Pride and Prejudice

Chapter 26

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 wis­dom 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 you 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 the 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 down­stairs to­geth­er, Char­lotte said:

“I shall de­pend on hear­ing from you very of­ten, Eliza.”

“THAT you cer­tain­ly shall.”

“And I have an­oth­er favour to ask you. 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 com­ing to me in March,” added Char­lotte, “and I hope you will con­sent to be of the par­ty. In­deed, Eliza, you will be as wel­come 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 had ev­er 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 see them soon 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 judge­ment, 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 must 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 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. But 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 a 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 strug­gle 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 cer­tain­ly should be a more in­ter­est­ing ob­ject to all my ac­quain­tances 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.”