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- pride-and-prejudice
- text
- 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.