“Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates.”
This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already self-destined for another.
“Mr. Collins,” said she, “speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her daughter, but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman.”
“I believe her to be both in a great degree,” replied Wickham. “I have not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent.”
They continued talking together, with mutual satisfaction till supper put an end to cards, and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr. Wickham’s attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise of Mrs. Philips’s supper party, but his manners recommended him to everybody. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all the way home. There was no time for her even to mention his name as they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were silent once. Lydia talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the fish she had won. Mr. Collins described the civility of Mr. and Mrs. Philips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and had more to say than he could well manage before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House.
Elizabeth went to bed that night with thoughts of the amiable Mr. Wickham filling her head, sure that her mind had finally found an occupation to keep from speculating about Mr. Darcy. She half expected, half hoped, her dreams to be likewise filled with the pleasant man. However, her mind had other plans and instead threw her into a garden where she spent the whole night being chased through a fog by Mr. Darcy. Even though she was conscious of despising him, in the dream she could not recall why, and it was with a pounding heart that she was finally caught. The garden was not more than an impression in the dark; nor did her mind let her see the gentleman’s face. She knew who grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back; felt the hard knot that sometimes formed in her stomach when he came near; experienced a rush of strong emotions that were not all against the gentleman’s favor.
Then her mind did something completely unthinkable. It allowed the very unpleasant Mr. Darcy to kiss her. Elizabeth had read about kisses, and had seen them between some of the servants. That secondhand knowledge had not prepared her for what her dream imagined. The hand on her arm tightened. His lips found hers; every nerve inside her jumped at the contact. Instantly, she awoke to a hint of dawn against her bedroom walls. So vigorous was the dream that sweat adhered her nightgown to her flesh and her limbs were tangled about the covers. The hand she had thought held her arm was really her dressing gown pulled tight.
Elizabeth struggled to get out of bed, as if by moving she could erase the shameful activities of night. Why did her mind torment her so? Why, when it had Mr. Wickham to play with, did it give her Mr. Darcy? Pressing her hand to her mouth, she tried to wipe away the pleasure she had awoken with. The sting lessened; but there was no easy cure for the tingling in her stomach, nor the heat between her thighs.
“You are awake,” said Jane, appearing at the door. “You missed the morning meal, but I told mother you were in a fretful sleep and that perhaps you belatedly caught my cold. We thought it best to let you sleep.”
“I am well,” Elizabeth assured her. “Nothing that a vigorous walk out of doors cannot cure.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ONCE SHE HAD RECOVERED SUFFICIENTLY from her dream, Elizabeth determined to put it far from her mind and never think of kissing Mr. Darcy again. As the rising sun brought some clarity and comfort, she felt reasonably calm by the time she walked back to the house. She related to Jane in great detail what had passed between Mr. Wickham and herself the day before. Jane listened with astonishment and concern. She could not believe Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr. Bingley’s regard, and yet, it was not in her nature to question the veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham.
“They have both,” said Jane, “been deceived, I daresay, in some way or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them, without actual blame on either side.”
“Very true, indeed! Now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say on behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the business? Do clear them too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of somebody.”
“Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father’s favorite in such a manner, one whom his father had promised to provide for. It is impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so excessively deceived in him? I think not.”
“I can more easily believe Mr. Bingley’s being imposed on, than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me last night — names, facts, everything mentioned without ceremony. If it be untrue, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks.”
“Are you sure it was only truth you saw in his looks?” Jane suppressed a small laugh.
“All I care to admit to at the present moment,” said Elizabeth, as she, too, held back a happy giggle. “But he was exceedingly handsome and so very agreeable — much more agreeable than some.”
Jane again turned serious. “It is difficult, indeed it is distressing. One does not know what to think.”
“I beg your pardon, one knows exactly what to think.”
But Jane could think with certainty on only one point — if Mr. Bingley had been imposed on, he would have much to suffer when the affair became public.
The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery, where this conversation passed, by the arrival of the very persons of whom they had been speaking. Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their personal invitation for the long-expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see their dear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and repeatedly asked what she had been doing with herself since their separation. To the rest of the family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to the others. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and hurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet’s civilities.
The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered by receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a ceremonious card. Jane pictured a happy evening in the society of her two friends, and the attentions of their brother. Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr. Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of everything in Mr. Darcy’s look and behavior. The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia depended less on any single event, or any particular person, for though they each meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham, he was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them. A ball was, at any rate, a ball.
Even Mary could assure her family that she had no disinclination for it. “While I can have my mornings to myself, it is enough. I think it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements. Society has claims on us all, and I profess myself one of those who consider int
ervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for everybody.”
Elizabeth’s spirits were so high on this occasion, that though she did not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not help asking him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley’s invitation, and if he did, whether he would think it proper to join in the evening’s amusement. She was rather surprised to find that he entertained no scruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke either from the Archbishop, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to dance.
“I am by no means of the opinion, I assure you,” said he, “that a ball of this kind, given by a young man of character, to respectable people, can have any evil tendency. I am so far from objecting to dancing myself that I shall hope to be honored with the hands of all my fair cousins in the course of the evening. I take this opportunity of soliciting yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially.”
Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed being engaged by Mr. Wickham for those very dances. To have Mr. Collins instead! Her liveliness had never been worse timed. There was no help for it, however. Mr. Wickham’s happiness and her own were perforce delayed a little longer, and Mr. Collins’s proposal accepted with as good a grace as she could. She was not pleased with his gallantry for it hinted of something more. It now first struck her that she was selected from among her sisters as worthy of being mistress of Hunsford Parsonage. The idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed his increasing civilities toward herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a compliment on her wit and vivacity. Though more astonished than gratified by this effect of her charms, it was not long before her mother gave her to understand that the probability of their marriage was extremely agreeable to her. Elizabeth, however, did not choose to take the hint. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and till he did, it was useless to quarrel about him.
If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the younger Miss Bennets would have been in a very 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. Even Elizabeth might have found some trial of her patience in weather which totally suspended the improvement of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham. Nothing less than a dance on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday endurable to Kitty and Lydia.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
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. 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 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. Though this was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was pronounced by his friend 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 wanted 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 sharpened by immediate disappointment. She could hardly reply with tolerable civility to the polite inquiries which Mr. Darcy directly afterwards approached to make. Attendance, 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-humor which she could not wholly surmount even in speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality provoked her.
But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humor. Though every prospect of her own was destroyed for the evening, she could not dwell on it long. 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 first two dances, however, brought a return of distress for 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. He took her so much by surprise in his application for her hand, that, without knowing what she did, she accepted him. Immediately following, an awkward silence passed between them. Elizabeth could not help but think of her dream, and to her discredit she felt heat warming her cheeks. The moment lasted but mere seconds, before he bowed politely and walked away. She was left to fret over her own want of presence of mind.
Charlotte tried to console her, “I daresay you will find him very agreeable.”
“Heaven forbid!” Elizabeth exclaimed with a small laugh, hoping to appear completely unaffected by the man. “That would be the greatest misfortune of all — to find a man agreeable when one is determined to hate him.”
When the dancing recommenced and Darcy approached to claim her hand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her in a whisper, “Do not be a simpleton, Lizzy, and allow your fancy for Wickham to make you appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man ten times his consequence.”
Elizabeth made no answer, and took her place in the set. Her neighbors looked at her in amazement, as she stood opposite to Mr. Darcy. If she were not in better confidence with some of them, she would have thought the ladies of the ball jealous of her dance partner. This she knew to be impossible because Darcy was well-known as an unlikable man, and surely there was nothing to be jealous of.
As soon as she thought it, reasons for their jealousy began to whisper through her thoughts. He was handsome and rich. Those two traits often recommended their master, even if he did not deserve it. Her attention drew to his mouth, unable to stop herself from examining his lips. She was not in the habit of comparing the mouths of men, but she begrudgingly allowed that his was a very fine mouth, with full lips and supported by a strong jaw. Then there were his eyes, deep and blue and full of secrets.
“I know one of your disgraceful secrets, Mr. Darcy,” she thought. Charlotte’s advice kept her from speaking out of turn.
They stood for some time without speaking a word. 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 sort of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.”
He smiled, and assured her, “I will say whatever it is you wish to hear.”
She made an effort not to look at him. Whenever he bestowed one of his rare smiles, it became hard not to think of his mouth. A tiny shiver of anticipation and longing filled her. Why she should feel the slightest bit of attraction for a man as detestable as Darcy was beyond her. Luckily, she was not a slave to her body, but to the logic of her mind, and could well convince her impulses to behave. “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. Yet for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be so arranged, so 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 sarcastically. “I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of us unsocial, with a 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 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.” Despite her better judgment, she found something wholly satisfying in bantering with him.
He made no answer. They were again silent till they had gone down the dance. “Do you walk often to Meryton with your sisters.”
“Yes.” With a cautious glance to where Charlotte Lucas stood in the crowd, she was unable to resist the temptation of adding, “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 for many moments, 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 ensure 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.”
Pride and Prejudice (The Wild and Wanton Edition) Page 12