Pride and Prejudice

Chapter 59

“My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walk­ing to?” was a ques­tion which Eliz­abeth re­ceived from Jane as soon as she en­tered their 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 se­ri­ous. I want to talk very se­ri­ous­ly. Let me know ev­ery thing 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 up stairs 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 ev­ery thing; 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 ev­ery thing 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. Ev­ery thing 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 apol­ogise for my hav­ing dis­liked him so much be­fore. I hope he will over­look it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Ev­ery thing 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.”