with his elbows, and +advancing his face to hers. “What’s there to cry at? Kiss me here.” He +indicated the spot where a kiss would be welcome. + +He was a boy after all. When it came to the point, it was she who +remembered the past, she into whose soul the iron had entered, she who +knew whose room this had been last year. It endeared him to her +strangely that he should be sometimes wrong. + +“Any letters?” he asked. + +“Just a line from Freddy.” + +“Now kiss me here; then here.” + +Then, threatened again with rheumatism, he strolled to the window, +opened it (as the English will), and leant out. There was the parapet, +there the river, there to the left the beginnings of the hills. The +cab-driver, who at once saluted him with the hiss of a serpent, might +be that very Phaethon who had set this happiness in motion twelve +months ago. A passion of gratitude—all feelings grow to passions in the +South—came over the husband, and he blessed the people and the things +who had taken so much trouble about a young fool. He had helped +himself, it is true, but how stupidly! + +All the fighting that mattered had been done by others—by Italy, by his +father, by his wife. + +“Lucy, you come and look at the cypresses; and the church, whatever its +name is, still shows.” + +“San Miniato. I’ll just finish your sock.” + +“Signorino, domani faremo uno giro,” called the cabman, with engaging +certainty. + +George told him that he was mistaken; they had no money to throw away +on driving. + +And the people who had not meant to help—the Miss Lavishes, the Cecils, +the Miss Bartletts! Ever prone to magnify Fate, George counted up the +forces that had swept him into this contentment. + +“Anything good in Freddy’s letter?” + +“Not yet.” + +His own content was absolute, but hers held bitterness: the +Honeychurches had not forgiven them; they were disgusted at her past +hypocrisy; she had alienated Windy Corner, perhaps for ever. + +“What does he say?” + +“Silly boy! He thinks he’s being dignified. He knew we should go off in +the spring—he has known it for six months—that if mother wouldn’t give +her consent we should take the thing into our own hands. They had fair +warning, and now he calls it an elopement. Ridiculous boy—” + +“Signorino, domani faremo uno giro—” + +“But it will all come right in the end. He has to build us both up from +the beginning again. I wish, though, that Cecil had not turned so +cynical about women. He has, for the second time, quite altered. Why +will men have theories about women? I haven’t any about men. I wish, +too, that Mr. Beebe—” + +“You may well wish that.” + +“He will never forgive us—I mean, he will never be interested in us +again. I wish that he did not influence them so much at Windy Corner. I +wish he hadn’t—But if we act the truth, the people who really love us +are sure to come back to us in the long run.” + +“Perhaps.” Then he said more gently: “Well, I acted the truth—the only +thing I did do—and you came back to me. So possibly you know.” He +turned back into the room. “Nonsense with that sock.” He carried her to +the window, so that she, too, saw all the view. They sank upon their +knees, invisible from the road, they hoped, and began to whisper one +another’s names. Ah! it was worth while; it was the great joy that they +had expected, and countless little joys of which they had never dreamt. +They were silent. + +“Signorino, domani faremo—” + +“Oh, bother that man!” + +But Lucy remembered the vendor of photographs and said, “No, don’t be +rude to him.” Then with a catching of her breath, she murmured: “Mr. +Eager and Charlotte, dreadful frozen Charlotte. How cruel she would be +to a man like that!” + +“Look at the lights going over the bridge.” + +“But this room reminds me of Charlotte. How horrible to grow old in +Charlotte’s way! To think that evening at the rectory that she +shouldn’t have heard your father was in the house. For she would have +stopped me going in, and he was the only person alive who could have +made me see sense. You couldn’t have made me. When I am very happy”—she +kissed him—“I remember on how little it all hangs. If Charlotte had +only known, she would have stopped me going in, and I should have gone +to silly Greece, and become different for ever.” + +“But she did know,” said George; “she did see my father, surely. He +said so.” + +“Oh, no, she didn’t see him. She was upstairs with old Mrs. Beebe, +don’t you remember, and then went straight to the church. She said so.” + +George was obstinate again. “My father,” said he, “saw her, and I +prefer his word. He was dozing by the study fire, and he opened his +eyes, and there was Miss Bartlett. A few minutes before you came in. +She was turning to go as he woke up. He didn’t speak to her.” + +Then they spoke of other things—the desultory talk of those who have +been fighting to reach one another, and whose reward is to rest quietly +in each other’s arms. It was long ere they returned to Miss Bartlett, +but when they did her behaviour seemed more interesting. George, who +disliked any darkness, said: “It’s clear that she knew. Then, why did +she risk the meeting? She knew he was there, and yet she went to +church.” + +They tried to piece the thing together. + +As they talked, an incredible solution came into Lucy’s mind. She +rejected it, and said: “How like Charlotte to undo her work by a feeble +muddle at the last moment.” But something in the dying evening, in the +roar of the river, in their very embrace warned them that her words +fell short of life, and George whispered: “Or did she mean it?” + +“Mean what?” + +“Signorino, domani faremo uno giro—” + +Lucy bent forward and said with gentleness: “Lascia, prego, lascia. +Siamo sposati.” + +“Scusi tanto, signora,” he replied in tones as gentle and whipped up +his horse. + +“Buona sera—e grazie.” + +“Niente.” + +The cabman drove away singing. + +“Mean what, George?” + +He whispered: “Is it this? Is this possible? I’ll put a marvel to you. +That your cousin has always hoped. That from the very first moment we +met, she hoped, far down in her mind, that we should be like this—of +course, very far down. That she fought us on the surface, and yet she +hoped. I can’t explain her any other way. Can you? Look how she kept me +alive in you all the summer; how she gave you no peace; how month after +month she became more eccentric and unreliable. The sight of us haunted +her—or she couldn’t have described us as she did to her friend. There +are details—it burnt. I read the book afterwards. She is not frozen, +Lucy, she is not withered up all through. She tore us apart twice, but +in the rectory that evening she was given one more chance to make us +happy. We can never make friends with her or thank her. But I do +believe that, far down in her heart, far below all speech and +behaviour, she is glad.” + +“It is impossible,” murmured Lucy, and then, remembering the +experiences of her own heart, she said: “No—it is just possible.” + +Youth enwrapped them; the song of Phaethon announced passion requited, +love attained. But they were conscious of a love more mysterious than +this. The song died away; they heard the river, bearing down the snows +of winter into the Mediterranean. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW *** + + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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