- char_end
- 634303
- char_start
- 626580
- chunk_index
- 88
- chunk_total
- 108
- estimated_tokens
- 1931
- source_file_key
- pride-and-prejudice
- text
- 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.