Pride and Prejudice

The contents threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits. Her vague suspicions that he might have been doing something to forward her sister’s match were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true. He had done all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her heart whispered he had done it for her, but the hope was checked by the thought that even her vanity was insufficient to overcome in him a sentiment so natural as abhorrence against relationship with Wickham. Brother-in-law of Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from the connection. She was ashamed to think how much she owed him. But he had given a reason for his interference that asked no extraordinary stretch of belief; he had liberality and the means of exercising it. Perhaps remaining partiality for her might assist his endeavours. 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.

She was roused by Wickham’s approach. He said they had always been good friends, and now were better. He had heard she had seen Pemberley; she had seen the old housekeeper, Reynolds, very fond of him. “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.” Wickham, biting his lips, was silent, then said he had been surprised to see Darcy in town last month. Elizabeth suggested with a smile that perhaps he was preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh. Wickham asked if she had seen him at Lambton and was told yes. They touched on Kympton, where the living ought to have been his; Wickham praised the parsonage-house. Elizabeth reminded him she had heard from good authority that the living was left him conditionally only, and that he had once declared his resolution of never taking orders. Wickham coloured. Unwilling to provoke him, she only said with a good-humoured smile, “Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let us quarrel about the past.” She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry, and they entered the house.

CHAPTER LIII.

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.

The day of his and Lydia’s departure soon came. Mrs. Bennet was forced to submit to a separation likely to continue at least a twelvemonth. “Oh, my dear Lydia, 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 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. The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days.

Her spiritless condition was shortly relieved by news then beginning to circulate: 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. Philips first brought her the news.

Jane, on hearing of his coming, changed colour. When alone, she said to Elizabeth: “I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy… don’t imagine it was from any silly cause. I was only confused for the moment.” 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 wavered as to the greater probability of his coming with his friend’s permission or being bold enough to come without it. She could easily perceive Jane’s spirits were affected.

Mrs. Bennet told her husband: “As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear, you will wait on him, of course.” “No, no,” said he. “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 how absolutely necessary such an attention would be. “’Tis an etiquette I despise,” said he. “If he wants our society, let him seek it.”

Mr. Bingley arrived. On the third morning after his arrival, Mrs. Bennet saw him from her dressing-room window enter the paddock with—Mr. Darcy. “Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!—and so it does, I vow. Well, any friend of Mr. Bingley’s will always be welcome here; but else I must say that I hate the very sight of him.”

Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. Elizabeth’s astonishment at his coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, voluntarily seeking her again—was almost equal to what she had felt at first witnessing his altered behaviour in Derbyshire. The colour returned to her face, and a smile of delight added lustre to her eyes, as she thought his affection 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.”

Bingley was received with civility that made his friend’s cold and ceremonious politeness by contrast painful to Elizabeth, who knew her mother owed to Darcy the preservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy. Darcy, after inquiring how the Gardiners 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. Mrs. Bennet talked of her daughter’s marriage and her son’s regiment in the north, with various pointed reflections levelled at Darcy. Elizabeth’s misery could hardly keep her in her seat. Yet she received relief from observing how much the beauty of her sister rekindled the admiration of her former lover. When the gentlemen rose, the two Netherfield gentlemen were invited to dine at Longbourn in a few days’ time.