[Illustration]

Elizabeth’s impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could no
longer be overcome; and at length resolving to suppress every particular
in which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be surprised,
she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene between Mr.
Darcy and herself.

Miss Bennet’s astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly
partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly
natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was
sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so
little suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved for the
unhappiness which her sister’s refusal must have given him.

“His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,” said she, “and certainly
ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his
disappointment.”

“Indeed,” replied Elizabeth, “I am heartily sorry for him; but he has
other feelings which will probably soon drive away his regard for me.
You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?”

“Blame you! Oh, no.”

“But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?”

“No--I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.”

“But you _will_ know it, when I have told you what happened the very
next day.”

She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far
as they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this for poor Jane,
who would willingly have gone through the world without believing that
so much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind as was here
collected in one individual! Nor was Darcy’s vindication, though
grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery.
Most earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and
seek to clear one, without involving the other.

“This will not do,” said Elizabeth; “you never will be able to make both
of them good for anything. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied
with only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just
enough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting
about pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Mr.
Darcy’s, but you shall do as you choose.”

It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane.

“I do not know when I have been more shocked,” said she. “Wickham so
very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! dear Lizzy,
only consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and
with the knowledge of your ill opinion too! and having to relate such a
thing of his sister! It is really too distressing, I am sure you must
feel it so.”

“Oh no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so full
of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am growing
every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion makes me
saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will be as
light as a feather.”

“Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness in his
countenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner.”

“There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those
two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the
appearance of it.”

“I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it as you
used to do.”

“And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike
to him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one’s genius, such an
opening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually
abusive without saying anything just; but one cannot be always laughing
at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty.”

“Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat
the matter as you do now.”

“Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I was very
uncomfortable--I may say unhappy. And with no one to speak to of what I
felt, no Jane to comfort me, and say that I had not been so very weak,
and vain, and nonsensical, as I knew I had! Oh, how I wanted you!”

“How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions
in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they _do_ appear wholly
undeserved.”

“Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most
natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There is
one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I
ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintance in general understand
Wickham’s character.”

Miss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, “Surely there can be no
occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your own opinion?”

“That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorized me to
make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular
relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to
myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his
conduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is
so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in
Meryton, to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal to
it. Wickham will soon be gone; and, therefore, it will not signify to
anybody here what he really is. Some time hence it will be all found
out, and then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before.
At present I will say nothing about it.”

“You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for
ever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and anxious to
re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate.”

The tumult of Elizabeth’s mind was allayed by this conversation. She
had got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a
fortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she
might wish to talk again of either. But there was still something
lurking behind, of which prudence forbade the disclosure. She dared not
relate the other half of Mr. Darcy’s letter, nor explain to her sister
how sincerely she had been valued by his friend. Here was knowledge in
which no one could partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than
a perfect understanding between the parties could justify her in
throwing off this last encumbrance of mystery. “And then,” said she, “if
that very improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be
able to tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner
himself. The liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost
all its value!”

She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real
state of her sister’s spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a
very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself in
love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and from
her age and disposition, greater steadiness than first attachments often
boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to
every other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the
feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those
regrets which must have been injurious to her own health and their
tranquillity.

“Well, Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet, one day, “what is your opinion _now_ of
this sad business of Jane’s? For my part, I am determined never to speak
of it again to anybody. I told my sister Philips so the other day. But I
cannot find out that Jane saw anything of him in London. Well, he is a
very undeserving young man--and I do not suppose there is the least
chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his
coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have inquired of
everybody, too, who is likely to know.”

[Illustration:

“I am determined never to speak of it again”
]

“I do not believe that he will ever live at Netherfield any more.”

“Oh, well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come; though I
shall always say that he used my daughter extremely ill; and, if I was
her, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure
Jane will die of a broken heart, and then he will be sorry for what he
has done.”

But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation she
made no answer.

“Well, Lizzy,” continued her mother, soon afterwards, “and so the
Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it
will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an
excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her mother,
she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in _their_
housekeeping, I dare say.”

“No, nothing at all.”

“A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes. _They_ will
take care not to outrun their income. _They_ will never be distressed
for money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often
talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it
quite as their own, I dare say, whenever that happens.”

“It was a subject which they could not mention before me.”

“No; it would have been strange if they had. But I make no doubt they
often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an
estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. _I_ should be
ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me.”




[Illustration:

“When Colonel Miller’s regiment went away”

[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]