diff --git a/Week 2/.ipynb_checkpoints/01 Pride and Prejudice(1)-checkpoint.ipynb b/Week 2/.ipynb_checkpoints/01 Pride and Prejudice(1)-checkpoint.ipynb
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+{
+ "cells": [
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "# Analyzing The Picture of Dorian Gray\n",
+    "\n",
+    "Lets use a *Jupyter Notebook* to understand a popular novel.\n",
+    "\n",
+    "![yy](https://d28hgpri8am2if.cloudfront.net/book_images/onix/cvr9781499806250/pride-and-prejudice-9781499806250_lg.jpg \"xx\")\n",
+    "\n",
+    "We start with some initialization code."
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": 2,
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "from datascience import *\n",
+    "import numpy as np\n",
+    "%matplotlib inline\n",
+    "import matplotlib.pyplot as plots\n",
+    "plots.style.use('fivethirtyeight')\n",
+    "import warnings\n",
+    "warnings.simplefilter(action=\"ignore\", category=FutureWarning)\n",
+    "from urllib.request import urlopen \n",
+    "import re\n",
+    "\n",
+    "def read_url(url): \n",
+    "    return re.sub('\\\\s+', ' ', urlopen(url).read().decode())\n",
+    "\n",
+    "def read_file(name):\n",
+    "    return re.sub('\\\\s+', ' ', open(name, \"r\").read())"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "We load a plain text file from the current directory."
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": 6,
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "book = read_url(\"https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/4078/pg4078.txt\")\n",
+    "#book = read_file(\"01_pride_and_prejudice_and_zombies.txt\")\n",
+    "chapters = book.split('CHAPTER ')[1:]"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": 7,
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [
+    {
+     "data": {
+      "text/plain": [
+       "'Pride and Prejudice and Zombies “A FEW OF THE GUESTS, WHO HAD THE MISFORTUNE OF BEING TOO NEAR THE WINDOWS, WERE SEIZED AND FEASTED ON AT ONCE.” PRIDE AND PREJUDICE AND ZOMBIES THE CLASSIC REGENCY ROMANCE–NOW WITH ULTRAVIOLENT ZOMBIE MAYHEM BY JANE AUSTEN AND SETH GRAHAME-SMITH Copyright © 2009 by Quirk Productions, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher. Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Number: 2008937609 eISBN: 978-1-59474-449-5 Designed by Doogie Horner Production management by John J. McGurk Distributed in North America by Chronicle Books 680 Second Street San Francisco, CA 94107 Quirk Books 215 Church Street Philadelphia, PA 19106 www.quirkbooks.com LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS A few of the guests, who had the misfortune of being too near the windows, were seized and feasted on at once. Frontispiece Mr. Darcy watched Elizabeth and her sisters work their way outward, beheading zombie after zombie as they went. page 15 Elizabeth lifted her skirt, disregarding modesty, and delivered a swift kick to the creature’s head. page 29 Two adult unmentionables—both of them male—busied themselves feasting upon the flesh of the household staff. page 81 The wedding took place, and no one other than Elizabeth seemed to suspect the bride’s condition. page 111 “My dear girl,” said her ladyship. “I suggest you take this contest seriously. My ninjas will show you no mercy.” page 131 One of her kicks found its mark, and Darcy was sent into the mantelpiece with such force as to shatter its edge. page 150 The rules were simple: Sneak up behind one of the large bucks grazing in the nearby woods, wrestle it to the ground, and kiss it on the nose before letting it go. page 183 The smoke from Darcy’s musket hung in the air around him, wafting Heavenward through his thick mane of chestnut hair. page 200 “Weak, silly girl! So long as there is life in this old body, you shall never again be in the company of my nephew!” page 291 The creatures were crawling on their hands and knees, biting into ripe heads of cauliflower, which they had mistaken for stray brains. page 303 CHAPTER 1 IT IS A TRUTH universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains. Never was this truth more plain than during the recent attacks at Netherfield Park, in which a household of eighteen was slaughtered and consumed by a horde of the living dead. “My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that Netherfield Park is occupied again?” Mr. Bennet replied that he had not and went about his morning business of dagger sharpening and musket polishing—for attacks by the unmentionables had grown alarmingly frequent in recent weeks. “But it is,” returned she. Mr. Bennet made no answer. “Do you not want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife impatiently. “Woman, I am attending to my musket. Prattle on if you must, but leave me to the defense of my estate!” This was invitation enough. “Why, my dear, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune; that he escaped London in a chaise and four just as the strange plague broke through the Manchester line.” “What is his name?” “Bingley. A single man of four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!” “How so? Can he train them in the ways of swordsmanship and musketry?” “How can you be so tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them.” “Marriage? In times such as these? Surely this Bingley has no such designs.” “Designs! Nonsense, how can you talk so! It is very likely that he may fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as soon as he comes.” “I see no occasion for that. And besides, we mustn’t busy the roads more than is absolutely necessary, lest we lose more horses and carriages to the unfortunate scourge that has so troubled our beloved Hertfordshire of late.” “But consider your daughters!” “I am considering them, silly woman! I would much prefer their minds be engaged in the deadly arts than clouded with dreams of marriage and fortune, as your own so clearly is! Go and see this Bingley if you must, though I warn you that none of our girls has much to recommend them; they are all silly and ignorant like their mother, the exception being Lizzy, who has something more of the killer instinct than her sisters.” “Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves.” “You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard of little else these last twenty years at least.” Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and self-discipline, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. Her mind was less difficult to develop. She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous. And when she was nervous—as she was nearly all the time since the first outbreak of the strange plague in her youth—she sought solace in the comfort of the traditions which now seemed mere trifles to others. The business of Mr. Bennett’s life was to keep his daughters alive. The business of Mrs. Bennett’s was to get them married. CHAPTER 2 MR. BENNET WAS AMONG the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was paid she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following manner. Observing his second daughter employed in carving the Bennett crest in the handle of a new sword, he suddenly addressed her with: “I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.” “We are not in a way to know what Mr. Bingley likes,” said her mother resentfully, “since we are not to visit.” “But you forget, mamma,” said Elizabeth, “that we shall meet him at the next ball.” Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply, but, unable to contain herself, began scolding one of her daughters. “Don’t keep coughing so, Kitty, for Heaven’s sake! You sound as if you have been stricken!” “Mother! What a dreadful thing to say, with so many zombies about!” replied Kitty fretfully. “When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?” “To-morrow fortnight.” “Aye, so it is,” cried her mother, “and it will be impossible to introduce him, since we shall not know him ourselves. Oh, how I wish I had never heard the name Bingley!” “I am sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Bennett. “If I had known as much this morning I certainly would not have called on him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we cannot escape the acquaintance now.” The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of Mrs. Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though, when the first tumult of joy was over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the while. “How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! And it is such a good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning and never said a word about it till now.” “Do not mistake my indulgence for a relaxation in discipline,” said Mr. Bennett. “The girls shall continue their training as ever—Bingley or no Bingley.” “Of course, of course!” cried Mrs. Bennett. “They shall be as deadly as they are fetching!” “Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,” said Mr. Bennet; and, as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife. “What an excellent father you have, girls!” said she, when the door was shut. “Such joys are scarce since the good Lord saw fit to shut the gates of Hell and doom the dead to walk amongst us. Lydia, my love, though you are the youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next ball.” “Oh!” said Lydia stoutly, “I am not afraid; for though I am the youngest, I’m also the most proficient in the art of tempting the other sex.” The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon Mr. Bingley would return Mr. Bennet’s visit, and determining when they should ask him to dinner. CHAPTER 3 NOT ALL THAT Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him in various ways—with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all, and they were at last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next ball with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! “If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,” said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, “and all the others equally well married, I shall have nothing to wish for.” “And if I can see all five of them survive England’s present difficulties, then neither shall I,” he replied. In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet’s visit, and sat about ten minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty and fighting skill he had heard much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more fortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining from an upper window that he wore a blue coat, rode a black horse, and carried a French carbine rifle upon his back—quite an exotic weapon for an Englishman. However, from his clumsy wielding of it, Elizabeth was quite certain that he had little training in musketry or any of the deadly arts. An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley was obliged to be in town the following day, and, consequently, unable to accept the honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to retrieve a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly. The girls grieved over such a number of ladies, but were comforted by hearing that instead of twelve he brought only six with him from London—his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party entered the ball, it consisted of only five altogether—Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and another young man. Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women, with an air of decided fashion, but little in the way of combat training. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien—and the report which was in general circulation within five minutes after his entrance, of his having slaughtered more than a thousand unmentionables since the fall of Cambridge. The gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he was much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great admiration, until his manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud, to be above his company, and above being pleased. Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal people in the room; he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance, was angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving one himself at Netherfield. And though he lacked Mr. Darcy’s proficiency with both sword and musket, such amiable qualities must speak for themselves. What a contrast! Mr. Darcy was the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there again. Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of his general behaviour was sharpened into particular resentment by his having slighted one of her daughters. Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been standing near enough for her to hear a conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes, to press his friend to join it. “Come, Darcy,” said he, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner.” “I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.” “Upon my honour!” cried Mr. Bingley, “I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see uncommonly pretty.” “You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet. “Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable.” “Which do you mean?” and turning round he looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said, “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.” As Mr. Darcy walked off, Elizabeth felt her blood turn cold. She had never in her life been so insulted. The warrior code demanded she avenge her honour. Elizabeth reached down to her ankle, taking care not to draw attention. There, her hand met the dagger concealed beneath her dress. She meant to follow this proud Mr. Darcy outside and open his throat. But no sooner had she grabbed the handle of her weapon than a chorus of screams filled the assembly hall, immediately joined by the shattering of window panes. Unmentionables poured in, their movements clumsy yet swift; their burial clothing in a range of untidiness. Some wore gowns so tattered as to render them scandalous; other wore suits so filthy that one would assume they were assembled from little more than dirt and dried blood. Their flesh was in varying degrees of putrefaction; the freshly stricken were slightly green and pliant, whereas the longer dead were grey and brittle—their eyes and tongues long since turned to dust, and their lips pulled back into everlasting skeletal smiles. A few of the guests, who had the misfortune of being too near the windows, were seized and feasted on at once. When Elizabeth stood, she saw Mrs. Long struggle to free herself as two female dreadfuls bit into her head, cracking her skull like a walnut, and sending a shower of dark blood spouting as high as the chandeliers. As guests fled in every direction, Mr. Bennett’s voice cut through the commotion. “Girls! Pentagram of Death!” Elizabeth immediately joined her four sisters, Jane, Mary, Catherine, and Lydia in the center of the dance floor. Each girl produced a dagger from her ankle and stood at the tip of an imaginary five-pointed star. From the center of the room, they began stepping outward in unison—each thrusting a razor-sharp dagger with one hand, the other hand modestly tucked into the small of her back. From a corner of the room, Mr. Darcy watched Elizabeth and her sisters work their way outward, beheading zombie after zombie as they went. He knew of only one other woman in all of Great Britain who wielded a dagger with such skill, such grace, and deadly accuracy. By the time the girls reached the walls of the assembly hall, the last of the unmentionables lay still. “MR. DARCY WATCHED ELIZABETH AND HER SISTERS WORK THEIR WAY OUTWARD, BEHEADING ZOMBIE AFTER ZOMBIE AS THEY WENT.” Apart from the attack, the evening altogether passed off pleasantly for the whole family. Mrs. Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this as her mother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane’s pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most accomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been fortunate enough never to be without partners, which was all that they had yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they were the principal inhabitants. CHAPTER 4 WHEN JANE AND ELIZABETH WERE ALONE, the former, who had been cautious in her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister just how very much she admired him. “He is just what a young man ought to be,” said she, “sensible, good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners! So much ease, with such perfect good breeding!” “Yes,” replied Elizabeth, “but in the heat of battle, neither he nor Mr. Darcy were to be found with blade or bludgeon.” “Well, I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I did not expect such a compliment.” “He certainly is very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him, despite his lack of gallantry. You have liked many a stupider person.” “Dear Lizzy!” “Oh! You are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general. You never see a fault in anybody. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in your life.” “I would not wish to be hasty in censuring anyone.” “With your good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of others! You like this man’s sisters, too, do you? Their manners are not equal to his.” They were in fact very fine ladies; not deficient in the power of making themselves agreeable when they chose it, but proud and conceited. They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the first private seminaries in town, but knew little of the deadly arts in which she and her own sisters had been so thoroughly trained—both in England, and during their trips to the Orient. As for Mr. Bingley himself, between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of great opposition of character. Bingley was by no means deficient, but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and fastidious, and his manners, though well-bred, were not inviting. In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley was sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually giving offense. But what no one—not even Mr. Bingley—knew, was the reason behind Darcy’s cold demeanor. For until recently, he had been the very picture of pleasantry; a young man of merry disposition and utmost attentiveness. But his nature had been forever altered by a betrayal he had not the stomache to speak of. CHAPTER 5 WITHIN A SHORT THOUGH PERILOUS WALK of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been formerly a maker of fine burial gowns of such stately beauty that the King had seen fit to knight him. He had made a tolerable fortune, until the strange plague had rendered his services unnecessary. Few thought it worth the expense to dress the dead in finery when they would only soil it upon crawling out of their graves. He had removed with his family to a house about a mile from Meryton. Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The eldest of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven, was Elizabeth’s intimate friend. “You began the evening well, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Bennet with civil self-command to Miss Lucas. “You were Mr. Bingley’s first choice.” “Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.” “Oh! You mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice, and because she fought so valiantly against the unmentionables.” “Did not I mention what I heard between him and Mr. Robinson? Mr. Robinson’s asking Mr. Bingley how he liked our Meryton assemblies, and whether he did not think there were many pretty women in the room, and which he thought the prettiest? And his answering immediately to the last question, ‘Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet, beyond a doubt; there cannot be two opinions on that point.’” “Upon my word! Well, that is very decided indeed.” “Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend, is he,” said Charlotte. “Poor Eliza! To be called only tolerable.” “I beg you would not put it into Lizzy’s head to be vexed by his ill-treatment; for he is such a disagreeable man, that it would be quite a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night . . .” Mrs. Bennet’s voice failed her at the thought of poor Mrs. Long, her skull crushed betwixt the teeth of those wretched creatures. The ladies sat in silent contemplation for a few moments. “Miss Bingley told me,” said Jane, finally, “that he never speaks much, unless among his intimate acquaintances. With them he is remarkably agreeable.” “His pride,” said Miss Lucas, “does not offend me so much as pride often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so very fine a young man, with family, fortune, everything in his favour, should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a right to be proud.” “That is very true,” replied Elizabeth, “and I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine. I dare say I would’ve cut his throat had not the unmentionables distracted me from doing so.” “Pride,” observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her reflections, “is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed.” Elizabeth could not help but roll her eyes as Mary continued. “Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.” At this point, Elizabeth let out a most palpable yawn. Though she admired Mary’s bravery in battle, she had always found her a trifle dull in relaxed company. CHAPTER 6 THE LADIES OF LONGBOURN soon waited on those of Netherfield. Jane’s pleasing manners grew on the goodwill of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was found to be intolerable, and the younger sisters not worth speaking to, a wish of being better acquainted with them was expressed towards the two eldest. By Jane this attention was received with the greatest pleasure, but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment of everybody. It was generally evident whenever they met, that Mr. Bingley did admire her and to her it was equally evident that Jane was in a way to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it was not likely to be discovered by the world in general. Elizabeth mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas. “It may perhaps be pleasant,” replied Charlotte, “but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him. In nine cases out of ten a women had better show more affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.” “But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. Remember, Charlotte—she is a warrior first, and a woman second.” “Well,” said Charlotte, “I wish Jane success with all my heart; and if she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a chance of happiness as if she were to be studying his character for a twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance, and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.” “You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it is not sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself.” “Remember, Elizabeth—I am not a warrior as you are. I am merely a silly girl of seven-and-twenty years, and that without a husband.” Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley’s attentions to her sister, Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticize. But no sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she hardly had a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes, and her uncommon skill with a blade. To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had detected more than one failure of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and pleasing, and her arms surprisingly muscular, though not so much as to diminish her femininity. He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards conversing with her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas’s, where a large party were assembled. “What does Mr. Darcy mean,” said she to Charlotte, “by listening to my conversation with Colonel Forster?” “That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.” “Well if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see what he is about. I have not yet forgiven him for insulting my honour, and may yet have his head upon my mantle.” Mr. Darcy approached them soon afterwards. Elizabeth turned to him and said, “Did you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?” “With great energy; but balls are always a subject which makes a lady energetic.” “It depends on who’s throwing them, Mr. Darcy.” “Well,” said Miss Lucas, her faced suddenly flushed, “I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.” “You are a very strange creature by way of a friend! Always wanting me to play and sing before anybody and everybody!” Elizabeth’s performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song or two, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her sister Mary, who, at the end of a long concerto, joined eagerly in dancing with her younger sisters, some of the Lucases, and two or three officers at one end of the room. Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too much engrossed by his thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas stood beside him, till Sir William thus began: “What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy!” “Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world. Every savage can dance. Why, I imagine even zombies could do it with some degree of success.” Sir William only smiled, not sure of how to converse with so rude a gentleman. He was much relieved at the sight of Elizabeth approaching. “My dear Miss Eliza, why are you not dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you.” He took Miss Bennet’s hand and presented it to Mr. Darcy, who was not unwilling to receive it. But she instantly drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William, “Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.” Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested the honour of her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined. She looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not injured her with Mr. Darcy, for indeed he was thinking of her with some complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley: “I can guess the subject of your reverie.” “I should imagine not.” “You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this manner—the insipidity, the noise, the nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all those people! What would I give to hear your strictures on them!” “You conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.” Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy replied: “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” “Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” repeated Miss Bingley. “Defender of Longbourn? Heroine of Hertfordshire? I am all astonishment. You will be having a charming mother-in-law, indeed; and, of course, the two of you would fell many an unmentionable with your combined proficiencies in the deadly arts.” He listened to her with perfect indifference while she chose to entertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced her that all was safe, her wit flowed long. CHAPTER 7 MR. BENNET’S PROPERTY consisted almost entirely in an estate of two thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed, in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and unfortunately for all, was surrounded on all sides by high ground, making it troublesome to defend. Their mother’s fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand pounds. She had a sister married to a Mr. Philips, who had been a clerk to their father and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in London, where he had earned his letters in science, and where he now owned a pair of factories dedicated to the war effort. The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted thither three or four times a week, despite the unmentionables which frequently beset travelers along the road, to pay their duty to their aunt and to a milliner’s shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions; their minds were more vacant than their sisters’, and when nothing better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours, and occasionally, practice their skills. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, wresting coffins from the hardened earth and setting fire to them. Meryton was to be the headquarters. Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge of the officers’ names and connections, and fresh news from the battlefields of Derbyshire, Cornwall, and Essex—where the fighting was at its fiercest. They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr. Bingley’s large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of an ensign, and the excited manner in which he spoke of beheading the stricken with a single touch of his sword. After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr. Bennet coolly observed, “From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but I am now convinced.” “I am astonished, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that you should be so ready to think your own children silly.” “If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of it.” “Yes—but as it happens, they are all of them very clever. You forget how quickly they became proficient in those Oriental tricks you insisted on bestowing them.” “Being practiced enough to kill a few of the sorry stricken does not make them sensible, particularly when their skills are most often applied for the amusement of handsome officers.” “Mamma,” cried Lydia, “my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson’s as they did when they first came; she sees them now very often burning the crypts in Shepherd’s Hill Cemetery.” Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with a note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited for an answer. “Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about?” “It is from Miss Bingley,” said Jane, and then read it aloud. MY DEAR FRIEND, If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives, for a whole day’s tête-à-tête between two women can never end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on receipt of this, provided the road is free of the unmentionable menace. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers. Yours ever, CAROLINE BINGLEY “Dining out,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that is very unlucky, given the troubles on the road to Netherfield.” “Can I have the carriage?” said Jane. “No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to rain; and they spring so easily from the wet earth. I should prefer you have speed at your disposal; besides, if it rains, you must stay all night.” “That would be a good scheme,” said Elizabeth, “if you were sure that they would not offer to send her home.” “I had much rather go in the coach,” said Jane, clearly troubled by the thought of riding alone. “But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are they not?” “They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them, and too many slaughtered upon the road already.” Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her mother attended her to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a bad day. Her hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone long before it rained hard, and the soft ground gave way to scores of the disagreeable creatures, still clad in their tattered finery, but possessing none of the good breeding that had served them so well in life. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was delighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission; Jane certainly could not come back. “This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!” said Mrs. Bennet more than once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the next morning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield brought the following note for Elizabeth: MY DEAREST LIZZY, I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be imputed to my being set upon by several freshly unearthed unmentionables during my ride to Netherfield. My kind friends will not hear of my returning till I am better. They insist also on my seeing Mr. Jones—therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear of his having been to me—and, excepting a few bruises and a minor stab wound, there is not much the matter with me. YOURS, ETC. “Well, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note aloud, “if your daughter should die—or worse, succumb to the strange plague, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of Mr. Bingley, and under your orders.” “Oh! I am not afraid of her dying. People do not die of cuts and bruises. She will be taken good care of.” Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her, though the carriage was not to be had; and as she was no horsewoman, walking was her only alternative. She declared her resolution. “How can you be so silly,” cried her mother, “as to think of such a thing, with so many of them about, and in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get there, assuming you make it alive!” “You forget that I am student of Pei Liu of Shaolin, mother. Besides, for every unmentionable one meets upon the road, one meets three soldiers. I shall be back by dinner.” “We will go as far as Meryton with you,” said Catherine and Lydia. Elizabeth accepted their company, and they set off together, armed only with their ankle daggers. Muskets and Katana swords were a more effective means of protecting one’s self, but they were considered unladylike; and, having no saddle in which to conceal them, the three sisters yielded to modesty. “If we make haste,” said Lydia, as they walked cautiously along, “perhaps we may see something of Captain Carter before he goes.” In Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one of the officers’ wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing over puddles. During this impatient activity, a bootlace came undone. Not wanting to appear unkempt upon her arrival at Netherfield, she knelt down to tie it. There was suddenly a terrible shriek, not unlike that which hogs make while being butchered. Elizabeth knew at once what it was, and reached for her ankle dagger most expeditiously. She turned, blade at the ready, and was met with the regrettable visage of three unmentionables, their arms outstretched and mouths agape. The closest seemed freshly dead, his burial suit not yet discolored and his eyes not yet dust. He lumbered toward Elizabeth at an impressive pace, and when he was but an arm’s length from her, she plunged the dagger into his chest and pulled it skyward. The blade continued upward, cutting through his neck and face until it burst through the very top of his skull. He fell to the ground and was still. The second unmentionable was a lady, and much longer dead than her companion. She rushed at Elizabeth, her clawed fingers swaying clumsily about. Elizabeth lifted her skirt, disregarding modesty, and delivered a swift kick to the creature’s head, which exploded in a cloud of brittle skin and bone. She, too, fell and was no more. The third was unusually tall, and though long dead, still possessed a great deal of strength and quickness. Elizabeth had not yet recovered from her kick when the creature seized her arm and forced the dagger from it. She pulled free before he could get his teeth on her, and took the crane position, which she thought appropriate for an opponent of such height. The creature advanced, and Elizabeth landed a devastating chop across its thighs. The limbs broke off, and the unmentionable fell to the ground, helpless. She retrieved her dagger and beheaded the last of her opponents, lifting its head by the hair and letting her battle cry be known for a mile in every direction. Elizabeth found herself at last within view of the house, with weary ankles, dirty stockings, and a face glowing with the warmth of exercise. She was shown into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of surprise. That she should have walked three miles with so many unmentionables about, in such dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in contempt for it. She was received, however, very politely by them; and in their brother’s manners there was something better than politeness; there was good humour and kindness. Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr. Hurst nothing at all. The former was divided between admiration of the brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as to the occasion’s justifying her to take the great risk of coming alone, with nothing but a dagger between her and death. The latter was thinking only of his breakfast. “ELIZABETH LIFTED HER SKIRT, DISREGARDING MODESTY, AND DELIVERED A SWIFT KICK TO THE CREATURE’S HEAD.” Her inquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered. Miss Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish and not well enough to leave her room. Elizabeth attended her, silently worrying that her beloved sister had caught the strange plague. When breakfast was over, they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth began to like them herself, when she saw how much affection and solicitude they showed for Jane. The apothecary came, and having examined his patient, said, much to the relief of all, that she had caught not the strange plague, but a violent cold, no doubt from doing battle in the rain. When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage. When Jane testified such concern in parting with her, Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer to an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the present. Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was dispatched to Longbourn to acquaint the family with her stay and bring back a supply of clothes, and at Elizabeth’s request, her favourite musket. CHAPTER 8 AT FIVE O’CLOCK Elizabeth retired to meditate and dress, and at half-past six she was summoned to dinner. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing this, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how shocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked being ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter. Their indifference towards Jane when not immediately before them restored Elizabeth to her former dislike. Their brother, Mr. Bingley, was the only one of the party whom she could regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his attentions to herself most pleasing, and they prevented her feeling herself so much an intruder as she believed she was considered by the others. When dinner was over, Elizabeth returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her manners were pronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence; she had no conversation, no style, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst thought the same, and added, “She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being well-schooled in the ways of combat. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really looked almost wild.” “She did, indeed, Louisa. Why must she be scampering about the country in such dangerous times, because her sister had a cold? Her hair, so untidy, so blowsy!” “Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain; and pieces of undead flesh upon her sleeve, no doubt from her attackers.” “Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,” said Bingley; “but this was all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably well when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice.” “You observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley; “and I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see your sister make such an exhibition.” “Certainly not.” “To walk three miles, or whatever it is, above her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! With the unmentionable menace dragging poor souls off the road and to their doom day and night? What could she mean by it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence, a most country-town indifference to decorum.” “It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,” said Bingley. “I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,” observed Miss Bingley in a half whisper, “that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes.” “Not at all,” he replied; “they were brightened by the exercise.” A short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again: “I have an excessive regard for Miss Jane Bennet, she is really a very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it.” “I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney on Meryton.” “Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.” “That is capital,” added her sister, and they both laughed heartily. “If they had uncles enough to fill all Cheapside,” cried Bingley, “it would not make them one jot less agreeable. Have you no regard for them as warriors? Indeed, I have never seen ladies so steady-handed in combat.” “But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any consideration in the world,” replied Darcy. To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their hearty assent. With a renewal of tenderness, however, they returned to Jane’s room on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee. She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her sleep, and when it seemed to her rather right than pleasant that she should go downstairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole party at cards, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting them to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the excuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay below, with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment. “Do you prefer reading to cards?” said he; “that is rather singular.” “I prefer a great many things to cards, Mr. Hurst,” said Elizabeth; “Not the least of which is the sensation of a newly sharpened blade as it punctures the round belly of a man.” Mr. Hurst was silent for the remainder of the evening. “In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,” said Bingley; “and I hope it will be soon increased by seeing her quite well.” Elizabeth thanked him, and then walked towards the table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her others—all that his library afforded. “And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever looked into.” Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in the room. “I am astonished,” said Miss Bingley, “that my father should have left so small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!” “It ought to be good,” he replied, “it has been the work of many generations.” “And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books.” “I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these. What have we to do but stay indoors and read till the cure is at last discovered?” Elizabeth turned her attention away from her book and drew near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game. “Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?” said Miss Bingley; “will she be as tall as I am?” “I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s height, or rather taller.” “How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so extremely accomplished for her age!” “It is amazing to me,” said Bingley, “how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished as they all are.” “All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?” “They all paint tables, cover screens, and net purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished.” “The word is applied,” said Darcy, “to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. My sister Georgiana deserves the distinction, however, for she is not only master of the female arts, but the deadly as well. I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are thus accomplished.” “Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley. “Then, Mr. Darcy,” observed Elizabeth, “you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman.” “A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages; she must be well trained in the fighting styles of the Kyoto masters and the modern tactics and weaponry of Europe. And besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half-deserved. All this she must possess, and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.” “I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing any.” “Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility of all this?” “I never saw such a woman. In my experience, a woman is either highly trained or highly refined. One cannot afford the luxury of both in such times. As for my sisters and I, our dear father thought it best that we give less of our time to books and music, and more to protecting ourselves from the sorry stricken.” Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order. All conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room. “Elizabeth Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, “is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art.” “Undoubtedly,” replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed, “there is a meanness in all the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable.” Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to continue the subject. Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones being sent for immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most eminent physicians. This she would not hear of—it was too dangerous to dispatch a rider at night; but she was willing to comply with their brother’s proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness, however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister. CHAPTER 9 ELIZABETH PASSED THE CHIEF of the night in her sister’s room, and in the morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the inquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid. She requested to have a note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her own judgment of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, but the rider was met with a group of freshly unearthed zombies on the road and dragged off to his presumable demise. The note was dispatched a second time with more success, and its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her two youngest girls and their longbows, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast. Had she found Jane in any apparent danger of having the strange plague, Mrs. Bennet would have been very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She would not listen, therefore, to her daughter’s proposal of being carried home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think it at all advisable. Bingley met them with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected. “Indeed I have, sir,” was her answer. “She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness.” “Removed!” cried Bingley. “It must not be thought of!” Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments. “I am sure,” she added, “if it was not for such good friends I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, no doubt due to her many months under the tutelage of Master Liu.” “Might I expect to meet this gentleman here in Hertfordshire?” asked Bingley. “I rather think you shan’t,” she replied, “for he has never left the confines of the Shaolin Temple in Henan Province. It was there that our girls spent many a long day being trained to endure all manner of discomfort.” “May I inquire as to the nature of this discomfort?” “You may inquire,” said Elizabeth, “though I would much prefer to give you a demonstration.” “Lizzy,” cried her mother, “remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.” “I hardly knew you to possess such character,” said Bingley. “My own character is of little consequence,” replied Elizabeth. “It is the character of others which concerns me. I devote a great many hours to the study of it.” “The country,” said Darcy, “can in general supply but a few subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society.” “Excepting, of course, when the country is overrun with the same unmentionables as town.” “Yes, indeed,” cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood. “I assure you there is quite as much of that going on in the country as in town.” Everybody was surprised, and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment, turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete victory over him, continued her triumph. “I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, particularly since the wall was built. It may be a fortress replete with shops, but it is a fortress nonetheless—and hardly fit for the fragile nerves of a gentle lady. The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is it not, Mr. Bingley?” “When I am in the country,” he replied, “I never wish to leave it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their advantages, both in regards to the plague and otherwise. For while I sleep more soundly in the safety of town, I find my general disposition much improved by my present surroundings.” “Aye—that is because you have the right disposition. But that gentleman,” looking at Darcy, “seemed to think the country was nothing at all.” “Indeed, Mamma, you are mistaken,” said Elizabeth, blushing for her mother. “You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there was not such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in the town, which you must acknowledge to be true. Just as Mr. Darcy would surely acknowledge that the scarcity of graveyards makes the country altogether more agreeable in times such as these.” “Certainly, my dear; but as to not meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four-and-twenty families. Well, three-and-twenty, I suppose—God rest poor Mrs. Long’s soul.” Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth tremble. She longed to speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs. Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part indeed without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to each other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming into the country to give a ball at Netherfield. Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion and good-humoured countenance. She had every bit of Lizzy’s deadly nature, though little of her sense, and had vanquished her first unmentionable at the remarkable age of seven-and-one-half years. She was very equal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this sudden attack was delightful to their mother’s ear. “I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing when she is ill.” Lydia declared herself satisfied. “Oh! Yes—it would be much better to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given your ball,” she added, “I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not.” Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations’ behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of her, in spite of all Miss Bingley’s witticisms on fine eyes. CHAPTER 10 THE DAY PASSED much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing-room. The card table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing their game. Elizabeth took up the oiling of her musket stock, and was sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. “How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!” He made no answer. “You write uncommonly fast.” “And you prattle uncommonly much.” “How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!” “And how odious indeed that I should so often suffer to write them in your company.” “Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.” “I have already told her so once, by your desire.” “How can you contrive to write so even?” He was silent. “Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp; and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table.” “Miss Bingley, the groans of a hundred unmentionables would be more pleasing to my ears than one more word from your mouth. Were you not otherwise agreeable, I should be forced to remove your tongue with my saber.” “Oh! It is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?” “They are generally long; but whether always charming it is not for me to determine.” “It is a rule with me that a person who can write a long letter with ease, cannot write ill.” “That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,” cried her brother, “because he does not write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?” Mr. Darcy continued to work on his letter in silence, though Elizabeth perceived him to be a great deal annoyed with his friends. When that business was over, Mr. Darcy applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth for an indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with some alacrity to the pianoforte; and, after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead the way, she seated herself. Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister as Elizabeth played. When once the earth was still and dead were silent, And London-town was for but living men, Came the plague upon us swift and violent, And so our dearest England we defend. While they were thus employed, Elizabeth could not help observing how frequently Mr. Darcy’s eyes were fixed on her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of admiration to so great a man; and yet that he should look at her because he disliked her, was still more strange. She could only imagine, however, that she drew his notice because there was something more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked him too little to care for his approbation. Miss Bingley played next, varying the charm by a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near Elizabeth, said to her: “Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?” She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some surprise at her silence. “Oh!” said she, “I heard you before, but I could not immediately determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say ‘Yes,’ that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all—and now despise me if you dare.” “Indeed I do not dare.” Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his gallantry; and Darcy had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really believed, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he should be in some danger of falling in love, and were it not for his considerable skill in the deadly arts, that he should be in danger of being bested by hers—for never had he seen a lady more gifted in the ways of vanquishing the undead. Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her great anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received some assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth. She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance. “I hope,” said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery the next day, “you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after officers. And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to check Miss Bennet’s unladylike affinity for guns, and swords, and exercise, and all those silly things best left to men or ladies of low breeding.” “Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?” At that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth herself. “I did not know that you intended to walk,” said Miss Bingley, in some confusion, lest she had been overheard. “You used us abominably ill,” answered Mrs. Hurst, “running away without telling us that you were coming out.” Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness, and immediately said: “This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the avenue.” But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them, laughingly answered: “No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a fourth. Besides, that path is most assuredly rife with zombies, and I have not the inclination to engage in fighting them off to-day. Good-bye.” She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the hope of being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening. CHAPTER 11 WHEN THE LADIES REMOVED after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her sister, and seeing her well, attended her into the drawing-room, where she was welcomed by Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst with many professions of pleasure. Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable as they were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared. Despite their lack of fighting skill, she had to admit that their powers of conversation were considerable. “If only words were capable of beheading a zombie,” she thought, “I would presently find myself in the company of the world’s two greatest warriors.” But when the gentlemen entered, Miss Bingley’s eyes were instantly turned toward Darcy, and she had something to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed himself to Jane, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst also made her a slight bow, and said he was “very glad indeed that it had been but a cold, and not the strange plague.” But the greatest warmth remained for Bingley’s salutation. He was full of joy and attention. The first half-hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she should suffer from the change of room. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to anyone else. Elizabeth took to the small grinding wheel in the corner of the room and watched it all with great delight whilst sharpening the gentlemen’s swords—which she had found embarrassingly dull upon examination. When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the card-table—but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr. Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and the silence of the whole party on the subject seemed to justify her. Mr. Hurst had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch himself on one of the sofas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same; and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with one of Elizabeth’s throwing stars, joined now and then in her brother’s conversation with Miss Bennet. Miss Bingley’s attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr. Darcy’s progress through his book, as in reading her own; and she was perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her question, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, “How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading!” “Spoken like one who has never known the ecstasy of holding a still-beating heart in her hand,” said Darcy. Miss Bingley—who was quite used to having her lack of combat training impugned—made no reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest for some amusement; when hearing her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him and said: “By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield? I would advise you to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure.” “If you mean Darcy,” cried her brother, “he may go to bed, if he chooses, before it begins—but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and as soon as the ground has sufficiently hardened and the present increase in unmentionables has passed, I shall send round my cards.” “I should like balls infinitely better,” she replied, “if they were carried on in a different manner.” “You should like balls infinitely better,” said Darcy, “if you knew the first thing about them.” Elizabeth blushed and suppressed a smile—slightly shocked by his flirtation with impropriety, and slightly impressed that he should endeavor to flirt with it at all. Miss Bingley, ignorant of his meaning, made no answer, and soon afterwards she got up and walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well; but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation of her feelings, she resolved on one effort more, and, turning to Elizabeth, said: “Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude.” Elizabeth needed no such refreshment—she had once been ordered to maintain a handstand for six days in the blistering Beijing sun—but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked up and unconsciously closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing that he could imagine but two motives for their choosing to walk up and down the room together, either of which his joining them would upset. “What could he mean?” She was dying to know what could be his meaning—and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him? “Not at all,” was her answer; “but depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing about it.” Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of such self-discipline, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his two motives. “I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,” said he. “You either choose this method of passing the evening because you are incapable of sitting quietly, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking; if the first, you are but silly girls undeserving of my attention, and if the second, I can admire you much better from here. In fact, the glow of the fire casts quite a revealing silhouette against the fabric of your gowns.” “Oh! Shocking!” cried Miss Bingley, stepping away from the fireplace. “I never heard anything so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?” “I have several ideas on the subject,” said Elizabeth, “but I’m afraid none would meet with the approval of the present party. Have you no insight into his weaknesses, you and he being so intimately acquainted?” “Upon my honour, I do not. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me that. Mr. Darcy possesses calmness of manner, presence of mind, and bravery in battle.” “Yes, but does he not also possess vanity and pride?” “Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed, said Miss Bingley, “but pride—where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.” Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile. “Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,” said Miss Bingley, “and pray what is the result?” “I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect.” “No,” said Darcy, “I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. I have taken many a life for offenses which would seem but trifles to other men.” “That is a failing indeed!” cried Elizabeth. “But you have chosen your fault well, for it is one which I share. I too live by the warrior code, and would gladly kill if my honour demanded it. You are safe from me.” “There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil—a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.” “And your defect, Mr. Darcy, is to hate everybody.” “And yours,” he replied with a smile, “is willfully to misunderstand them.” “Do let us have a little music,” cried Miss Bingley, tired of a conversation in which she had no share. “Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst?” Her sister had not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was opened; and Darcy was not sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention. CHAPTER 12 IN CONSEQUENCE OF AN AGREEMENT between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the next morning to their mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which would exactly finish Jane’s week, could not bring herself to receive them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was disappointing. Mrs. Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage before Tuesday, for it had been badly damaged by errant musket balls during a skirmish between soldiers and a party of the sorry stricken near the encampment at Meryton. This was at least partially true—for the carriage had indeed been caught in a crossfire when Catherine and Lydia used it to visit with a group of officers; but the damage was in fact less severe than Mrs. Bennet suggested. In her postscript it was added that if Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them. Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley’s carriage immediately, and at length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning should be mentioned, and the request made. The request excited many professions of concern; and enough was said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to allow the ground to further harden; and till the morrow their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was then sorry that she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike of Elizabeth much exceeded her affection for Jane. Mr. Bingley heard with real sorrow that they were to go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be safe for her—that she was not enough recovered to fight if the carriage should meet with trouble; but Jane reminded him that Elizabeth was as capable a bodyguard as there was in all of England. To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence—Elizabeth had been at Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked—and Miss Bingley was uncivil to her, and more teasing than usual to himself. He resolved that no sign of admiration should now escape him. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke ten words to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were at one time left by themselves for half an hour, he adhered most conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her. On Sunday, after morning service, the separation took place. Miss Bingley’s civility to Elizabeth increased at last very rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted, after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her to see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield and embracing her most tenderly, she even shook hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of the whole party in the liveliest of spirits. The ride to Longbourn was altogether agreeable, save for a brief encounter with a small herd of zombie children, no doubt from Mrs. Beechman’s Home for Orphans, which had recently fallen along with the entire parish of St. Thomas. Mr. Bingley’s coachman could not help but vomit down the front of his cravat at the sight of the tiny devils grazing on sun-hardened corpses in a nearby field. Elizabeth kept her musket close, lest they advance. But luck was on their side, and the cursed children took no notice of the carriage. They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet thought them very wrong to give so much trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again. Her protests were inflamed by the sight of vomit on the coachman’s cravat—a sure sign that they had encountered unmentionables en route. But their father was truly glad to see them, for the evening sparring sessions had lost much of their animation by the absence of Jane and Elizabeth. They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of human nature; Catherine and Lydia had information for them of a different sort. Much had been done and much had been said in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers had dined lately with their uncle, a private had been flogged for engaging in base acts with a headless corpse, and it had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married. CHAPTER 13 I HOPE, MY DEAR,” said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at breakfast the next morning, “that you have ordered a good dinner to-day, because I have reason to expect an addition to our family party.” “Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am sure, unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in—and I am sure my dinners are good enough for her, since she is an unmarried woman of seven-and-twenty, and as such should expect little more than a crust of bread washed down with a cup of loneliness.” “The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a stranger.” Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled. “A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr. Bingley, I am sure! I shall be extremely glad to see Mr. Bingley. But—good Lord! How unlucky! There is not a bit of fish to be got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell—I must speak to Hill this moment.” “It is not Mr. Bingley, you senseless old cur,” said her husband; “it is a person whom I never saw in the whole course of my life.” After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus explained: “About a month ago I received this letter; and about a fortnight ago I answered it. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases.” “Oh! My dear,” cried his wife, “Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing in the world that your estate should be entailed away from your own children!” Jane and Elizabeth tried to explain that all five of them were capable of fending for themselves; that they could make tolerable fortunes as bodyguards, assassins, or mercenaries if need be. But it was a subject on which Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of reason, and she continued to rail bitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of five daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about. “It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,” said Mr. Bennet, “and nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn. But if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps be a little softened by his manner of expressing himself.” Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, 15th October DEAR SIR, The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured father always gave me much uneasiness. He was a great warrior, as you once were, and I know he looked with fondness upon the days when both of you fought side by side—back when the strange plague was but an isolated inconvenience. Since his passing, I have frequently wished to heal the breach; but for some time I was kept back by my own doubts, fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be on good terms with anyone with whom my father had once vowed to castrate. My mind, however, is now made up on the subject, for having entered the priesthood, I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh . . . “Heavens!” cried Elizabeth, “He works for Lady Catherine!” “Let me finish,” said Mr. Bennet, sternly. . . . whose skill with blade and musket are unmatched, and who has slain more unmentionables than any woman known. As a clergyman, I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of peace in all families. If you should have no objection to receive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o’clock, and shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday following. I remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your well-wisher and friend, WILLIAM COLLINS “At four o’clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman,” said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. “He seems to be a most conscientious and polite young man, and I doubt not will prove a valuable acquaintance, especially in light of his association with Lady Catherine. Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a short, fat young man of five-and-twenty. His air was grave and stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated before he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of daughters; said he had heard much of their beauty, but that in this instance fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he could hardly wait to see a display of their legendary fighting skill. “You are very kind, I am sure; but I should rather see them with husbands than muskets, for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so oddly.” “You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.” “Ah! Sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you must confess.” “I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins, and could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies that I come prepared to admire them. At present I will not say more; but, perhaps, when we are better acquainted—” He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins’s admiration. The hall, the dining-room, and all its furniture, were examined and praised; and his commendation of everything would have touched Mrs. Bennet’s heart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his own future property. The dinner too was highly admired; and he begged to know to which of his fair cousins the excellency of its cookery was owing. Briefly forgetting her manners, Mary grabbed her fork and leapt from her chair onto the table. Lydia, who was seated nearest her, grabbed her ankle before she could dive at Mr. Collins and, presumably, stab him about the head and neck for such an insult. Jane and Elizabeth turned away so Mr. Collins would not see them laughing. He was set right by Mrs. Bennet, who assured him with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a good cook, and that her daughters were too busy training to be bothered with the kitchen. He begged pardon for having displeased Mary. In a softened tone she declared herself not at all offended; but he continued to apologise for about a quarter of an hour. CHAPTER 14 DURING DINNER, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to shine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady Catherine de Bourgh was not only one of the King’s richest servants, but also one of his deadliest. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise, offering that he had never in his life witnessed such self-discipline in a person of rank. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many people he knew, but he had never seen anything but a singular dedication to the art of killing zombies. She had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she made not the smallest objection to his watching her spar nor to his leaving the parish occasionally for a week or two, to visit his relations. She had even advised him to marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion. “I have oft dreamt of watching Lady Catherine spar,” said Elizabeth. “Does she live near you, sir?” “The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane from Rosings Park, her ladyship’s residence.” “I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any family?” “She has only one daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very extensive property.” “Ah!” said Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, “then she is better off than many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she handsome?” “She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says that, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far superior to the handsomest of her sex, because there is that in her features which marks the young lady of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has prevented her from following her mother’s example in regards to the deadly arts. I fear can she hardly lift a saber, let alone wield one with such skill as Her Ladyship.” “Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at court.” “Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine one day, has deprived the British court of its brightest ornament. You may imagine that I am happy to offer these little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to ladies.” “You judge very properly,” said Mr. Bennet. “May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?” “They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible.” Mr. Bennet’s expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance. When tea was over, Mr. Bennet was glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but, on beholding it (for everything announced it to be from a circulating library), he started back, and begging pardon, protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at him, and Lydia exclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he chose Fordyce’s Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she interrupted him with: “Do you know, mamma, that my Uncle Philips talks of an additional battalion coming to join Colonel Forster’s? My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about it, assuming one of my sisters is willing to join me.” Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said: “I have often observed how little young ladies are uninterested by books of a serious stamp. I will no longer importune my young cousin.” Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised for Lydia’s interruption, which, claimed Mrs. Bennet, would have earned her ten wet bamboo lashes had she still been under the tutelage of Master Liu. They promised that it should not occur again, if he would resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his young cousin no ill-will, and should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for backgammon. CHAPTER 15 MR. COLLINS WAS NOT a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of his life having been spent under the guidance of a brave but illiterate father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he had oft borne the condemnation of his peers for a perceived lack of bloodlust. The subjection in which his father had brought him up had given him much knowledge of the art of combat; but it was a good deal counteracted by his weak head, fleshy figure, and now, the ease of his current patronage. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who had been forced to behead her previous rector when he succumbed to the walking death. Having now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended to marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had a wife in view, as he meant to choose one of the daughters, if he found them as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report. This was his plan of amends—of atonement—for inheriting their father’s estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and suitableness, and excessively generous on his own part. His plan did not vary on seeing them. The eldest daughter’s lovely face and striking muscle tone confirmed his views, and for the first evening she was his settled choice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a quarter of an hour’s tête-à-tête with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a conversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally to the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress might be found for it at Longbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on. As to her younger daughters, she could not take upon her to say—she could not positively answer—but she did not know of any prepossession; her eldest daughter, she must just mention—she felt it incumbent on her to hint, was likely to be very soon engaged. Elizabeth, equally next to Jane in birth and beauty, and perhaps surpassing her in skill, succeeded her of course. Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have two daughters married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of the day before was now high in her good graces. Lydia’s intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every sister except Mary agreed to go with her, determined that she survive the trip. Mr. Collins was to attend them, at the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him, and have his library to himself. Mr. Collins used the walk to Meryton to his advantage, spending most of it at the side of Elizabeth—who was watching the surrounding woods, prepared to meet to first sign of trouble with her Brown Bess. Jane and the others followed behind, their muskets also thus engaged. Mr. Collins, who fancied himself a man of peace, carried neither barrel nor blade; he happily puffed away on his ivory and chestnut pipe—“a gift from her ladyship,” he boasted at every opportunity. They were scarcely a quarter mile past the old croquet grounds, when Elizabeth first caught the scent of death. Seeing her body tense, the other girls raised their muskets and closed ranks, ready to meet an attack from any direction. “Is . . . is there some sort of trouble?” asked Mr. Collins, who suddenly looked as if he might faint. Elizabeth pressed a finger to her lips, and motioned for her sisters to follow. She led them along a set of carriage tracks, her footsteps so light as to leave even the smallest grain of sand undisturbed. The tracks continued for a few yards before suddenly veering toward the woods, where broken branches signaled the very spot it had left its wheels and plummeted into the ravine that paralleled one side of the road. Elizabeth peered over the side. Some twenty yards below, eight or nine blood-soaked zombies crawled over a shattered wagon and its leaking barrels. Most of them were busy picking at the innards of the carriage horse; but one happy dreadful was scooping the last morsels from the broken skull of the driver—a young girl the sisters recognized at once. “Good Heavens!” whispered Jane. “Penny McGregor! Oh! Poor, miserable girl! How often we warned her not to ride alone!” Penny McGregor had delivered lamp oil to Longbourn, and most of the estates within thirty miles of Meryton, since she was scarcely old enough to talk. The McGregors owned a modest home not far from town, where they daily received cartfuls of whale blubber, and processed it into lamp oil and fine perfumes. The smell was unbearable, especially during summer; but their goods were desperately needed, and the McGregors were known to be among the most pleasant people in all of Hertfordshire. “God have mercy on that wretched girl,” said Mr. Collins, who had joined them. “Can’t we just be on our way?” asked Lydia. “There’s no helping her now. Besides, think of how dirty our dresses will get if we have to fight in that awful ravine.” As Jane expressed her shock at such a sentiment, and Kitty argued in favor of it, Elizabeth took the pipe from Mr. Collins’ mouth, blew on the glowing tobacco, and threw it over the side. “That was a gift from her ladyship!” he cried, loud enough to draw the attention of the zombies below. They looked up and let loose their terrible roars, which were cut short by a violent, fiery explosion as pipe and oil met. Suddenly engulfed, the zombies staggered about, flailing wildly and screaming as they cooked. Jane raised her Brown Bess, but Elizabeth pushed the barrel aside. “Let them burn,” she said. “Let them have a taste of eternity.” Turning to her cousin, who had averted his eyes, she added, “You see, Mr. Collins . . . God has no mercy. And neither must we.” Though angered by her blasphemy, he thought better of saying anything on the matter, for he saw in Elizabeth’s eyes a kind of darkness; a kind of absence—as if her soul had taken leave, so that compassion and warmth could not interfere. Upon entering Meryton, after stopping at the McGregors to deliver the unhappy news, the eyes of the younger ones were immediately wandering up in the street in quest of the officers, and nothing less than a very smart bonnet indeed, or the wail of the undead, could recall them. But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom they had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking with another officer on the other side of the way. The other officer, Mr. Denny, was known to Lydia, and he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the stranger’s air, all wondered who he could be; and Kitty and Lydia, determined to find out, led the way across the street, under pretense of wanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained the pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, had reached the same spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated permission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with him the day before from town, and he was happy to say had accepted a commission in their corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the young man wanted only regimentals to make him completely charming. His appearance was greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation—a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the whole party were still standing and talking together very agreeably, when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley were seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the ladies of the group, the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and began the usual civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and Jane Bennet the principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to Longbourn on purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated it with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by the sight of the stranger. Elizabeth happened to see the countenance of both as they looked at each other, so slight as to escape all but her highly trained eye. Both changed colour, one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few moments, touched his hat—a salutation which Mr. Darcy just deigned to return. Elizabeth could tell by the miniscule twitches of Darcy’s sword hand that he had briefly flirted with the notion of drawing his blade. What could be the meaning of it? In another minute, Mr. Bingley, without seeming to have noticed what passed, took leave and rode on with his friend. Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of Mr. Philips’s house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia’s pressing entreaties that they should come in, and even in spite of Mrs. Philips’s throwing up the parlour window and loudly seconding the invitation. Mrs. Philips was always glad to see her nieces; and the two eldest, from their recent absence, were particularly welcome. Her civility was claimed towards Mr. Collins by Jane’s introduction of him. She received him with her very best politeness, which he returned with as much more, apologising for his intrusion, without any previous acquaintance with her. Mrs. Philips was quite awed by such an excess of good breeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon put to an end by exclamations and inquiries about the other; of whom, however, she could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that Mr. Denny had brought him from London, and that he was to have a lieutenant’s commission in the regiment which was presently engaged to the North. She had been watching him the last hour, she said, as he walked up and down the street, and had Mr. Wickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued the occupation, but unluckily no one passed windows now except a few of the officers, who, in comparison with the stranger, were become “stupid, disagreeable fellows.” Some of them were to dine with the Philipses the next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr. Wickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn would come in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Philips protested that they would have a little bit of hot supper, and a nice comfortable noisy game of Crypt and Coffin. The prospect of such delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass between the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either or both, had they appeared to be in the wrong, she could no more explain such behaviour than her sister. CHAPTER 16 AS NO OBJECTION was made to the young people’s engagement with their aunt, the coach conveyed Mr. Collins and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton. As they passed the croquet grounds and the scorched acre of woods that marked Penny McGregor’s final resting place, the idle chatter that had engaged them thus far was suddenly ended; for all six could think of nothing but the news which had only that morning reached them at Longbourn. Penny’s father, mad with grief, had thrown himself into a vat of boiling perfume. By the time his apprentices pulled him out, he had been badly disfigured and rendered blind. Doctors were unsure if he would survive, or if the stench would ever leave him. All sat in reverent silence until they reached the outskirts of Meryton. Upon reaching their destination, Mr. Collins was at leisure to look around him and admire, and he was so much struck with the size and furniture of the apartment, that he declared he might almost have supposed himself in one of Lady Catherine’s drawing-rooms. Mrs. Philips felt all the force of the compliment, being herself quite aware of Lady Catherine’s proclivity for slaying the sorry stricken, which, she dare thought, exceeded that of her own nieces’. In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her mansion, which had received considerable improvements, including a grand dojo, and new quarters for her private guard of ninjas, Mr. Collins was happily employed until the gentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs. Philips a very attentive listener, whose opinion of his consequence increased with what she heard, and who was resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as soon as she could. To the girls, who could not listen to their cousin without taking a silent inventory of the countless ways they could kill him, the interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last, however. The gentlemen did approach, and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room, Elizabeth felt as if she had just been stunned by a devastating roundhouse kick. Such was his effect on her—that those traits of her sex, despite all her training, remained susceptible to influence. The officers of the shire were in general a very creditable, gentlemanlike set; but Mr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and walk, as they were superior to the broad-faced, stuffy Uncle Philips, breathing port wine, who followed them into the room. Mr. Wickham was the happy man toward whom almost every female eye was turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into conversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, made her feel that the commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered interesting by the skill of the speaker. With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham and the officers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; to the young ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a kind listener in Mrs. Philips, and was by her watchfulness, most abundantly supplied with coffee and muffin. When the card-tables were placed, he had the opportunity of obliging her in turn, by sitting down to Crypt and Coffin. Mr. Wickham did not play at Crypt and Coffin, and with ready delight was he received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there seemed danger of Lydia’s engrossing him entirely, for she was a most determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of cards, she soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager to know whether players would find their “crypts” eerily empty or their “coffins” happily full. Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear him, though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told—the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in a hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there. “About a month,” said Elizabeth. “He is a man of many kills, I understand.” “Yes,” replied Mr. Wickham; “his talent as a warrior is above reproach. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself, for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy.” Elizabeth could not but look surprised. “You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as a lady of your training probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?” “As much as I ever wish to be,” cried Elizabeth very warmly. “I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very disagreeable.” “I have no right to give my opinion,” said Wickham, “as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for me to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish—and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else, other than here in your own family.” “Upon my word, I say no more here than I might say in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. I hope your plans in favour of the shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.” “Oh! No—it is not for me to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If he wishes to avoid seeing me, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding him. We are, after all, both warriors—and it is beneath the honour of a warrior to shrink from the sight of any man. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best zombie slayers that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I believe I could forgive him anything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father.” Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented further inquiry. Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, excluding of course the ever-increasing number of unmentionables—no doubt a direct consequence of Manchester’s collapse. “A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made it unavoidable, as they have for so many who intended otherwise with their lives. The church ought to have been my profession—I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now.” “Indeed!” “Yes—the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when he was slain in the Second Battle of Kent, it was given elsewhere.” “Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth; “but how could that be? How could his will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal redress?” “There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it—or to treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence—in short anything or nothing. But the fact is, that we are very different sort of men, and that he hates me.” “This is quite shocking! He deserves to be felled at the end of a Zatoichi Cane Sword!” “Some time or other he will be—but it shall not be by me. Till I can forget his father, I can never expose him or challenge him to duel.” Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than ever as he expressed them. “But what,” said she, after a pause, “can have been his motive? What can have induced him to behave so cruelly?” “A thorough, determined dislike of me—a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father’s uncommon attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early in life. He could find no fault with me, and I dare say it drove Darcy to resent my very existence. And when his father passed, he saw his opportunity to punish me for years of perceived injustice.” “I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this—though I have never liked him. I never suspected him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this.” Mr. Wickham related to Elizabeth a tale from his youth, which he believed best illustrated the nature of that inhumanity. When he and Darcy were both boys of no more than seven years, the elder Darcy had taken a keen interest in their training. One day, during a daybreak spar, the young Wickham landed a severe kick, which sent Darcy to the ground. The elder Darcy implored Wickham to “finish” his son with a blow to the throat. When the boy protested, the elder Darcy—rather than punishing him for insolence, praised his generosity of spirit. The young Darcy, embarrassed more by his father’s preference than his own defeat, attacked Wickham when his back was turned—sweeping his legs with a quarterstaff, and shattering the bones of both. It was nearly a year before he walked without the aid of a cane. “Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?” “Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the poor. He has also brotherly pride, which, with some brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian of his sister.” “What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?” He shook his head. “I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother—very, very proud. As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and, I understand, highly skilled in the deadly arts. Since her father’s death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her training.” After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not help reverting once more to the first, and saying: “I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley, who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other? Do you know Mr. Bingley?” “Not at all.” “He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr. Darcy is.” The Crypt and Coffin party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other table and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips. The usual inquiries as to his success was made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had found the majority of his crypts quite full of zombies; but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged that she would not make herself uneasy. “I know very well, madam,” said he, “that when persons sit down to a game of Crypt and Coffin, they must take their chances of these things, and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters.” Mr. Wickham’s attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation was very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” she replied, “has very lately given him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long.” “You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy.” “No, indeed, I did not. I knew only of Lady Catherine’s claim to quieting more of Satan’s servants than any woman in England.” “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 Mr. Darcy himself, unaware that he was already destined for another. “Mr. Collins,” said Elizabeth, “speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her daughter; but I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his patroness and a great warrior, 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. She has the reputation of being remarkably skilled; but I rather believe she derives part of her fame from her rank and fortune.” Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and 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; but there was not time for her even to mention his name as they went, for she and her sisters could hear the groans of unmentionables echoing through the pitch black woods on either side of the carriage. They were distant enough so as not to arouse a fear of imminent attack, but close enough to necessitate a minimum of noise. They rode in silence, the girls with their firearms resting neatly on their laps. For once, Mr. Collins could not be persuaded to make a sound. CHAPTER 17 ELIZABETH RELATED TO JANE the next day what had passed between Mr. Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern; she knew not how to believe that 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. The possibility of his having his legs shattered was enough to interest all her tender feelings; and nothing remained to be done, but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each, and throw into the account of accident or mistake whatever could not be otherwise explained. “They have both,” said she, “been deceived in some way or other. Interested people have perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is impossible for us to conjecture the causes which may have alienated them, without actual blame on either side.” “Very true, indeed; and 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 favourite in such a manner, one whom his father had trained in the deadly arts and promised to provide for. It is impossible.” “I can much 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 not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks.” “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—that Mr. Bingley, if he had been imposed on, would have much to suffer when the affair became public, and may even feel a duel necessary to restore his honour. She could hardly bear the thought. The two young ladies were summoned from the dojo, 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. Jane and Elizabeth were embarrassed to receive callers in their sparring gowns, but their unusual appearance did not deter the ladies from being delighted to see them—particularly, their dear friend Jane. The ladies 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 to herself a happy evening in the society of her two friends, and the attentions of their brother; and 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. 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; and 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,” said he, “that a ball of this kind, given by a young man of character, can have any evil tendency; and I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins in the course of the evening; and I take this opportunity of soliciting yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially, a preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right cause, and not to any disrespect for her.” Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed being engaged by Mr. Wickham for those very dances; and 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 soon after afflicted with a most palpable urge to vomit, and politely cupped her hands lest the sight of her sick distress the present party. Thankfully, the urge subsided quickly, but the realization that invited it remained. Did this fat little priest mean to take her as a wife? She was horrified at the thought of marrying of man whose only skill with a blade was cutting slivers of gorgonzola. If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for, the younger Miss Bennets would have been in a very pitiable state, 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. The earth was again soft, and the dead numerous. 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; and nothing less than a dance on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday endurable to Kitty and Lydia. CHAPTER 18 TILL ELIZABETH ENTERED the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of redcoats 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 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 Denny, who told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business the day before, to attend a demonstration of a new carriage that boasted of being impervious to attacks by the manky dreadfuls. This assured Elizabeth that Darcy was not answerable for Wickham’s absence, and her every feeling of displeasure against the former was sharpened by immediate disappointment. She was resolved against any sort of conversation with him. Having told all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she had not seen for a week, Elizabeth 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; they were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and uncommonly round, 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. “If Master Liu had seen such a lapse of awareness! Twenty lashes at least, and another twenty trips up and down the thousand steps of Kwan Hsi!” “I dare say you will find Mr. Darcy very agreeable,” Charlotte tried to console her. “Heaven forbid! That would be the greatest misfortune of all!” 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 ten times his consequence. Elizabeth made no answer, and took her place in the set. 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 sort 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.” “On the contrary, I find that balls are much more enjoyable when they cease to remain private.” Elizabeth could not help but blush, but she was determined that her face betray not the slightest hint of amusement. Instead, she added archly; “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, or be regarded as uncommonly clever.” “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 meet with zombies on their walks 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 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 his ability to walk for a twelvemonth, I understand.” 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, for she is as ferocious as she is fetching! I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Eliza (glancing at her sister and Bingley) shall take place. What congratulations will then flow in! But let me not interrupt you, sir. You will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching young lady. Oh! To think of the ways her many skills could be put to amorous employ!” Darcy directioned his eyes with a very serious expression toward Bingley and Jane, who were dancing together. Recovering himself, however, he turned to his partner, and said, “Sir William’s interruption has made me forget what we were talking of.” “I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have interrupted two people in the room who had less to say for themselves. We have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.” “What think you of Orientals?” said he, smiling. “Orientals—oh! No. I am sure we never met the same, or had the same feelings toward them.” “But if that be the case, we may compare our different opinions. I think them a strange lot—both in appearance and custom, though having studied solely in Japan, I admit that the opinion may be incomplete. I should be most interested to hear of your time in the company of Chinamen.” “No—I cannot talk of Orientals in a ball-room; my head is always full of something else.” “The present always occupies you in such scenes—does it?” “Yes, always,” she replied, without knowing what she said, for her thoughts had wandered far from the subject—to the pain of Master Liu’s glowing brand searing her flesh; to sparring matches with her sisters atop a beam no wider than their swords, as pikes waited to punish an ill-placed foot below. Her mind returning to the present, she suddenly exclaimed, “I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its being created.” “I am,” said he, with a firm voice. “And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?” “I hope not.” “It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.” “May I ask to what these questions tend?” “Merely to the illustration of your character,” said she, endeavouring to shake off her gravity. “I am trying to make it out.” “And what is your success?” She shook her head. “I do not get on at all. I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.” “I can readily believe,” answered he gravely, “that reports may vary greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment.” “But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity.” “I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” he coldly replied. She said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in silence; and on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree, for in Darcy’s breast there was a tolerable powerful feeling toward her, which soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against another. Elizabeth then sought her eldest sister. “I want to know what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But perhaps you have been too pleasantly engaged to think of any third person; in which case you may be sure of my pardon.” “No,” replied Jane, “I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of his history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which have principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the good conduct, the probity, and honour of his friend. I am sorry to say by his account, Mr. Wickham is by no means a respectable young man.” “Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?” “No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.” “I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley’s sincerity,” said Elizabeth warmly; “but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances only. Mr. Bingley’s defense of his friend was a very able one, but since he is unacquainted with several parts of the story, I shall venture to still think of both gentlemen as I did before.” She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each. Elizabeth listened with delight to the happy, though modest hopes which Jane entertained of Mr. Bingley’s regard, and said all in her power to heighten her confidence in it. On their being joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew to Miss Lucas; to whose inquiry after the pleasantness of Darcy she had scarcely replied, before her fat cousin Mr. Collins came up to them, and told her with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as to make a most important discovery. “Ah! May I suppose, then, that you have discovered the location of the buffet?” said Elizabeth, rudely. “No! I have found out,” said he, “by a singular accident, that there is now in the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to overhear the gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who does the honours of the house the names of his cousin Miss de Bourgh, and of her mother Lady Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would have thought of my meeting with, perhaps, a nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in this assembly! I am most thankful that the discovery is made in time for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to do.” “You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy!” “Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it earlier. I believe him to be Lady Catherine’s nephew.” Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme, assuring him that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without introduction as an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment to his aunt; that it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in consequence, to begin the acquaintance. When Elizabeth ceased speaking, Mr. Collins replied thus: “My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world in your excellent judgment in all matters within the scope of your understanding, particularly in the slaying of Satan’s armies; but permit me to say, that there must be a wide difference between the established forms of ceremony amongst the laity, and those which regulate the clergy. After all, you may wield God’s sword, but I wield His wisdom. And it is wisdom, dear cousin, which will ultimately rid us of our present difficulties with the undead.” “You will excuse me for saying so, but I have never seen a zombie’s head taken off by words—nor do I ever expect to.” “You must allow me to follow the dictates of my conscience on this occasion, which leads me to perform what I look on as a point of duty.” With a low bow he left her to attack Mr. Darcy, whose reception of his advances she eagerly watched, and whose astonishment at being so addressed was very evident. Her cousin prefaced his speech with a solemn bow, and though she could not hear a word of it, she felt as if hearing it all, and saw in the motion of his lips the words “apology,” “Hunsford,” and “Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” It vexed her to see him expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him with unrestrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him time to speak, replied with an air of distant civility. Mr. Collins, however, was not discouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy’s contempt seemed abundantly increasing with the length of his second speech, and at the end of it he only made him a slight bow, and moved another way. As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she turned her attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley. She saw her in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection could bestow; and she felt capable, under such circumstances, of endeavouring even to like Bingley’s two sisters. Her mother’s thoughts were plainly bent the same way, and she determined not to venture near her, lest she suffer her endless prattling. When they sat down to supper, therefore, Elizabeth considered it a most unlucky perverseness which placed them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to find that her mother was talking to Lady Lucas freely, openly, and of nothing else but her expectation that Jane would soon be married to Mr. Bingley. It was an animating subject, and Mrs. Bennet seemed incapable of fatigue while enumerating the advantages of the match. His being such a charming young man, and so rich, and living but three miles from them, were the first points of self-gratulation; and then it was such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of Jane, and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as she could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her younger daughters, as Jane’s marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of other rich men. “Oh! What joy to see them all thus provided for! To see them entertaining at their own estates; raising their own children, instead of all this silly training and fighting.” She concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be equally fortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing there was no chance of it. In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her mother’s words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible whisper; for, to her inexpressible vexation, she could perceive that the chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to them. Her mother only scolded her for being nonsensical, her breath thick with meat and port. “What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say nothing he may not like to hear.” “For heaven’s sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be for you to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to his friend by so doing!” Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Elizabeth blushed and blushed again with shame and vexation. She could not help frequently glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though every glance convinced her of what she dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her mother, she was convinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression of his face changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and steady gravity. At length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady Lucas, who had been long yawning at the repetition of delights which she saw no likelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts of cold ham and chicken. Elizabeth now began to revive. But not long was the interval of tranquillity; for, when supper was over, not a servant was to be found to attend to their empty plates. Seeing his guests grow restless, Mr. Bingley rose from his seat and excused himself—no doubt to scold his steward for the embarrassment. Upon his return, Elizabeth promptly reached for her ankle dagger. Mr. Bingley’s white face and troubled countenance were enough to solicit such a reaction. “Mr. Darcy, if I may have the pleasure of your company in the kitchen,” said Bingley. Darcy rose, taking care not to move too quickly, lest he alarm the guests. Elizabeth took it upon herself to follow him. When Darcy took notice of this, he turned to her and said, in a whisper, “Miss Bennet, I would much prefer you took your seat. I am quite capable of attending to Mr. Bingley myself.” “Of that I have no doubt, Mr. Darcy. Just as I have no doubt in my ability to form my own opinion on the matter. Now, do you wish to cause a stir, or shall we to the kitchen?” Mr. Bingley led the two of them down a hidden staircase and into the cellar, which was divided into two halves by a long corridor—one side belonging to the servants’ quarters and armory, the other to the exercise parlor and kitchen. It was in the latter that a most unfortunate sight awaited them. Two adult unmentionables—both of them male—busied themselves feasting upon the flesh of the household staff. How two zombies could have killed a dozen servants, four maids, two cooks, and a steward was beyond Elizabeth’s comprehension, but she knew precisely how they had gotten in: The cellar door had been opened to let in the cool night air and relieve the oppression of the woodstoves. “Well, I suppose we had ought to take all of their heads, lest they be born to darkness,” she said. Mr. Bingley observed the desserts his poor servants had been attending to at the time of their demise—a delightful array of tarts, exotic fruits, and pies, sadly soiled by blood and brains, and thus unusable. “I don’t suppose,” said Darcy, “that you would give me the honour of dispensing of this unhappy business alone. I should never forgive myself if your gown were soiled.” “The honour is all yours, Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth thought she detected the slightest smile on his face. She “TWO ADULT UNMENTIONABLES—BOTH OF THEM MALE—BUSIED THEMSELVES FEASTING UPON THE FLESH OF THE HOUSEHOLD STAFF.” watched as Darcy drew his blade and cut down the two zombies with savage yet dignified movements. He then made quick work of beheading the slaughtered staff, upon which Mr. Bingley politely vomited into his hands. There was no denying Darcy’s talents as a warrior. “If only,” she thought, “his talents as a gentleman were their equal.” When they returned to the ball, they found the spirits of the others very much disturbed. Mary was entertaining them at the pianoforte, her shrill voice testing the patient ears of all present. Elizabeth looked at her father to entreat his interference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the hint, and when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud: “That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough. Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit.” To Elizabeth it appeared that, had her family made an agreement to embarrass themselves as much as they could during the evening, it would have been impossible for them to play their parts with more success. The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was teased by Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her side, and though he could not prevail on her to dance with him again, he put it out of her power to dance with others, by using his thick middle to hide her from view. In vain did she offer to introduce him to any young lady in the room. He assured her, that he was perfectly indifferent to it; that his chief object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to her and that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. She owed her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often joined them, and good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins’s conversation to herself. She was at least free from the offense of Mr. Darcy’s further notice; though often standing within a very short distance of her, quite disengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She felt it to be the probable consequence of her allusions to Mr. Wickham, and rejoiced in it. When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn, and addressed herself especially to Mr. Bingley, to assure him how happy he would make them by eating a family dinner with them at any time, without the ceremony of a formal invitation. Bingley was all grateful pleasure, and he readily engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on her, after his return from London, whither he was obliged to go the next day for a meeting of the Society of Gentlemen for a Peaceful Solution to Our Present Difficulties, of which he was a member and patron. Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied, and quitted the house under the delightful persuasion that she should see her daughter settled at Netherfield, her weapons retired forever, in the course of three or four months. Of having another daughter married to Mr. Collins, she thought with equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal, pleasure. Elizabeth was the least dear to her of all her children; and though the man and the match were quite good enough for her, the worth of each was eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield. CHAPTER 19 THE NEXT DAY opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his declaration in form. On finding Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together, soon after breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words: “May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth, when I solicit for the honour of a private audience with her in the course of this morning?” Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise, Mrs. Bennet answered instantly, “Oh dear! Yes—certainly. I am sure Lizzy will be very happy—I am sure she can have no objection. Come, Kitty, I want you upstairs.” And, gathering her work together, she was hastening away, when Elizabeth called out: “Dear madam, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must excuse me. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not hear. I am going away myself.” “No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you to stay where you are.” And upon Elizabeth’s seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about to escape, she added: “Lizzy, I insist upon your staying and hearing Mr. Collins.” Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as soon as they were gone, Mr. Collins began. “Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty adds to your other perfections. You would have been less amiable in my eyes had there not been this little unwillingness; but allow me to assure you, that I have your respected mother’s permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the purport of my discourse, for however preoccupied you might be with hastening the Devil’s retreat—for which I earnestly applaud you—my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as soon as I entered the house, I singled you out as the companion of my future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this subject, perhaps it would be advisable for me to state my reasons for marrying—and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with the design of selecting a wife, as I certainly did.” The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run away with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing, that she could not use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him further, and he continued: “My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for every clergyman to set the example of matrimony in his parish. Secondly, that I am convinced it will add very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly, that it is the particular advice and recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness. It was but the very Saturday night before I left Hunsford that she said, ‘Mr. Collins, you must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose a gentlewoman for my sake; and for your own, let her be an active, useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.’ Allow me, by the way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice and kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the advantages in my power to offer. You will find her powers of combat beyond anything I can describe; and your own talents in slaying the stricken, I think, must be acceptable to her, though naturally, I will require you to retire them as part of your marital submission.” It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now. “You are too hasty, sir,” she cried. “You forget that I have made no answer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my thanks for the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than to decline them.” “I am not now to learn,” replied Mr. Collins, “that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second, or even a third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.” “You forget, sir, that I am a student of Shaolin! Master of the seven-starred fist! I am perfectly serious in my refusal. You could not make me happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who could make you so. Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the situation, for I am a warrior, sir, and shall be until my last breath is offered to God.” “Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,” said Mr. Collins very gravely, “but I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all disapprove of you. And you may be certain when I have the honour of seeing her again, I shall speak in the very highest terms of your modesty, economy, and other amiable qualification.” “Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You must give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment of believing what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise.” And rising as she thus spoke, she would have quitted the room, had Mr. Collins not thus addressed her: “When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the subject, I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given me. I know it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on the first application.” “Really, Mr. Collins,” cried Elizabeth, “you puzzle me exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form of encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as to convince you of its being one.” “You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your refusal of my addresses is merely words of course.” To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would make no reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, if he persisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering encouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered in such a manner as to be decisive, and whose behavior at least could not be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female. CHAPTER 20 MR. COLLINS WAS NOT left long to the silent contemplation of his successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open the door and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and herself in warm terms on the happy prospect of their nearer connection. Mr. Collins received and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview. This information startled Mrs. Bennet; she would have been glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared not believe it, and could not help saying so. “But, depend upon it, Mr. Collins,” she added, “that Lizzy shall be brought to reason. I will speak to her about it directly. She is a very headstrong, foolish girl, and does not know her own interest—but I will make her know it.” Hurrying instantly to her husband, she called out as she entered the library, “Oh! Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him.” Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern. “I have not the pleasure of understanding you,” said he, when she had finished her speech. “Of what are you talking?” “Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy.” “And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems a hopeless business.” “Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her marrying him.” “Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion.” Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the library. “Come here, child,” cried her father as she appeared. “I have sent for you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?” Elizabeth replied that it was. “Very well—and this offer of marriage you have refused?” “I have, sir.” “Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?” “Yes, or I will never see her again.” “An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you again if you do not marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you do; for I shall not have my best warrior resigned to the service of a man who is fatter than Buddha and duller than the edge of a learning sword.” Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning, but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the affair as she wished, was excessively disappointed. “What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, in talking this way?” “My dear,” replied her husband, “I have two small favours to request. First, that you will spare me the expense of having your lips sewn shut; and secondly, that you will allow me the free use of my room. I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon as may be.” Not yet, however, did Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again; coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane in her interest; but Jane, with all possible mildness, declined interfering; and Elizabeth, sometimes with real earnestness, and sometimes with playful gaiety, replied to her attacks. Though her manner varied, however, her determination never did. While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who cried in a half whisper, “I am glad you are come, for there is such fun here! What do you think has happened this morning? Mr. Collins has made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him.” Lydia noticed that Charlotte was flush with the warmth of exercise and had a rather disconcerted look on her face. “Charlotte? Are you ill?” Charlotte hardly had time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty, who came to tell the same news; and no sooner had they entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her family. “Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,” she added in a melancholy tone, “for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me. I am cruelly used, nobody feels for my poor nerves.” Charlotte’s reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth. “Aye, there she comes,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “looking as unconcerned as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were the very unmentionables she takes such pleasure in occupying her time with. But I tell you, Miss Lizzy—if you take it into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way, you will never get a husband at all—and I am sure I do not know who is to maintain you when your father is dead.” CHAPTER 21 THE DISCUSSION OF MR. COLLINS’S offer was now nearly at an end. The gentleman himself scarcely spoke to her, and his assiduous attentions were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose civility in listening to him was a seasonable relief to them all, and especially to her friend. Indeed, Charlotte seemed to flatter Mr. Collins with an almost unnatural attentiveness. The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet’s ill-humour or ill health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth had hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did not appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on Saturday, and to Saturday he meant to stay. After breakfast, the girls retired to the dojo and attended to their mid-week musket disassembly and cleaning. With those very weapons on their person, they next set out for to Meryton to inquire if Mr. Wickham were returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball. They were less than a mile from Longbourn when Kitty, who had elected to take point, abruptly stopped, and signaled for the others to do so as well. She raised her musket, but at what, Elizabeth and the other girls knew not, for the road seemed free of trouble. After standing thus for a moment, a single chipmunk scurried out of the woods on their right. It darted across their path with considerable rapidity, before disappearing into the woods on the left. Lydia could not help but laugh at the sight. “My dear Kitty, how shall we ever thank you for sparing our toes a most unfortunate tickling!” But Kitty kept her musket at the ready, and, after a moment, a second chipmunk scurried across the road with equal alacrity. It was followed in short order by a pair of weasels, then a skunk, then a fox and her pups. More creatures followed, and in ever-increasing numbers; as if Noah himself beckoned, offering refuge from some unseen flood. By the time deer began to leap across their path, the other girls had their muskets trained on the tree line, ready for the herd of zombies they suspected would appear at any moment. The first was a young, freshly dead female in a white lace wedding gown, which, like her skin, was surprisingly white—almost shockingly so, save for the bright red rubies that dripped from her mouth and onto the lace covering her bosom. Kitty put the creature down with a shot to the face, upon which Lydia placed her barrel against its head and promptly dispatched it to Hell. So close was this shot, that the bride’s hair was set alight by the powder flash. “Seems a shame,” said Lydia, as acrid smoke began to rise. “Wasting perfectly good wedding clothes like tha . . . “ The wail of another zombie interrupted her; his flowing white beard and half-eaten face attached to a stout body, which was clad in a blood-crusted blacksmith’s apron. Elizabeth and Jane aimed and discharged their muskets; Jane’s ball finding one of the creature’s eyes, and Elizabeth’s striking its neck—cutting through the brittle flesh and separating head from body. These zombies were followed by several more—each vanquished as quickly as the last, until the cracking of powder at last fell silent. Sensing the danger passed, the sisters lowered their barrels, and spoke of setting off again for Meryton. But these plans were belated by a most unusual noise from beyond the tree line. It was a shrill shrieking, neither human nor animal, and yet unlike any zombie wail the sisters had ever heard. It grew closer, and once again, all muskets were trained and readied. But when the source of this strange noise revealed itself, their barrels were lowered. “Oh! No . . .” said Jane. “Oh! It simply cannot be!” A long-dead female zombie stumbled out of the woods, her modest clothing slightly tattered; her brittle hair pulled back so tightly that it had begun to tear the skin of her forehead. In her arms, she held something exceedingly rare; something none of the sisters had ever seen, or ever wished to see—an unmentionable infant. It clawed at the female’s flesh, emitting a most unpleasant series of shrieks. Elizabeth raised her musket, but Jane was quick to grab the barrel. “You mustn’t!” “Have you forgotten your oath?” “It’s an infant, Lizzy!” “A zombie infant—no more alive than the musket I mean to silence it with.” Elizabeth again raised her weapon and aimed. The female dreadful was now more than halfway across the road. She trained her sights on the elder’s head; her finger caressing the trigger. She would put it down, reload, and dispense of them both. All she had to do was squeeze. And yet . . . she did not. There was a strange force at work, a feeling she faintly recalled from her earliest days, before she had first traveled to Shaolin. It was a curious feeling; something akin to shame, but without the dishonor of defeat—a shame that demanded no vengeance. “Could there be honor in mercy?” she wondered. It contradicted everything she had been taught, every warrior instinct she possessed. Why then could she not fire? Hopelessly bemused, Elizabeth lowered her musket, and the zombies continued into the woods until they were seen no more. It was agreed that none of them would ever speak of it. Wickham joined the sisters on their entering the town, and attended them to their aunt’s, where his regret and vexation, and concern upon hearing of the regrettable fate of Mr. Bingley’s household staff was well talked over. To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged that the necessity of his absence had been self-imposed. “I found,” said he, “as the time drew near that I had better not meet Mr. Darcy; that to be in the same room, with the very man who crippled me for a twelvemonth, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes might arise unpleasant to more than myself.” Elizabeth highly approved his forbearance, which was greater than her own, for she confessed that a duel would have almost certainly ensued, had she been in his place. Wickham and another officer walked back with them to Longbourn, and during the walk he particularly attended to her. His accompanying them was a triple advantage: the compliment of his attention, an occasion of introducing him to her father and mother, and the presence of an extra warrior, should they encounter trouble on the road. Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little, hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady’s fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister’s countenance change as she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some particular passages. “This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains has surprised me a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their way to town—and without any intention of coming back again. You shall hear what she says.” She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information of their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly, and of their meaning to dine in Grosvenor Street, where Mr. Hurst had a house. The next was in these words: “I do not pretend to regret anything I shall leave in the perilous, zombie-covered country, except your society, my dearest friend; but we will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many returns of that delightful intercourse we have known, and in the meanwhile may lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that.” To these highflown expressions Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of distrust; and though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she saw nothing to lament. “It is unlucky,” said she, “that you should not be able to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not hope that the period of future happiness to which Miss Bingley looks forward may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful intercourse you have known as friends will be renewed with yet greater satisfaction as sisters? Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by them.” “Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you:’ When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which took him to London might be concluded in three or four days; but we are certain it cannot be so. Many of my acquaintances are already there for the winter; I wish that I could hear that you, my dearest friend, had any intention of making one of the crowd—but of that I despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and be not the least bit similar to the Christmas of two years past, which resulted in so many unpleasantries.’ It is evident by this,” added Jane, “that he comes back no more this winter.” “It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean that he should,” said Elizabeth. “Mr. Bingley is his own master. Perhaps the sight of his bloodied staff was too much for his delicate character. But you do not know all. I will read you the passage which particularly hurts me: ‘Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister and we are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and skill in the deadly arts; and the affection she inspires in Louisa and myself is heightened from the hope we dare entertain of her being hereafter our sister. My brother admires her greatly already; he will have frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing. With all these circumstances to favour an attachment, and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness of so many?’” “What do you think of this sentence, my dear Lizzy?” said Jane as she finished it. “Is it not clear enough? Does it not expressly declare that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she is perfectly convinced of her brother’s indifference; and that if she suspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to put me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?” “Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear it?” “Most willingly.” “You shall have it in a few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. I dare say she means to keep you from his attentions. Your honour demands she be slain.” Jane shook her head. “You forget yourself, Lizzy.” “Jane, no one who has ever seen you together can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley, I am sure, cannot. She may not be a warrior, but she has cunning enough. Dearest sister, I implore you—this unhappiness is best remedied by the hasty application of a cutlass to her throat.” “If we thought alike,” replied Jane, “my honour would be restored at the expense of losing Mr. Bingley’s affections forever. And what, pray, would be the purpose? Caroline is incapable of willfully deceiving anyone; and all that I can hope in this case is that she is deceiving herself.” “Is it she who is deceived, or you? You forget yourself, Jane—you have allowed your feelings for Mr. Bingley to soften the instincts bestowed by our Oriental masters.” Though they could not agree on a course of action, Jane and Elizabeth agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the family, but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern, and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen to go away just as they were all getting so intimate together. After lamenting it, however, at some length, she had the consolation that Mr. Bingley would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration, that though he had been invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two full courses. CHAPTER 22 THE BENNETS WERE ENGAGED to dine with the Lucases, and again, during the chief of the day, was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins. Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. “It keeps him in good humour,” said she, “and I am more obliged to you than I can express.” This was very amiable, but Charlotte’s kindness extended farther than Elizabeth had any conception of; its object was nothing else than to secure her from any return of Mr. Collins’s proposals, by engaging them towards herself. Such was Miss Lucas’s scheme; and appearances were so favourable, that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost secure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon. But here she did injustice to the fire and independence of his character, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw himself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins, from a conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known till its success might be known likewise; for though feeling almost secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging, he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Elizabeth’s rejection. His reception, however, was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas perceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and instantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had she dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there. In as short a time as Mr. Collins’s long speeches would allow, everything was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as they entered the house he earnestly entreated her to name the day that was to make him the happiest of men. Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent; and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins’s present circumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom they could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate, with more interest than the matter had ever excited before, how many years longer Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife should take up residence and dispense of the unsightly dojo post haste. The whole family, in short, were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The least agreeable circumstance in the business was the surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship Charlotte valued beyond that of any other person. Would she disapprove? Or worse, would she have no desire of further acquaintance? Charlotte resolved to give her the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins, when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence burst forth in such very direct questions on his return as required some ingenuity to evade. As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet, with great politeness and cordiality, said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his engagements might allow him to visit them. “My dear madam,” he replied, “this invitation is particularly gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible.” They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for so speedy a return, immediately said: “But is there not danger of Lady Catherine’s disapprobation here, my good sir? You had better neglect your relations than run the risk of offending your patroness.” “My dear sir,” replied Mr. Collins, “I am particularly obliged to you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so material a step without her ladyship’s concurrence.” “You cannot be too much upon your guard. Risk anything rather than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly probable, be satisfied that we shall take no offence.” “Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive from me a letter of thanks for this, and for every other mark of your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, I shall now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my cousin Elizabeth.” Elizabeth had been expecting such a slight and determined to show not the least offense at it, lest he gain some measure of victory over her. She instead smiled, and said, “And I, Mr. Collins, wish you the safest of journeys—for there have been such an uncommon number of dreadfuls on the roads of late, that an encounter seems unavoidable. I am certain, however, that yours will be the exception.” With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally surprised that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him. But on the following morning, every hope of this kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before. The possibility of Mr. Collins’s fancying himself in love with her friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two; but that Charlotte could encourage him seemed almost as far from possibility as she could encourage him herself. “Engaged to Mr. Collins! My dear Charlotte—impossible!” Miss Lucas calmly replied: “Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you think it incredible that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman’s good opinion, because you thought him ill-suited to be the husband of so great a woman as yourself?” Such an affront would have been met with fists had it come from any other person, but in this case, Elizabeth’s affections were greater even than her honour. Seeing no hope of persuading her otherwise, she wished Charlotte all imaginable happiness. “I see what you are feeling,” replied Charlotte. “You must be surprised, very much surprised—so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to marry you. But when you have had time to think it over, I hope you will be satisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic, you know; I never was. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins’s character, connection, and situation in life, I am convinced that my chance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on entering the marriage state—especially since, oh! Elizabeth, I beg you will not be angry with me or cut me down where I stand! But Elizabeth, I can have no secrets from you—I have been stricken.” Elizabeth gasped. Her closest friend, stricken by the plague! Condemned to serve Satan! Her instincts demanded she back away. She listened as Charlotte recounted the unhappy event, which occurred during her Wednesday walk to Longbourn. Daring to make the trip alone and unarmed, she had hastened upon the road undisturbed, until she happened upon an overturned chaise and four. Seeing no unmentionables about, Charlotte approached and knelt—readying her eyes to meet the gruesome visage of a crushed coachman. To her horror, she was instead met by the grasp of a zombie who had been trapped beneath the carriage. Her leg caught in its bony fingers, she screamed as the creature’s teeth broke her skin. She was able to free herself and continue to Longbourn, but Hell’s dark business had been carried out. “I don’t have long, Elizabeth. All I ask is that my final months be happy ones, and that I be permitted a husband who will see to my proper Christian beheading and burial.” CHAPTER 23 ELIZABETH WAS SITTING with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what she had heard, and resolving to speak of it to no one, when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter, to announce her engagement to the family. With many compliments to them, he unfolded the matter—to an audience not merely wondering, but incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than politeness, protested he must be entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always unguarded and often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed: “Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? Do not you know that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?” Thankfully, Sir William had been trained as a tailor and not a warrior, for nothing less than the patience of a man who had threaded ten-thousand needles could have borne such treatment without anger. Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so unpleasant a situation, now put herself forward to confirm his account, by mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte herself. Mrs. Bennet was too much overpowered to say a great deal while Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than her feelings found a rapid vent. In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving the whole of the matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins had been taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be happy together; and fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two inferences, however, were plainly deduced from the whole: one, that Elizabeth was the real cause of the mischief; and the other that she herself had been barbarously misused by them all; and on these two points she principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could console and nothing could appease her. Nor did that day wear out her resentment. Mr. Bennet’s emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion; for it gratified him, he said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had been used to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and more foolish than his daughter! As for Elizabeth, she could hardly think on the matter without coming to tears, for she alone knew the sorrowful truth. She thought often of striking Charlotte down—of donning her Tabbi boots and slipping into her bedchamber under cover of darkness, where she would mercifully end her friend’s misery with the Panther’s Kiss. But she had given her word, and her word was sacred. She would not interfere with Charlotte’s transformation. Her grief for Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her sister, for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious, as Bingley had now been gone a week and nothing more was heard of his return. Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised letter of thanks from Mr. Collins (whose journey had been, against Elizabeth’s hopes, unencumbered by zombies) arrived on Tuesday, addressed to their father, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a twelvemonth’s abode in the family might have prompted. After discharging his conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them of his happiness in having obtained the affection of their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had been so ready to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at Longbourn, whither he hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; for Lady Catherine, he added, so heartily approved his marriage, that she wished it to take place as soon as possible, which he trusted would be an unanswerable argument with his amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him the happiest of men. Elizabeth could not help but feel for the poor fat fool; he had no idea what misery awaited. Mr. Collins’s return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of pleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary, she was as much disposed to complain of it as her husband. It was very strange that he should come to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient and exceedingly troublesome. She hated having visitors in the house while her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the most disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and they gave way only to the greater distress of Mr. Bingley’s continued absence. An hour seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her impatience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he did not come back she would think herself very ill used. It needed all Jane’s training under Master Liu to bear these attacks with tolerable tranquillity. Mr. Collins returned most punctually on Monday fortnight, but his reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his first introduction. He was too happy, however, to need much attention; and luckily for the others, the business of love-making relieved them from a great deal of his company. The chief of every day was spent by him at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time to make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed. Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of anything concerning the match threw her into an agony of illhumour, and wherever she went she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight of Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her successor in that house, she regarded her with jealous abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see them, she concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and whenever she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that they were talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself and her daughters out of the house, as soon as Mr. Bennet were dead. She complained bitterly of all this to her husband. “Indeed, Mr. Bennet,” said she, “it is very hard to think that Charlotte Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that I should be forced to make way for her, and live to see her take her place in it!” “My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for better things. Let us flatter ourselves that Mr. Collins, who seems always eager to talk of Heaven, may be dispatched there by a horde of zombies before I am dead.” CHAPTER 24 MISS BINGLEY’S LETTER ARRIVED, and put an end to doubt. The very first sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for the winter, and concluded with her brother’s regret at not having had time to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left the country. Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest of the letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy’s praise occupied the chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on, and Caroline boasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy. Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this, heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern for her sister, and thoughts of going immediately to town and dispensing of the lot of them. “My dear Jane!” exclaimed Elizabeth, “you are too good. Your sweetness and disinterestedness are really angelic; you wish to think all the world respectable, and are hurt if I speak of killing anybody for any reason! Do not be afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your privilege of universal goodwill. You need not. There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every zombie confirms my belief that God has abandoned us as punishment for the evils of people such as Miss Bingley.” “My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference of situation and temper. For someone who so often speaks of our dear master, I fear you have forgotten much of his wisdom! Were we not taught to temper our feelings? We must not be so ready to fancy ourselves intentionally injured. It is very often nothing but our own vanity that deceives us.” “I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley’s conduct to design,” said Elizabeth; “but without scheming to do wrong, or to make others unhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness, want of attention to other people’s feelings, and want of resolution—grave offenses to one’s honour, all.” “And do you impute it to either of those?” “Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by saying what I think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you can.” “You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him?” “I believe it so ardently as to offer you my sword in their vanquishing.” “I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can only wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me, no other woman can secure it.” “Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they may wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great connections, and pride.” “Beyond a doubt, they do wish him to choose Miss Darcy,” replied Jane; “but this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have known her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love her better. But, whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely they should have opposed their brother’s. What sister would think herself at liberty to do it? If they believed him attached to me, they would not try to part us; if he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an affection, you make everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most unhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been mistaken. Let me take it in the best light.” Elizabeth could scarcely contain her anger; still, Jane was her elder, and leader of the Sisters Bennet. She had no choice but to obey. From this time Mr. Bingley’s name was scarcely ever mentioned between them. Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no more, and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account for it clearly, there was little chance of her ever considering it with less perplexity. Mrs. Bennet’s best comfort was that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer. Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. “So, Lizzy,” said he one day, “your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate her. Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then. It is something to think of, and it gives her a sort of distinction among her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough in Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham be your man. He is a pleasant fellow, and might teach you something of those wifely parts of life which you, above all your sisters, have forsaken. “Thank you, sir, but I am perfectly content being the bride of death. We must not all expect Jane’s good fortune.” “True,” said Mr. Bennet, “but it is a comfort to think that whatever of that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will make the most of it.” CHAPTER 25 AFTER A WEEK SPENT in professions of love and schemes of felicity, Mr. Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of Saturday. He took leave of his relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished his fair cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father another letter of thanks. On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving her brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend the Christmas at Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly superior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield ladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived by trade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so well bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger than Mrs. Bennet, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant woman, and a great favourite with all her Longbourn nieces. Between the two eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a particular regard. She had often provided encouragement to continue their training when it had become too severe, and provided refuge when their mother’s derision of their “savage nature” became intolerable. The first part of Mrs. Gardiner’s business on her arrival was to distribute her presents and describe the goings on in town; she spoke of subjects as diverse as new fashions and recent victories against the sorry stricken. When this was done she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen. Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They had all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her girls had been upon the point of marriage, and after all there was nothing in it. “I do not blame Jane,” she continued, “for Jane would have got Mr. Bingley if she could. But Lizzy! Oh, sister! It is very hard to think that she might have been Mr. Collins’s wife by this time had it not been for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very room, and she refused him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have a daughter married before I have, and that the Longbourn estate is just as much entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful people indeed, sister. They are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of them, but so it is.” Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before, in the course of Jane and Elizabeth’s correspondence with her, made her sister a slight answer, and, in compassion to her nieces turned the conversation. When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. “It seems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane,” said she. “I am sorry it went off. But these things happen so often! A young man, such as you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl for a few weeks, and when accident separates them, so easily forgets her.” “An excellent consolation in its way,” said Elizabeth, “but it will not do for us. It does not often happen that the interference of friends will persuade a young man of independent fortune to think no more of a girl whom he was violently in love with only a few days before.” “Pray, how violent was Mr. Bingley’s love?” “As violent as the monks of Dragon Mountain. Every time they met, it was more decided and remarkable.” “Poor Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get over it immediately. It had better have happened to you, Lizzy; you would have opened this Bingley’s stomach and strangled him with his own bowels, I suspect. Do you think she would be prevailed upon to go back to town with us? Change of scene might be of service—and perhaps a little relief from home may be as useful as anything.” Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded of her sister’s ready acquiescence. It was too long since her eyes had been filled with the delights of London; which, though quarantined by towering walls, and divided into sections by the King’s army, was still a city unrivaled in its ability to excite the senses. “I hope,” added Mrs. Gardiner, “that no consideration with regard to this young man will influence her. We go out so little, that it is very improbable that they should meet at all, unless he comes to see her.” “And that is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in Section Six East!” “So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all.” The Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment of her brother and sister that they did not once sit down to a family dinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always made part of it—of which Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and on these occasions, Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth’s warm commendation, narrowly observed them both. Their preference of each other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy; and she resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before leaving Hertfordshire. To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure, unconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago, before her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very part of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many acquaintances in common; and though Wickham had been little there since the death of Darcy’s father, it was yet in his power to give her fresher intelligence of her former friends than she had been in the way of procuring. Mrs. Gardiner had seen Mr. Darcy’s estate, Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by his reputation as a gentleman and powerful slayer of the undead. Here consequently was an inexhaustible subject of discourse. On being made acquainted with the present Mr. Darcy’s treatment of him, she tried to remember some of that gentleman’s reputed disposition, and was confident that she recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured boy. CHAPTER 26 MRS. GARDINER’S CAUTION to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given on the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone; after honestly telling her what she thought, she thus went on: “You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because you are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. I have nothing to say against him; he has felled many a zombie; and if he had the fortune he ought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is, you must not let your fancy run away with you.” “My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.” “Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.” “Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I can prevent it.” “Elizabeth, you are not serious now.” “I beg your pardon, I will try again. I am a warrior, madam: survivor of the thirty-six chambers of Shaolin, beholder of the scrolls of Gan Xian Tan. I do not seek love, and at present I am not in love with Mr. Wickham; though he is, beyond all comparison, the most agreeable man I ever saw—in form, character, and musketry. However, I see the imprudence of an attachment with one so deeply in want of fortune. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short, I will do my best.” “Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so very often. At least, you should not remind your mother of inviting him.” “You know my mother’s ideas as to the necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my honour, I will try to do what I think to be the wisest; and now I hope you are satisfied.” Her aunt assured her that she was, and Elizabeth having thanked her for the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice being given on such a point, without being resented. Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode with the Lucases, his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was now fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured tone, that she “wished they might be happy. “Thursday was to be the wedding day, and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she rose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother’s ungracious and reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her out of the room. As they went downstairs together, Charlotte said: “I promise to write for as long as I am able. I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.” “That you certainly shall.” “We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.” “I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to come to Hunsford.” Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the visit. Charlotte was already showing the earliest signs of transformation, though she took great care to hide them from all but the trained eye. Her skin had taken on a slight pallor, and her speech seemed a trifle laboured. “My father and Maria are coming to me in March,” added Charlotte, “and I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as welcome as either of them.” The wedding took place, and no one other than Elizabeth seemed to suspect the bride’s condition. Mr. Collins appeared happier than he ever had despite the fact that Charlotte had to be reminded to use her fork several times over the course of dinner. The bride and “THE WEDDING TOOK PLACE, AND NO ONE OTHER THAN ELIZABETH SEEMED TO SUSPECT THE BRIDE’S CONDITION.” bridegroom set off for Kent from the church door, and everybody had as much to say, or to hear, on the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that it should be equally affectionate was impossible. Charlotte’s first letters were received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would like Lady Catherine, and how her transformation was proceeding. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and roads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine’s behaviour was most friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins’s picture of Hunsford and Rosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait for her own visit there to know the rest. The only harbinger of Charlotte’s unhappy fate was her ever-worsening penmanship. Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce their safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped it would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys. Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience generally is. Jane had been a week in town without either seeing or hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that her last letter to her friend from Longbourn had by some accident been lost. “My aunt,” she continued, “is going to-morrow into that part of the town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Section Four Central.” She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley. “I did not think Caroline in spirits,” were her words, “but she was very glad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming to London. I was right, therefore, my last letter had never reached her. I inquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much engaged with Mr. Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that Miss Darcy was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was not long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall see them soon here.” Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. Jane was a fine killer, but a deficient judge of character. Indeed, her only weakness was her too-giving heart. Elizabeth was quite convinced that Caroline Bingley had no intentions of telling her brother about the visit, or even Jane’s being in town. Once again, her thoughts turned to the satisfaction of seeing Miss Bingley’s last rubies pour from her neck and down the front of her bodice. As she predicted, four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to persuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be blind to Miss Bingley’s inattention. After waiting at home every morning for a fortnight, the visitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay and the alteration of her manner would allow Jane to deceive herself no longer. The letter which she wrote to her sister will prove what she felt. MY DEAREST LIZZY, You will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in your better judgement, at my expense, when I confess myself to have been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley’s regard for me. But, my dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not think me obstinate if I still assert that my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. Caroline did not return my visit till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the meantime. When she did come, it was very evident that she had no pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal apology, for not calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and was in every respect so altered a creature, that when she went away I was perfectly resolved to follow her into the street and confront her as you suggested, and, had I been appropriately dressed for an outing, I might have. He knows of my being in town, I am certain, from something she said herself; and yet it would seem, by her manner of talking, as if she wanted to persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Darcy. I can not understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should be almost tempted to demand satisfaction. But I will endeavour to banish every painful thought, and think only of what will make me happy—your affection, and the invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from you very soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never returning to Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not with any certainty. We had better not mention it. I am extremely glad that you have such pleasant accounts from our friends at Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir William and Maria. I am sure you will be very comfortable there. YOURS, ETC. This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned as she considered that Jane would no longer be duped, and that her focus might once again turn to combat. All expectation from the brother was now absolutely over. She would not even wish for a renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on every review of it; and as a punishment for him, as well as a possible advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr. Darcy’s sister, as by Wickham’s account, she would make him abundantly regret what he had thrown away. Mrs. Gardiner about this time wrote and reminded Elizabeth of her promise concerning that gentleman, and required information; Elizabeth assured her that his apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over, he was the admirer of someone else. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering himself agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clearsighted perhaps in this case than in Charlotte’s, did not quarrel with him for his wish of independence. Nothing, on the contrary, could be more natural; and while able to suppose that it cost him a few struggles to relinquish her, she was ready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very sincerely wish him happy. All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating the circumstances, she thus went on: “I am now convinced, my dear aunt, that I have never been much in love; for had I really experienced that pure and elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name, and wish him all manner of evil. But I find my thoughts returning to the protection of our beloved England, for truly there can be no higher purpose; indeed the feelings of one young lady seem rather insignificant in comparison. My talents and my times demand my service, and I believe the Crown more pleased to have me on the front lines than at the altar.” CHAPTER 27 WITH NO GREATER EVENTS than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton (less often interrupted by zombies on account of the hardened earth of winter), did January and February pass away. March was to take Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of going thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was struggling to keep the last of her senses, and Elizabeth thought it an appropriate tribute to their former friendship to see her one last time. She found that absence, as well as pity, had also weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. The journey would moreover give her a peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have been very sorry for any delay. Everything, however, went on smoothly, and was finally settled. She was to accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement of spending a night in London was added in time, and the plan became perfect as a plan could be. The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on his side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that Elizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the first to listen and to pity, the first to be admired. Her fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her think him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a good-humoured girl, but as empty-headed and untrained as himself, had nothing to say that could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much delight as the rattle of the chaise. It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early as to be in Section Six East by noon. The coachman, as was the custom on trips to town, had employed two young men from Meryton to ride beside him with muskets. This was done in spite of the fact that Elizabeth was herself fully armed, and more than capable of defending them should they encounter any unpleasantness. When they were but three miles from London, and Sir William was prattling on about the particulars of his knighthood for the second time in as many hours, the chaise lurched to a halt. The suddenness of this was enough to send Maria flying from one side of the carriage to the other, and was promptly followed by frightened shouts and the crack of powder outside. Had Elizabeth not been graced with steady nerves and the fortitude of years of combat, she might have gasped upon pulling back one of the curtains—for there were no less than one hundred unmentionables surrounding them on all sides. One of the young musket men had been dragged off the chaise and was being devoured, while the other two living men fired clumsily into the crowd as the hands of the dead pulled at their pant legs. Elizabeth grabbed her Brown Bess and Katana sword and told Sir William and Maria to remain as they were. She kicked open the door and sprang atop the coach. From here Elizabeth could appreciate the full measure of their predicament, for rather than one hundred unmentionables, she now perceived no less than twice that number. The coachman’s leg was in the possession of several zombies, who were quite close to getting their teeth on his ankle. Seeing no alternative, Elizabeth brought her sword down upon his thigh—amputating the leg, but saving the man. She picked him up with one arm and lowered him into the coach, where he fainted as blood poured forth from his new stump. Sadly, this action prevented her from saving the second musket man, who had been pulled from his perch. He screamed as the dreadfuls held him down and began to tear organs from his living belly and feast upon them. The zombies next turned their attention to the terrified horses. Elizabeth knew that she and the present party were all doomed to slow deaths if the horses should fall into Satan’s hands, so she sprang skyward, firing her musket as she flew through the air, her bullets penetrating the heads of several unmentionables. She landed on her feet beside one of the horses, and with her sword, began cutting down the attackers with all the grace of Aphrodite, and all the ruthlessness of Herod. Her feet, fists, and blade were too swift for the clumsy horde, and they began to retreat. Seeing her chance, Elizabeth sheathed her Katana, sprang into the driver’s box, and grabbed the reins. The zombies had already begun to regroup as she cracked the coachman’s whip, driving the horses forward and carrying them down the road at a rather unsafe speed, until she was satisfied that the danger had passed. Shortly thereafter, they approached the southern face of London’s wall. Though she had once walked upon China’s Great Wall, Elizabeth was nonetheless impressed whenever she had occasion to lay eyes upon Britain’s Barrier. Considered alone, each section offered little to boast of. The wall was similar in height and appearance to that of many older castles, and punctuated by the occasional gorge tower or cannon port. But considered as a whole, the wall was so massive as to defy the notions of what was possible with human hands. Elizabeth brought the carriage to a halt at the southern guard tower. A dozen or more chaises were stopped ahead of them—waiting as the guards searched for contraband and made certain that none of the passengers showed signs of the strange plague. Sir William poked his head out and informed Elizabeth that the coachman had died, and asked if she thought it appropriate to leave his body beside the road. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner’s door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival; when they entered the passage she was there to welcome them, surprised by the sight of Elizabeth in the driver’s box. Elizabeth’s spirits lifted at the sight of her sister, who looked as healthful and lovely as ever. She relayed the details of their unhappy journey as swiftly as she could, and begged they speak no more of it, except to say that she had never seen such a number of unmentionables together in the country, and wonder why so many would attack a single chaise. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres. Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first object was her sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to her minute inquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her spirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however, to hope that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the particulars also of Miss Bingley’s visit in Section Six East, and repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the acquaintance. Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham’s desertion, and complimented her on bearing it so well. “But my dear Elizabeth,” she added, “what sort of girl is this new object of his affections? I should be sorry to think our friend mercenary.” “Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs, between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me, because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a girl with only ten thousand pounds, you think him mercenary.” “If you will only tell me what sort of girl she is, I shall know what to think.” “She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her.” Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, Elizabeth had the unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer. “We have not determined how far it shall carry us,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “but, perhaps, to the Lakes.” No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. “My dear, dear aunt,” she rapturously cried, “what delight! What felicity! You give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are young men to rocks and mountains? Oh! what hours of mountaintop sparring we shall spend! How many bucks we shall fell with nothing more than our daggers and swiftness of foot! Oh! How we will please Buddha by communing with the earth!” CHAPTER 28 EVERY OBJECT in the next day’s journey was new and interesting to Elizabeth. With a new coachman and twice their original number of musket men, they hastened to Hunsford. Once arrived (their journey happily uneventful), every eye was in search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view. Rosings Park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth smiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants. At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the road, the house standing in it, the green pales, and the laurel hedge, everything declared they were arriving. Elizabeth felt at once relaxed, for there had been no reports of zombies in Hunsford for years. Many attributed this to the presence of Lady Catherine—so great a slayer that the stricken dared not venture too close to her home. Mr. Collins and Charlotte appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate which led by a short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of the whole party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing at the sight of each other. But when Mrs. Collins welcomed Elizabeth, the latter was greatly distressed by the appearance of the former. It had been months since she had seen Charlotte, and kind months they had not been, for her friend’s skin was now quite gray and marked with sores, and her speech appallingly laboured. That none of the others noticed this, Elizabeth attributed to their stupidity—particularly Mr. Collins, who apparently had no idea that his wife was three-quarters dead. They were taken into the house; and as soon as they were in the parlour, Mr. Collins welcomed them a second time, with ostentatious formality to his humble abode, and punctually repeated all his wife’s offers of refreshment. Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help in fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its aspect and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her, as if wishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But though everything seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to gratify him by any sigh of repentance. After sitting long enough to admire every article of furniture in the room, Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the garden. To work in this garden was one of his most respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired Charlotte’s efforts to talk of the healthfulness of the exercise, even though it was quite difficult to understand her. From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two meadows; but the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white frost, turned back; and while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte took her sister and friend over the house. It was rather small, but well built and convenient. Though she was pleased to see her friend comfortably settled, there was a grief about the whole affair, for Charlotte would not long be able to enjoy her happiness. She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining in, observed: “Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will be delighted with her. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is charming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to walk home. Her ladyship’s carriage is regularly ordered for us. I should say, one of her ladyship’s carriages, for she has several.” “Wady Caferine very respectable . . . sensible woman,” groaned Charlotte, “and most attentive nay-bah.” “Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference.” As dinner continued in this manner, Elizabeth’s eye was continually drawn to Charlotte, who hovered over her plate, using a spoon to shovel goose meat and gravy in the general direction of her mouth, with limited success. As she did, one of the sores beneath her eye burst, sending a trickle of bloody pus down her cheek and into her mouth. Apparently, she found the added flavor agreeable, for it only increased the frequency of her spoonfuls. Elizabeth, however, could not help but vomit ever so slightly into her handkerchief. The rest of the evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news, and telling again what had already been written; and when it closed, Elizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to meditate upon Charlotte’s worsening condition, and how no one—even Lady Catherine, supposed to be the greatest of all zombie slayers—had noticed it. About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in confusion; and, after listening a moment, she heard somebody running upstairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after her. Elizabeth grabbed her Katana, opened the door, and met Maria in the landing place, who cried out: “Oh, my dear Eliza! Pray make haste and come into the dining room, for there is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make haste, and come down this moment.” Maria would tell her nothing more, and down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the lane, in quest of this wonder. It was merely two ladies stopping in a low carriage at the garden gate. “And is this all?” cried Elizabeth. “I expected at least a dozen unmentionables, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her daughter.” “La! My dear,” said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, “it is not Lady Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them; the other is Miss de Bourgh. Only look at her. She is quite a little creature. Who would have thought that she could be so thin and small?” “She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all this wind. Why does she not come in?” “Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours when Miss de Bourgh comes in.” “I like her appearance,” said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas. “She looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for Mr. Darcy very well. She will make him a very proper wife.” Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in conversation with the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth’s high diversion, was stationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the greatness before him, and constantly bowing whenever Miss de Bourgh looked that way. At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on, and the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw the two girls than he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, for he informed them that the whole party was asked to dine at Rosings the next day. Apparently overcome with excitement, Charlotte dropped to the ground and began stuffing handfuls of crisp autumn leaves in her mouth. CHAPTER 29 “I CONFESS,” said Mr. Collins, “that I should not have been at all surprised by her ladyship’s asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening at Rosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that it would happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this? Who could have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine there so immediately after your arrival!” “I am the less surprised at what has happened,” replied Sir William, “for her superior mastery of the deadly arts and high breeding are known throughout the courts of Europe.” Scarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but their visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in what they were to expect, that the sight of such rooms, so many servants, a personal guard of five-and-twenty ninjas, and so splendid a dinner, might not wholly overpower them. When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to Elizabeth: “Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us which becomes herself and her daughter. I would advise you merely to put on whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest—there is no occasion for anything more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you for being simply dressed, just as she will not think less of you for possessing combat skills so very beneath her own.” Elizabeth’s fists clenched at the insult, but out of affection for her three-quarters dead friend, she held her tongue and sword. While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different doors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much objected to be kept waiting for her dinner. As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a mile across the park. When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria’s alarm was every moment increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly calm. Elizabeth’s courage did not fail her, even though she had been regaled with stories of Lady Catherine’s accomplishments from the time she had been old enough to hold her first dagger. The mere stateliness of money or rank she could witness without trepidation, but the presence of a woman who had slain ninety dreadfuls with nothing more than a rain-soaked envelope was an intimidating prospect indeed. They followed the servants through an ante-chamber to the room where Lady Catherine, her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. Her ladyship, with great condescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins had settled it with her husband that the office of introduction should be hers, it was performed with no shortage of difficulty as she struggled to speak in a manner comprehensible to others. In spite of having been at St. James’s, Sir William was so completely awed by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage enough to make a very low bow, and take his seat without saying a word; and his daughter, frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge of her chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth found herself quite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her composedly. Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked features, which might once have been handsome. Her once-flawless figure had been softened by age, but her eyes no were less striking than Elizabeth had oft heard them described. They were they eyes of a woman who once held the wrath of God in her hands. Elizabeth wondered how much quickness those famed hands still possessed. When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment she soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the daughter; she could almost have joined in Maria’s astonishment at her being so thin and so small. There was neither in figure nor face any likeness between the ladies. Miss de Bourgh was pale and sickly; her features, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very little, except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance there was nothing remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening to what she said. After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows to admire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point out its beauties, and Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much better worth looking at in the summer. The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants and all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised; and, as he had likewise foretold, he took his seat at the bottom of the table, by her ladyship’s desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish nothing greater. The party did not supply much conversation. Elizabeth was ready to speak whenever there was an opening, but she was seated between Charlotte and Miss de Bourgh—the former of whom had to be frequently reminded to use her silver, and the latter said not a word to her all dinner-time. When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to be done but to hear Lady Catherine talk of her attempts to create a serum, which would slow—or even reverse—the effects of the strange plague. Elizabeth was surprised to learn that her ladyship was thus engaged, for trifling in plague cures was considered the last refuge of the naïve. The greatest minds in England had been vexed by the same pursuit for five-and-fifty years. She inquired into Charlotte’s domestic concerns familiarly and minutely, and gave her a great deal of advice as to the management of them all; and told her how everything ought to be regulated in so small a family as hers. Elizabeth found that nothing was beneath this great lady’s attention, which could furnish her with an occasion of dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse with Mrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew the least. “Mr. Collins tells me that you are schooled in the deadly arts, Miss Bennet.” “I am, though not to half the level of proficiency your Ladyship has attained.” “Oh! Then—some time or other I shall be happy to see you spar with one of my ninjas. Are your sisters likewise trained?” “They are.” “I assume you were schooled in Japan?” “No, your ladyship. In China.” “China? Are those monks still selling their clumsy kung fu to the English? I take it you mean Shaolin?” “Yes, your ladyship; under Master Liu.” “Well, I suppose you had no opportunity. Had your father more means, he should have taken you to Kyoto.” “My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates Japan.” “Have your ninjas left you?” “We never had any ninjas.” “No ninjas! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home without any ninjas! I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must have been quite a slave to your safety.” Elizabeth could hardly help smiling as she assured her that had not been the case. “Then, who protected you when you saw your first combat? Without ninjas, you must have been quite a sorry spectacle indeed.” “Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such was our desire to prevail, and our affection for each other, that we had no trouble vanquishing even our earliest opponents.” “If I had known your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage a team of ninjas. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady and regular instruction. Had my own daughter been blessed with a more suitable constitution, I should have sent her away the best dojos in Japan at the age of four. Are any of your younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?” “Yes, ma’am, all.” “All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the second. The younger ones out before the elder ones are married! Your younger sisters must be very young?” “Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps she is full young to be much in company. But really, ma’am, I think it would be very hard upon younger sisters, that they should not have their share of society and amusement, because the elder may not have the means or inclination to marry early. The last-born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth at the first. And to be kept back on such a motive! I think it would not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind.” “Upon my word,” said her ladyship, “you give your opinion very decidedly for so young a person. Pray, what is your age?” “With three younger sisters grown up,” replied Elizabeth, smiling, “your ladyship can hardly expect me to own it.” Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer; and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence. “You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, therefore you need not conceal your age.” “I am not one-and-twenty.” When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the card-tables were placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat down to Crypt and Coffin; and as Miss de Bourgh chose to play Whip the Vicar, Elizabeth and Maria had the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her party. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was uttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson expressed her fears of Miss de Bourgh’s being too hot or too cold, or having too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the other table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking—stating the mistakes of the three others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins was employed in agreeing to everything her ladyship said, thanking her for every empty crypt he won, and apologising if he thought he won too many. After drooling a third cup of tea onto her lap, Charlotte stood to excuse herself from the other table, clutching her stomach and wearing a rather pained expression. “I beg ya-oar pahdun, ya-oar wadyship.” Lady Catherine gave no acknowledgment, and Mr. Collins and Sir William were too engrossed in their game to notice what happened next. Elizabeth watched Charlotte bow slightly, and then limp to the furthest corner of the room, where she lifted the bottom of her gown and bent her knees into a squat. Elizabeth immediately excused herself, rose, and (taking care not to draw attention) grabbed Charlotte by the arm and escorted her to the toilette, where she watched her stricken friend suffer through a quarter-hour of a sickness so severe that decorum prevents its description in these pages. The tables were shortly after broken up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins, gratefully accepted, and immediately ordered. The party then gathered round the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they were to have on the morrow. From these instructions they were summoned by the arrival of the coach; and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr. Collins’s side and as many bows on Sir William’s they departed. As soon as they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her cousin to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, for Charlotte’s sake, she made more favourable than it really was. “Lady Catherine the Great” had been a disappointment in every sense, and Elizabeth could not forgive the slight against her temple and master. CHAPTER 30 SIR WILLIAM STAYED only a week at Hunsford, but his visit was long enough to convince him of his daughter’s being most comfortably settled. Mr. Collins devoted his mornings to driving Sir William out in his gig, and showing him the country; but when he went away, the whole family returned to their usual employments. Now and then they were honoured with a call from Lady Catherine, and nothing escaped her observation during these visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work, and advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement of the furniture; or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding out that Mrs. Collins’s joints of meat were too large for her family. Elizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady was no longer engaged in the daily defense of her country, she was a most active magistrate in her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were carried to her by Mr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to be quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she sallied forth into the village to implore them to settle their differences, or failing that, wielding her still-mighty blade to settle them herself. The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week; and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being only one card-table in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart of the first. On one such occasion, Elizabeth was solicited to spar with several of her ladyship’s ninjas for the amusement of the party. The demonstration took place in Lady Catherine’s grand dojo, which she had paid to have carried from Kyoto, brick by brick, on the backs of peasants. The ninjas wore their traditional black clothing, masks, and Tabbi boots; Elizabeth wore her sparring gown, and her trusted Katana sword. As Lady Catherine rose to signal the beginning of the match, Elizabeth, in a show of defiance, blindfolded herself. “My dear girl,” said her ladyship, “I suggest you take this contest seriously. My ninjas will show you no mercy.” “Nor I they, your ladyship.” “Ms. Bennet, I remind you that you lack proper instruction in the deadly arts. Your master was a Chinese monk—these ninjas hail from the finest dojos in Japan.” “If my fighting is truly inferior, then your ladyship shall be spared the trouble of watching it for very long.” Elizabeth set her feet, and Lady Catherine, realising she would never convince such a stubborn, unusual girl, snapped her fingers. The first ninja drew his sword and let out a battle cry as he charged directly at Elizabeth. When his blade was only inches from her throat, she moved from her opponent’s path and dragged her Katana across his belly. The ninja dropped to the floor—his innards spilling from the slit faster than he could stuff them back in. Elizabeth sheathed her sword, knelt behind him, and strangled him to death with his own large bowel. Lady Catherine snapped her fingers a second time, and another ninja charged—this one unleashing throwing stars as he advanced. Elizabeth drew her Katana and shielded herself from the first three flying weapons, then snatched the fourth out of the air and threw it back at its originator—striking him in the thigh. The ninja cried out and grabbed the wound with both hands, and Elizabeth brought her blade down, taking off not only the hands, but the leg which they held firmly. The ninja fell to the floor and was promptly beheaded. Though discontented with such a beginning, Lady Catherine held the greatest hopes for her third and final ninja, the deadliest of the three. But no sooner had she snapped her fingers, than Elizabeth flung her Katana across the dojo, piercing the ninja’s chest and pinning him against a wooden column. Elizabeth removed her blindfold and confronted her “‘MY DEAR GIRL,’ SAID HER LADYSHIP, ‘I SUGGEST YOU TAKE THIS CONTEST SERIOUSLY. MY NINJAS WILL SHOW YOU NO MERCY.’” opponent, who presently clutched the sword handle, gasping for breath. She delivered a vicious blow, penetrating his rib cage, and withdrew her hand—with the ninja’s still-beating heart in it. As all but Lady Catherine turned away in disgust, Elizabeth took a bite, letting the blood run down her chin and onto her sparring gown. “Curious,” said Elizabeth, still chewing. “I have tasted many a heart, but I dare say, I find the Japanese ones a bit tender.” Her ladyship left the dojo without giving compliment to Elizabeth’s skills. Their other engagements were few, as the style of living in the neighbourhood was beyond Mr. Collins’s reach. This, however, was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the whole she spent her time comfortably enough; there were half-hours of pained, almost unintelligible conversation with Charlotte, and the weather was so fine for the time of year that she had often great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk was along the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was a nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but herself, and where she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine’s curiosity. In this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away. Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to bring an addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be important. Elizabeth had heard soon after her arrival that Mr. Darcy was expected there in the course of a few weeks, and though there were not many of her acquaintances whom she did not prefer, his coming would furnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and she might be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley’s designs on him were, by his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined by Lady Catherine, who talked of his coming with the greatest satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration, and seemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen by Miss Lucas and herself. His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was walking the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane, in order to have the earliest assurance of it, and after making his bow as the carriage turned into the Park, hurried home with the great intelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his respects. There were two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for Mr. Darcy had brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of his uncle, and, to the great surprise of all the party, when Mr. Collins returned, the gentleman accompanied him. Charlotte had seen them from her husband’s room, crossing the road, and immediately running into the other, told the girls what an honour they might expect, adding: “I fank you, Eliza, for dis piece of c-civiwity. Mr. Dah-cey would never have c-come so soon to w-w-w-wait upon me.” Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment, before their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and address most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire—paid his compliments, with his usual reserve, to Mrs. Collins, and whatever might be his feelings toward her friend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely curtseyed to him without saying a word. Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but his cousin, after having addressed a slight observation on the house and garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without speaking to anybody. At length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to inquire of Elizabeth after the health of her family. She answered him in the usual way, and after a moment’s pause, added: “My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never happened to see her there?” She was perfectly sensible that he never had; but she wished to see whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed between the Bingleys and Jane, and she thought she perceived a slight twitch in his eye as he answered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The subject was pursued no farther, and the gentlemen soon afterwards went away. CHAPTER 31 COLONEL FITZWILLIAM’S MANNERS were very much admired at the Parsonage, and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasures of their engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they received any invitation thither—for while there were visitors in the house, they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day, almost a week after the Colonel’s arrival, that they were honoured by such an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to come there in the evening. The invitation was accepted of course, and at a proper hour they joined the party in Lady Catherine’s drawing-room. Her ladyship received them civilly, but it was plain that their company was by no means so acceptable as when she could get nobody else. Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them; anything was a welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins’s pretty friend had moreover caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by her, and talked so agreeably of the engagements at Manchester, of the marvel of new mechanical weapons, of his favourite methods of slaying the sorry stricken, that Elizabeth had never been half so well entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much spirit and flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself, as well as of Mr. Darcy. His eyes had been repeatedly turned towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship, after a while, shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not scruple to call out: “What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.” “We are speaking of the deadly arts, madam,” said he, when no longer able to avoid a reply. “Of the deadly arts! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I must have my share in the conversation if you are speaking of the deadly arts. There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of them than myself, or a better natural ability. Had Anne’s health allowed her to apply, I am confident that she would have become as great a slayer of zombies as I. How does Georgiana get on with her training, Darcy?” Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister’s proficiency with blade, fist, and Brown Bess. “I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,” said Lady Catherine; “and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel if she does not practise a good deal.” “I assure you, madam,” he replied, “that she does not need such advice. She practises very constantly.” “So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often tell young ladies that no excellence in the deadly arts is to be acquired without constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that she will never be half my equal unless she practises more; and though Mrs. Collins has no dojo, she is very welcome, as I have often told her, to come to Rosings every day, and spar with my ninjas, provided she promises to kill no more of them. She would be in nobody’s way, you know, in that part of the house.” Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt’s ill-breeding, and made no answer. When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having promised to give them a demonstration of her considerable finger strength; and she set about fastening a modesty string around her ankles. Lady Catherine and the others observed as Elizabeth placed her hands upon the floor and lifted her feet heavenward—her dress kept in place by the modesty string. Holding herself thus, she then lifted one of her palms off the floor, so that all of her weight rested on but one hand. Mr. Darcy presently stationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer’s countenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first convenient pause, wore an arch smile, and said: “You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to see me? I will not be alarmed. There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.” To emphasise this point, she lifted her palm so that only one fingertip remained connected to the floor. “I shall not say you are mistaken,” he replied, “because you could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not your own.” Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to Colonel Fitzwilliam, “Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so able to expose my real character, in a part of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire—for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.” “I am not afraid of you,” said he, smilingly. “Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” cried Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.” “You shall hear then—but prepare yourself for something very dreadful.” Elizabeth pushed off of the floor with her fingertip, landed gently on her feet, and unfastened her modesty string. “The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball—and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.” “I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party.” “True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what shall I demonstrate next? My fingers wait your orders.” “Perhaps,” said Darcy, “I should have judged better, had I sought an introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.” “Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?” said Elizabeth, still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has been sculpted into a killer of the highest order, is ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers?” “I can answer your question,” said Fitzwilliam, “without applying to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.” “I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,” said Darcy, “of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.” “My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not possess the strength your aunt’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same deadly results. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I will not take the trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable.” Darcy smiled and said, “You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better.” Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know what they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately fastened her modesty string and began walking about the room on her fingertips. Lady Catherine, after observing for a few minutes, said to Darcy: “Miss Bennet would make a fine showing of Leopard’s Claw if she practised more, and could have the advantage of a Japanese master. She has a very good notion of fingering.” “That she does,” said Darcy, in a manner such as to make Elizabeth’s face quite red. Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he attended to Miss de Bourgh; but neither at that moment nor at any other could she discern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his behaviour to her she derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he might have been just as likely to marry her, had she been his relation. Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth’s performance, mixing with them many instructions on execution. Elizabeth received them with all the forbearance of civility, and, at the request of the gentlemen, remained on her fingertips till her ladyship’s carriage was ready to take them all home. CHAPTER 32 ELIZABETH WAS SITTING by herself the next morning, meditating while Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village, when she was startled by a ring at the door. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to be Lady Catherine, and under that apprehension was extinguishing her incense, when the door opened, and, to her very great surprise, Mr. Darcy entered the room. He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for his intrusion by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies were to be within. They then sat down, and when her inquiries after Rosings were made, seemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely necessary, therefore, to think of something, and in this emergence recollecting when she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and feeling curious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty departure, she observed: “How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy! It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?” “Perfectly so, I thank you.” She found that she was to receive no other answer, and, after a short pause, added: “I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever returning to Netherfield again?” “I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend very little of his time there in the future. He is rather afraid of zombies, and their numbers in that part of the country are continually increasing.” “If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we might possibly get a settled family there—one with a keener interest in the deadly arts. But, perhaps, Mr. Bingley did not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as for his own, and we must expect him to keep it or quit it on the same principle.” “I should not be surprised,” said Darcy, “if he were to give it up as soon as any eligible purchase offers.” Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his friend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the trouble of finding a subject to him. He took the hint, and soon began with, “This seems a very comfortable house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr. Collins first came to Hunsford.” “I believe she did—and I am sure she could not have bestowed her kindness on a more grateful object.” “Mr. Collins appears to be very . . . fortunate in his choice of a wife.” Elizabeth detected hesitation in his compliment. Was he sensible of Charlotte’s being stricken? “Yes, indeed, his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one of the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding—though I am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and in a prudential light it is certainly a very good match for her.” “It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so easy a distance of her own family and friends.” “An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.” “And what is fifty miles of zombie-free road? Little more than half a day’s journey. Yes, I call it a very easy distance.” “I should never have considered the distance as one of the advantages of the match,” cried Elizabeth. “I should never have said Mrs. Collins was settled near her family.” “It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far.” As he spoke he let slip a sort of smile which Elizabeth fancied she understood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered: “Sir, you forget that I have twice made the journey to the darkest reaches of the Orient—a journey you know to be frightfully long and fraught with bears. I assure you, my picture of the world is rather a bit bigger than Longbourn. However, Mr. and Mrs. Collins have never had a need of embarking on such adventures, so I suspect their ideas of distance are much like those of other ordinary people. I am likewise persuaded my friend would not call herself near her family under less than half the present distance.” Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her. Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and glancing over it, said, in a colder voice: “Are you pleased with the news from Sheffield?” A short dialogue on the subject of the army’s recent victory ensued, on either side calm and concise—and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte and her sister, just returned from her walk. The tête-à-tête surprised them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which had occasioned his intruding on Miss Bennet, and after sitting a few minutes longer without saying much to anybody, went away. “Wah can be da meaning of dis?” howled Charlotte, as soon as he was gone. “Mah dear Ewiza, he muss be love you, aw he never wuh have called in dis famiwiar way.” But when Elizabeth told of his silence; it did not seem very likely, even to Charlotte’s wishes, to be the case; and after various conjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from the difficulty of finding anything to do, which was the more probable from the time of year. The ground was quite frozen, and neither fresh unmentionables nor field sports would be seen again till spring. Within doors there was Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard-table, but gentlemen cannot always be within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the pleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the two cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither almost every day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he had pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course recommended him still more. But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage, it was more difficult to understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there ten minutes together without opening his lips; and when he did speak, it seemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice. He seldom appeared really animated, even at the sight of Mrs. Collins gnawing upon her own hand. What remained of Charlotte would liked to have believed this change the effect of love, and the object of that love her friend Eliza. She watched him whenever they were at Rosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success, for her thoughts often wandered to other subjects, such as the warm, succulent sensation of biting into a fresh brain. Mr. Darcy certainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that look was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often doubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it seemed nothing but absence of mind. And upon imagining Mr. Darcy’s mind, her thoughts would again turn to the subject of chewing on his salty, cauliflower-like brain. She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his being partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs. Collins did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of raising expectations which might only end in disappointment. In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison the most pleasant man; he certainly admired her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but, to counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had a considerably larger head, and thus, more brains to feast upon. CHAPTER 33 MORE THAN ONCE did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the park, unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the mischance that should bring him where no one else was brought, and, to prevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him at first that it was a favourite haunt of hers. How it could occur a second time, therefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and even a third. He never said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking or of listening much; but it struck her in the course of their third rencontre that he was asking some odd unconnected questions—about her pleasure in being at Hunsford, which bones she had broken, and her opinion of the suitability of marriage for warriors such as they. She was engaged one day as she walked, in perusing Jane’s last letter, and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not written in spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy, she saw on looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her. Putting away the letter immediately and forcing a smile, she said: “I did not know before that you ever walked this way.” “I have been making the tour of the park,” he replied, “as I generally do every year, and intend to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are you going much farther?” “No, I should have turned in a moment.” And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage together. “Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?” said she. “Yes—if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He arranges the business just as he pleases.” “And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least pleasure in the great power of choice. I do not know anybody who seems more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy.” “He likes to have his own way very well,” replied Colonel Fitzwilliam. “But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it than many others, because he is rich, and handsome, and highly skilled in the ways of death. I speak from experience. A younger son, you know, must be accustomed to self-denial and dependence.” “In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of either. Now seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going wherever you chose, or procuring anything you had a fancy for?” “These are home questions—and perhaps I cannot say that I have experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater weight, I may suffer from want of money. Younger sons are required to serve in the King’s army, as you know.” “Yes, though I imagine, as an earl’s son, that you have seen little of the front lines.” “Quite the contrary, Miss Bennet.” The Colonel lifted one of his trouser legs and presented Elizabeth with the most unfortunate sight—for there was nothing but lead and hickory between his knee and the ground. Elizabeth had perceived a limp upon meeting him, but had presumed it the result of some slight injury or ill breeding. To interrupt a silence which might make him fancy her affected by the sight, she soon afterwards said: “I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of having someone at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a lasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps, his sister does as well for the present, and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he likes with her. I mean that in the most respectable way, naturally, and not as a suggestion that there exists any impropriety between them.” “If there did,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “it would be an impropriety that I would be equally guilty of, for I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy.” “Are you indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make? Does your charge give you much trouble?” As she spoke she observed him looking at her earnestly; and the manner in which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other got pretty near the truth. She directly replied: “You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a very great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them.” “I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentlemanlike man—he is a great friend of Darcy’s.” “Oh! Yes,” said Elizabeth drily; “Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr. Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.” “Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy does take care of him in those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture.” “What is it you mean?” “It is a circumstance which Darcy could not wish to be generally known, because if it were to get round to the lady’s family, it would be an unpleasant thing.” “Sir, I have beheld the ancient secrets of the Orient, and shall take them to my grave. Surely I can be trusted with one of Mr. Darcy’s dalliances.” “And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be Bingley. What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated himself on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other particulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from knowing them to have been together the whole of last summer.” “Did Mr. Darcy give you reasons for this interference?” “I understood that there were some very strong objections against the lady.” “And what arts did he use to separate them?” “He did not talk to me of his own arts,” said Fitzwilliam, smiling. “He only told me what I have now told you.” Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her thirst for vengeance growing mightier with every step. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she was so thoughtful. “I am thinking of what you have been telling me,” said she. “Your cousin’s conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?” “You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?” “I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his friend’s inclination, or why, upon his own judgement alone, he was to determine and direct in what manner his friend was to be happy. But,” she continued, recollecting herself, “as we know none of the particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed that there was much affection in the case.” “That is not an unnatural surmise,” said Fitzwilliam, “but it is a lessening of the honour of my cousin’s triumph very sadly.” This was spoken jestingly; but it appeared to her so just a picture of Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an answer, and therefore, abruptly changing the conversation talked on indifferent matters until they reached the Parsonage. There, shut into her own room, as soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption of all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other people could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There could not exist in the world two men over whom Mr. Darcy could have such boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures taken to separate Bingley and Jane she had never doubted; but she had always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and arrangement of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him, he was the cause, his pride and caprice were the cause, of all that Jane had suffered, and still continued to suffer. He had ruined for a while every hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart in the world; and for that, Elizabeth was now resolved to hold Darcy’s heart, still beating, in her hand before her time in Kent was concluded. “There were some very strong objections against the lady,” were Colonel Fitzwilliam’s words; and those strong objections probably were, her having one uncle who was a country attorney, another who was in business in London, and possessing the power to crush Bingley’s skull in the heat of a quarrel—for he was not trained as she. “To Jane herself,” she exclaimed, “there could be no possibility of objection; all loveliness and goodness as she is! Her understanding excellent, her musketry unmatched, and her manners captivating. Neither could anything be urged against my father, who, though with some peculiarities, has abilities Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain, and respectability which he will probably never reach.” When she thought of her mother, her confidence gave way a little; but she would not allow that any objections there had material weight with Mr. Darcy, whose pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from the want of importance in his friend’s connections, than from their want of sense; and she was quite decided, at last, that he had been partly governed by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of retaining Mr. Bingley for his sister. The agitation which the subject occasioned, brought on a headache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening, that, added to her unwillingness to kill Mr. Darcy in the company of his aunt (lest she interfere), it determined her not to attend her cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. CHAPTER 34 WHEN THEY WERE GONE, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering. But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that cheerfulness which had been used to char-acterise her style. Elizabeth noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy’s shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict, gave her a keener sense of her sister’s sufferings. It was some consolation to think that he would soon fall at the end of her blade—and that in less than a fortnight she should herself be with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her spirits, beginning with the presentation of Darcy’s heart and head. She could not think of Darcy without remembering his cousin; for agreeable as he was, Colonel Fitzwilliam was also the one man who could assign the guilt of Darcy’s slaying to Elizabeth. He would have to be dispensed with as well. While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the door-bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself. But this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room. In a hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better. She answered him with cold civility, scarcely able to believe her luck at his happening by so soon, and waiting for the first opportunity to excuse herself and retrieve her Katana. He sat down for a moment, and then getting up, walked about the room. After a brief silence, he came towards her in an agitated manner, and thus began: “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement; and the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for her, immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed; and he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority—of its being a degradation—of the family obstacles which had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit. In spite of her deeply rooted bloodlust, she could not be insensible to the compliment of such a man’s affection, and though her intention of killing him did not vary for an instant, she was somewhat sorry for the pain he was to receive; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to answer him with patience, lest her intentions be exposed. He concluded with representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite of all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of his hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt of a favourable answer. He spoke of apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only exasperate farther, and, when he ceased, the colour rose into her cheeks, and she said: “In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot—I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned you pain, but only sorry because it has been most unconsciously done. Before you walked through that door, I had resolved to strike you down, sir. My honor—nay, the honor of my family, demands no lesser satisfaction.” Elizabeth presently lifted her dress above her ankles and struck a basic crane pose, which she thought well-suited for the cramped quarters. Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance ONE OF HER KICKS FOUND ITS MARK, AND DARCY WAS SENT INTO THE MANTELPIECE WITH SUCH FORCE AS TO SHATTER ITS EDGE of his mind was visible in every feature. At length, with a voice of forced calmness, he said: “And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected and challenged?” “I might as well inquire,” replied she, “why with so evident a desire of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character? Do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps forever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?” As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion was short, for Elizabeth presently attacked with a series of kicks, forcing him to counter with the drunken washwoman defense. She spoke as they battled: “I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted there. You dare not, you cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other.” One of her kicks found its mark, and Darcy was sent into the mantelpiece with such force as to shatter its edge. Wiping the blood from his mouth, he looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity. “Can you deny that you have done it?” she repeated. With assumed tranquility he then replied, “I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself.” Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection, and grabbed the fire poker, which she pointed at Darcy’s face. “But it is not merely this affair,” she continued, “on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself?” “You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns,” said Darcy, in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour. “Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an interest in him?” “His misfortunes!” repeated Darcy contemptuously; “yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed.” With this, he swept her feet from beneath her and sprang to his own. Elizabeth was too quick to allow him the advantage, for she was soon upright and swinging the poker at him with renewed vigour. “And of your infliction,” cried Elizabeth with energy. “You have reduced him to his present state of poverty—comparative poverty. You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! And yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and ridicule.” “And this,” cried Darcy, as he grabbed the poker from her hand, “is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps,” added he, pressing the pointed end against her neck, “these offenses might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your training? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?” Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet, as Darcy backed her against a wall, she tried to the utmost to speak with composure when she said: “You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared the slightest grief which I might have felt in beheading you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.” She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued: “You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.” Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on. “From the very beginning—from the first moment, I may almost say—of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.” “You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.” And with these words he hastily left the room, throwing the poker in the fire as he did; and Elizabeth heard him the next moment open the front door and quit the house. The tumult of her mind was now painfully great. She knew not how to support herself, and from the feminine weakness which she had so struggled to exercise from her nature, sat down and cried for half an hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was increased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of marriage from Mr. Darcy! That she should fail to kill him when her honor demanded it! That he should have been in love with her for so many months! So much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all the objections which had made him prevent his friend’s marrying her sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his own case—was almost incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride—his shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane—his unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration of his attachment had for a moment excited. She continued in very agitated reflections till the sound of Lady Catherine’s carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter Charlotte’s observation, and hurried her away to her room. CHAPTER 35 ELIZABETH AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING to the same thoughts and meditations which had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the surprise of what had happened; it was impossible to think of anything else; and, totally indisposed for employment, she resolved, soon after breakfast, to indulge herself in vigorous exercise. She was proceeding directly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy’s sometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park, she turned up the lane, which led farther from the turnpike-road. After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and look into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent had made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk, when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which edged the park; he was moving that way; and, fearful of its being Mr. Darcy, she was directly retreating. Did he mean to strike her down? How could she have been so stupid as to leave the Parsonage without her Katana? With superior quickness of foot, Darcy was able to cut off her retreat at the gate, and, holding out a letter, which she instinctively took, said, with a look of haughty composure, “I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?” And then, with a slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight. With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still increasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter-paper, written quite through, in a very close hand. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated from Rosings, at eight o’clock in the morning, and was as follows: Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments or renewal of those offers which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten. Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister, and the other, that I had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. If, in the explanation of my actions and motives, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd. I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with others, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any other young woman in the country. But it was not till she took ill and remained at Netherfield that I had any apprehension, for knowing of her occupation as a slayer of the undead, I was certain that she had been stricken with the strange plague. Not wishing to trouble you or any of the Netherfield party with my theory, I endeavoured to smother Bingley’s affections, thus sparing him the agony of watching your sister succumb. Upon her recovery, which I expected to be temporary, I perceived that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever, but I remained convinced that she would soon begin the cheerless descent into Satan’s service. As the weeks turned to months, I began to question my observations. Why had she not yet turned? Could I have been so wrong as to mistake a simple fever for the strange plague? By the time I realised my error, it was too late to affect any undoing of the scheme. Mr. Bingley had been quite separated from Miss Bennet, both in distance and affection. Though I did so without malice, my actions have surely pained your sister, and your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert, that the severity of your sister’s cold was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that, however amiable her temper, her heart was pledged to darkness. That I was desirous of believing her stricken is certain—but I will venture to say that my investigation and decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did not believe her to be afflicted because I wished it; I believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. But there were other causes of repugnance. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your mother’s family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison to that total want of propriety so frequently betrayed by herself, your three younger sisters, and even by your father. Pardon me. It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, let it give you consolation to consider that you and your elder sister are held in my highest esteem, both in manners and skill as fellow warriors. I will only say farther that from what passed that evening, that my opinion of Miss Bennet being stricken was confirmed by her failure to join us in the investigation of the unfortunate kitchen incident, and my will strengthened to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. He left Netherfield for London, on the day following, as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning. The part which I acted is now to be explained. His sisters’ uneasiness had been equally excited with my own, though for different reasons; our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered, and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in London. We accordingly went—and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a choice. I described, and enforced them earnestly. But, however this remonstrance might have staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded by my assurance of your sister’s indifference. He had before believed her to return his affection with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley has great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgment than on his own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much. There is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister’s being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley; but her brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might have met without ill consequence is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this concealment, this disguise was beneath me; it is done, however, and it was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister’s feelings, it was done only as a consequence of affection for my friend, and the belief that Miss Bennet had been cursed to wander the earth in search of brains. With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he has particularly accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity. Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to him; and on George Wickham, who was his godson, his kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and afterwards at Kyoto—most important assistance, as his own father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to give him a proper Oriental education. My father was not only fond of this young man’s society, whose manner were always engaging; he had also the highest opinion of his fighting skill, and hoping the deadly arts would be his profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities—the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his benefactor, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have. During one such moment, Mr. Wickham happily boasted of his intention to practice his roundhouse kicks on our deaf stable boy, in the hopes that a broken neck would serve as punishment for a saddle polishing that hadn’t met with his approval. My affection for the wretched servant required that I shatter both of Mr. Wickham’s legs, lest he be able to carry out his dastardly plan. Here again I shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his real character—it adds even another motive. My excellent father died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it to me, to promote his advancement in the battle against the manky dreadfuls. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that he had some intention of studying advanced musketry, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than believed him to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal, and arranged for him to receive three thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his studying musketry was a mere pretence, and being now free from all restraint, his life was one of idleness and dissipation. For about three years I heard little of him; but on the termination of the funds which had been designed for him, he applied to me again by letter. His circumstances, he assured me, were exceedingly bad. He had found musketry a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on entering the priesthood, if I would present him with a yearly allowance. You will hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition to it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others as in his reproaches to myself. After this period every appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother’s nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided over it, Mrs. Younge, to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by her connivance and aid, he recommended himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her excuse. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Regard for my sister’s credit and feelings prevented any public exposure; but my honor demanded a duel with Mr. Wickham, who left the place immediately. Mrs. Younge was of course savagely beaten in front of the other household staff. Mr. Wickham’s chief object was unquestionably my sister’s fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed. This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he had imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night; but I was not then master enough of myself to know what could be revealed. For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our near relationship and constant intimacy, and, still more, as one of the executors of my father’s will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of me should make my assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning. May God bless you, and save England from her present unhappiness. FITZWILLIAM DARCY CHAPTER 36 IF ELIZABETH, WHEN MR. DARCY gave her the letter, did not expect it to contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of its contents. She read with an eagerness which hardly left her power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing what the next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister’s being stricken she instantly resolved to be false; and his account of the real, the worst objections to the match, made her too angry to have any wish of doing him justice. But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham—when she read with somewhat clearer attention a relation of events which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself—her feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition. Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, “This must be false! This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!” In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the letter was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence. The account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own words. But the thought of so punishing a deaf stable boy! And for such a trifling offense! It was almost impossible to believe a man of Wickham’s countenance capable of such cruelty. It was impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the other; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did not err. But when she read and re-read with the closest attention, the particulars immediately following of Wickham’s resigning all of the elder Darcy’s hopes that he would continue his training, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down the letter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be impartiality—deliberated on the probability of each statement—but with little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read on; but every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had believed it impossible that any contrivance could so represent as to render Mr. Darcy’s conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole. Of Wickham’s former way of life nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As to his real character, had information been in her power, she had never felt a wish of inquiring. His voice and manner had established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for what Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many years’ continuance. But no such recollection befriended her. She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation between Wickham and herself, in their first evening at Mr. Philips’s. Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was now struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear of seeing Mr. Darcy—that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that he should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball the very next week. She remembered also that, till the Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but herself; but that after their removal it had been everywhere discussed; that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy’s character, though he had assured her that respect for the father would always prevent his exposing the son. How differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned! His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, Jane had long ago asserted his blamelessness in the Wickham affair; that proud and repulsive as were his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their acquaintance, seen anything that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust. She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham could she think without feeling she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd. Had she her dagger, Elizabeth would have dropped to her knees and administered the seven cuts of dishonor without a moment’s hesitation. “How despicably I have acted!” she cried; “I, who have prided myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my mastery of mind and body! Who have often disdained the generosity of my sister, and gratified my vanity in useless mistrust! How humiliating is this discovery! Oh! Were my master here to bloody my back with wet bamboo!” From herself to Jane—from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy’s explanation there had appeared very insufficient, and she read it again. Widely different was the effect of a second perusal. How could she deny that credit to his assertions in one instance, which she had been obliged to give in the other? He declared himself to be suspicious of her sister’s being stricken, and she could not deny the justice of this wariness; for Jane’s cold had been severe indeed, and even Elizabeth had once or twice suspected the same. When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were mentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her sense of shame was severe. The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed, but it could not console her for the contempt which had thus been self-attracted by the rest of her family; and as she considered that Jane’s disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt by such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything she had ever known before. After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every variety of thought—reconsidering events, determining probabilities, and reconciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and so important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made her at length return home; and she entered the house with the wish of appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such reflections as must make her unfit for conversation. She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes, to take leave—but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her till she could be found. Elizabeth could but just affect concern in missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no longer an object; she could think only of her letter. CHAPTER 37 THE TWO GENTLEMEN left Rosings the next morning, and Mr. Collins having been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting bow, was able to bring home the pleasing intelligence, of their appearing in very good health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the melancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings, due to the approaching departure of the gentlemen, and Elizabeth’s killing of several of her ladyship’s favourite ninjas. To Rosings he then hastened, to console Lady Catherine and her daughter for their loss of company; and on his return brought back, with great satisfaction, a message from her ladyship, importing that she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of having them all to dine with her. Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that, had she chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to her as her future niece; nor could she think, without a smile, of what her ladyship’s indignation would have been. “What would she have said? How would she have behaved?” were questions with which she amused herself. Their first subject was the shrinking of the Rosings party. “I assure you, I feel it exceedingly,” said Lady Catherine; “I believe no one feels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I am particularly attached to these young men, and know them to be so much attached to me! They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The dear Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy seemed to feel it most acutely, more, I think, than last year. His attachment to Rosings certainly increases.” Mrs. Collins had a compliment to throw in here, which was kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter, despite the fact that no one could discern what she was growling. Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed out of spirits, and immediately accounting for it by herself, by supposing that she did not like to go home again so soon, she added: “But if that is the case, you must write to your mother and beg that you may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your company, I am sure.” “I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation,” replied Elizabeth, “but it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town next Saturday.” “Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I expected you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There can be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly spare you for another fortnight.” “But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return, for the ground again softens, and Hertfordshire will soon be overrun with unmentionables.” “Oh! Your father of course may spare you. I have observed your skills in the deadly arts, my dear; and they are not of the level which would make any difference in the fate of Hertfordshire or anywhere else.” Elizabeth could scarcely believe the insult. Had her affection for Mr. Darcy not been freshly restored, she might have challenged her lady-ship to a duel for such an affront to her honor. Lady Catherine continued, “And if you will stay another month complete, it will be in my power to take one of you as far as London, for I am going there early in June, to discuss strategy with His Majesty; and as my guard insists I travel in a barouche-box, there will be very good room for one of you—and indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I should not object to taking you both, as neither of you are fat like Mr. Collins.” “You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our original plan.” Lady Catherine seemed resigned. “Mrs. Collins, you must send one of my ninjas with them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea of two young women travelling by themselves. It is highly improper in times such as these. You must contrive to send somebody. Young women should always be properly guarded and attended, unless they are that rare sort of lady, like myself, who has been trained by the most respected masters in Japan—and not by those appalling Chinese peasants.” “My uncle is to send a servant for us, but I assure your ladyship that I am quite capable of—” “Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad you have somebody who thinks of these things. Where shall you change horses? Oh! Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at the Bell, you will be attended to.” Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their journey, and as she did not answer them all herself, attention was necessary, which Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or, with a mind so occupied, she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection must be reserved for solitary hours; whenever she was alone, she gave way to it as the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a solitary walk, in which she might indulge in all the delight of unpleasant recollections. Mr. Darcy’s letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She studied every sentence; and her feelings towards its writer were at times widely different. When she remembered the haughty style of his address, she dreamt of watching his eyes glaze over as she choked the life from his body; but when she considered how unjustly she had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned against herself; and she hastily applied her dagger to the seven cuts of shame, which had scarcely time to scab over. His attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect; but she could not approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal, or feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past behaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and regret; and in the unhappy defects of her family, a subject of yet heavier chagrin. They were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at them, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his youngest daughters; and her mother, with manners so far from right herself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently united with Jane in punishing the imprudence of Catherine and Lydia with wet bamboo; but while they were supported by their mother’s indulgence, what chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, undisciplined, irritable, and completely under Lydia’s guidance, had been always affronted by their attempts at correcting her; and Lydia, self-willed and dimwitted, would scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While Meryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they would be going there forever, killing zombies only when it interfered with their chances of flirting with an officer. Anxiety on Jane’s behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr. Darcy’s explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good opinion, heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was proved to have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame, unless any could attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his friend. How grievous then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had been deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family! Oh! Could she only bring herself to dispense with the lot of them! When to these recollections was added the development of Wickham’s character, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had seldom been depressed before, were now so much affected as to make it almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful. Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of her stay as they had been at first. The very last evening was spent there; and her ladyship again demeaned the quality of Chinese combat training, gave them directions as to the best method of packing, and was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right way, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the work of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh. When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, wished them a good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford again next year; and Miss de Bourgh exerted herself so far as to curtsey and hold out her frail hand to both. CHAPTER 38 ON SATURDAY MORNING Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few minutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of paying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary. “I know not, Miss Elizabeth,” said he, “whether Mrs. Collins has yet expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I am very certain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for it. The favor of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We know how little there is to tempt anyone to our humble abode. Our plain manner of living, our small rooms and few domestics, and the little we see of the world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady who has twice been to the Orient.” Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She had spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of being with Charlotte, and the kind attentions she had received, must make her feel the obliged. Mr. Collins replied: “My dear Charlotte and I have but one mind and one way of thinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each other.” Elizabeth might have said, given Charlotte’s being stricken and Mr. Collins being himself so dreadfully unappealing in every way, that she agreed with his assessment. But she merely offered that she firmly believed and rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was not sorry, however, to have the recital of them interrupted by the lady from whom they sprang. Poor Charlotte! It was melancholy to see her now almost entirely transformed! But she had chosen it with her eyes open. And though it wouldn’t be long before even the daft Mr. Collins would discover her condition and be forced to behead her, she did not seem to ask for compassion. Her home and her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and her ever deepening lust for tender morsels of savory brains, had not yet lost their charms. At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate parting with Charlotte, who Elizabeth knew she would never see again, they were attended to the carriage by Mr. Collins, and as they walked down the garden he was commissioning her with his best respects to Elizabeth’s family, not forgetting his thanks for the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her in, Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed, when he suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies at Rosings. “But,” he added, “you will of course wish to have your humble respects delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you while you have been here.” Elizabeth made no objection; the door was then allowed to be shut, and the carriage drove off. “Good gracious!” cried Maria, after a few minutes’ silence, “it seems but a day or two since we first came! And yet how many things have happened!” “A great many indeed,” said her companion with a sigh. “We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there twice! How much I shall have to tell!” Elizabeth added privately, “And how much I shall have to conceal!” The first ten miles of their journey were performed without the slightest bit of conversation or alarm. But when they came upon the old white church in St. Ezra Parish, Elizabeth at once recognized the scent of death in the air, and ordered the coachman to stop. It was a grand church for so small a village, built upon a frame of shaved tree trunks, and covered with hundreds of whitewashed planks. The denizens of St. Ezra were a notoriously pious lot, and they packed the pews every Saturday and Sunday to pray for deliverance from the legions of Satan. Stained glass windows ran the length of each side, which told the story of England’s descent from peace into chaos; the last window portrayed a resurrected Christ returning to slay the last of the unmentionables, Excalibur in hand. While the coachman and servant waited nervously with Maria, Elizabeth ascended the steps toward the church’s splintered doors, sword at the ready. The scent of death was overwhelming, and several of the stained glass windows had been shattered. Something terrible had happened here, but how recently, she knew not. Elizabeth entered the church ready to fight, but upon perceiving the inside, she sheathed her Katana, as it could do no good here. Not now. It seemed the whole of St. Ezra Parish had barricaded themselves in the church. Bodies lay everywhere: in pews; in aisles—the tops of their skulls cracked open; every last bite of their brains scraped out, like pumpkin seeds from a jack-o’-lantern. With their Parish under attack, these people had retreated to the only safe place they knew; but it hadn’t been safe enough. The zombies had simply overwhelmed them with superior numbers and insatiable determination. Men still clutched their pitchforks. Ladies still huddled with their children. Elizabeth felt her eyes moisten as she imagined the horror of their final moments. The screams. The sight of others being torn to pieces before their eyes. The horror of being eaten alive by creatures of unspeakable evil. A tear fell down Elizabeth’s cheek. She was quick to wipe it away, feeling somewhat ashamed that it had escaped at all. “A house of God so defiled!” said Maria, as their journey continued. “Have these unmentionables no sense of decency?” “They know nothing of the sort,” said Elizabeth, staring mindlessly out of the coach’s window, “and neither must we.” With no further alarm, they reached Mr. Gardiner’s house, where they were to remain for a few days. Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her spirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her aunt had reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at Longbourn there would be leisure enough for observation. It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even for Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy’s proposals. To know that she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish Jane was such a temptation to openness as nothing could have conquered but the state of indecision in which she remained as to the extent of what she should communicate; and her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried into repeating something of Bingley which might only grieve her sister further. CHAPTER 39 IT WAS THE SECOND WEEK in May, in which the three young ladies set out together from Section Six East for Hertfordshire; and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet’s carriage was to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman’s punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room upstairs. These two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily employed in amusing the sentinel on guard with immodest displays of their proficiency with a throwing star, much to the consternation of the carriage horse which served as their unwilling target. After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming, “Is not this nice? Is not this an agreeable surprise?” “And we mean to treat you all,” added Lydia, “but you must lend us the money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there.” Then, showing her purchases—“Look here, I have bought this bonnet.” And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect unconcern, “Oh! But there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what one wears this summer, after the soldiers have left Meryton, and they are going in a fortnight.” “Are they indeed!” cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction; for not only would her sisters have one less distraction from their training, but the very fact of the decampment meant that Hertfordshire had been much relieved of the unmentionable menace while she was away. “They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to take us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme; and I dare say would hardly cost anything at all. Mamma would like to go too of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall have! With hardly any balls to be had in Meryton!” “Yes,” thought Elizabeth, “a summer with so few balls would be miserable indeed for a girl who thinks of little else.” “Now I have got some news for you,” said Lydia, as they sat down at table. “What do you think? It is excellent news—capital news—and about a certain person we all like!” Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told he need not stay. Lydia laughed, and said: “Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse things said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I never saw such a long chin in my life. I nearly ran him through for thinking him a zombie. Well, but now for my news; it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is it not? There is no danger of Wickham’s marrying Mary King. There’s for you! She is gone down to her uncle at Liverpool: gone to stay. Wickham is safe.” “And Mary King is safe!” added Elizabeth; “safe from a connection imprudent as to fortune.” “She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.” “But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,” said Jane. “I am sure there is not on his. I will answer for it, he never cared three straws about her—who could about such a nasty little freckled thing, with not a skill to boast of?” As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was ordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their boxes, weapons, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty’s and Lydia’s purchases, were seated in it. “How nicely we are all crammed in,” cried Lydia. “I am glad I bought my bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another hatbox! Well, now let us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way home. And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all since you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any flirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband before you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare. She is almost three-and-twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not being married before three-and-twenty! My aunt Phillips wants you so to get husbands, you can’t think. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr. Collins; but I do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord! How I should like to be married before any of you; and then I would chaperon you about to all the balls. Dear me! We had such a good piece of fun the other day at Colonel Forster’s. Kitty and me were to spend the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the evening; (by the bye, Mrs. Forster and me are such friends!) and so she asked the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen was forced to come by herself—” Elizabeth presently drew her Katana and cut off Lydia’s head, which fell into the open hatbox. The others looked on in a state of silent shock as a torrent of blood sprang forth from Lydia’s neck, staining their dresses. Elizabeth sheathed her blade, and in a most delicate tone, said “I beg you all forgive me, but I could stand her prattling no longer.” However, when she spared another glance toward Lydia, she was surprised to see her head very much attached. “Lord! How I laughed!” continued her younger sister. “And so did Mrs. Forster. I thought I should have died.” Elizabeth sighed. If only she could really cut off Lydia’s head. With such tireless drivel did Lydia, assisted by Kitty’s hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she could, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham’s name. Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet say voluntarily to Elizabeth: “I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.” Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases came to meet Maria and hear the news; and various were the subjects that occupied them: Lady Lucas inquired after the welfare of her eldest daughter, who Maria reported in excellent health and spirits. “Has everyone gone mad?” thought Elizabeth. “Can no one see that she is nine-tenths dead from the plague?” Mrs. Bennet was doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of the present fashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and, on the other, retailing them all to the younger Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other person’s, was enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who would hear her. “Oh! Mary,” said she, “I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun! As we went along, Kitty and I opened the carriage windows and played at taunting the farmhands who were charged with burning the morning’s body piles; and when we got to the George, I do think we behaved very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest cold luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have treated you too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought we never should have got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then we were so merry all the way home! We talked and laughed so loud that zombies might have heard us ten miles off!” To this Mary very gravely replied, “Far be it from me, my dear sister, to depreciate such pleasures! They would doubtless be congenial with the generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms for me—I should infinitely prefer a good spar.” But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to anybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all. In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk to Meryton, and to see how everybody went on; but Elizabeth steadily opposed the scheme. It should not be said that the Miss Bennets could not be at home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was another reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Mr. Wickham again, and was resolved to bloody his mouth when she did. The comfort to her of the regiment’s approaching removal was indeed beyond expression. In a fortnight they were to go—and once gone, she hoped there could be nothing more to plague her on his account. She had not been many hours at home before she found that the Brighton scheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her father had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were at the same time so vague and equivocal that her mother had never yet despaired of succeeding at last. CHAPTER 40 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, she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene between Mr. Darcy and herself. Jane’s astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly partiality, which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly natural. 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 to learn that they had resulted in combat, and the destruction of Mr. Collins’s mantelpiece. “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 tell 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—particularly his treatment of the deaf stable boy and Miss Darcy. What a stroke was this for poor Jane! She 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 the 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 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 by the living,” 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 beat his sister’s governess! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it so.” “Certainly. But there is one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintances in general understand Wickham’s character.” Miss Bennet replied, “Surely there can be no occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your opinion?” “That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised 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 anyone here what he really is. At present I will say nothing about it.” “You are quite right. To have his errors made public might force him to demand satisfaction from Mr. Darcy—and when two gentlemen duel, there is seldom a happy result. We must not make him desperate. In the words of our dear master, ‘a caged tiger bites twice as hard.’” 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. 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 Bingley. 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 most 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 Phillips 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’s 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.” “I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any more.” “Oh well! It is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. 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.” Elizabeth couldn’t bring herself to tell her mother of Charlotte’s doom. The poor woman was scarcely able to keep herself together as it was. “I suppose they often talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it as quite 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 putting an old woman out of her home.” CHAPTER 41 THE FIRST WEEK of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was the last of the regiment’s stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies in the neighbourhood were sick with melancholy. The dejection was almost universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink, and sleep, and pursue their daily exercises, which at this time of year included games of “Kiss Me Deer”—a game their father had invented to better their softness of foot and arm strength. The rules were simple: Sneak up behind one of the large bucks grazing in the nearby woods, wrestle it to the ground, and kiss it on the nose before letting it go. Jane and Elizabeth laughed many an afternoon away in such a manner; very frequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such merrymaking in any of the family. “Good Heaven! what is to become of us? What are we to do?” would they often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. “How can you be smiling so, Lizzy?” Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what she had herself endured on a similar occasion, five-and-twenty years ago. “I am sure,” said she, “I cried for two days together when Colonel Miller’s regiment went away. I thought I should have broken my heart.” “I am sure I shall break mine,” said Lydia. “If one could but go to Brighton!” observed Mrs. Bennet. “Oh, yes! If one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so disagreeable.” “A little sea-bathing would set me up forever.” “And my aunt Philips is sure it would do me a great deal of good,” added Kitty. “THE RULES WERE SIMPLE: SNEAK UP BEHIND ONE OF THE LARGE BUCKS GRAZING IN THE NEARBY WOODS, WRESTLE IT TO THE GROUND, AND KISS IT ON THE NOSE BEFORE LETTING IT GO.” Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy’s objections; and never had she been so happy to open the scabs of her seven cuts. But the gloom of Lydia’s prospect was shortly cleared away; for she received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of their three months’ acquaintance they had been intimate two. The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster, the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely to be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister’s feelings, Lydia flew about the house in restless ecstasy, calling for everyone’s congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever; whilst the luckless Kitty spent many an hour aiming her longbow at any deer, rabbit, or bird unfortunate enough to venture too close to the house. “I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask me as well as Lydia,” said she, “though I am not her particular friend. I have just as much right to be asked as she has.” In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she considered it as the death warrant of all possibility of common sense for the latter; and even though Lydia would think her detestable if it were known, Elizabeth could not help secretly advising her father not to let her go. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia’s general behaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must be greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said: “Lydia will never be easy until she has exposed herself in some public place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present circumstances.” “If you were aware,” said Elizabeth, “of the very great disadvantage to us all which must arise from the public notice of Lydia’s unguarded and imprudent manner—nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you would judge differently in the affair.” “Already arisen?” repeated Mr. Bennet. “What, has she frightened away some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of pitiful fellows who have been kept aloof by Lydia’s folly.” “Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not of particular, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our importance, our respectability in the world must be affected by the wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark Lydia’s character. Excuse me, for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, or reminding her of our blood oath to defend the Crown above all things, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character will be fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt that ever made herself or her family ridiculous, and a disgrace to the honour of our beloved master. In this danger Kitty also is comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain, ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh! My dear father, can you suppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever they are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the disgrace?” Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject, and affectionately taking her hand said in reply: “Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less advantage for having a couple of—or I may say, three—very silly sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will keep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an object of prey to anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance even as a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being there may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow many degrees worse, without authorizing us to have her head.” With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion continued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her father, their indignation would hardly have warranted a moment of their tireless prattling. In Lydia’s imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised every possibility of earthly happiness. She saw, with the creative eye of fancy, the streets of that gay bathing-place covered with officers. She saw herself the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them at present unknown. She saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six officers at once as they pressed her for another demonstration of the deadly arts. Had she known her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and such realities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could have been understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly the same. Lydia’s going to Brighton was all that consoled her for the sorrow of having not one of her five daughters married. But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures continued, with little intermission, to the very day of Lydia’s leaving home. On the very last day of the regiment’s remaining at Meryton, Mr. Wickham dined, with other of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth disposed to part from him in good humour, that on his making some inquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam’s and Mr. Darcy’s having both spent three weeks at Rosings, and asked him if he was acquainted with the former. He looked surprised; but with a moment’s recollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen him often; and, after observing that he was a very gentlemanlike man, asked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour. With an air of indifference he soon afterwards added: “How long did you say he was at Rosings?” “Nearly three weeks.” “And you saw him frequently?” “Yes, almost every day.” “His manners are very different from his cousin’s.” “Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves upon acquaintance.” “Indeed!” cried Mr. Wickham with a look which did not escape her. “And pray, may I ask—.” But checking himself, he added, in a gayer tone, “Is it in address that he improves? For I dare not hope,” he continued in a lower and more serious tone, “that he is improved in essentials.” “Oh, no!” said Elizabeth. “In essentials, I believe, he is very much what he ever was.” While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a something in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive and anxious attention, while she added: “When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that his mind or his manners were in a state of improvement, but that, from knowing him better, his disposition was better understood. Particularly in regard to his treatment of stable boys.” Wickham’s alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated look; for a few minutes he was silent, till, shaking off his embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of accents: “You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Darcy, will readily comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume even the appearance of what is right. I only fear that the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been alluding, is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgment he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his wish of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I am certain he has very much at heart.” Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on the old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge him. The rest of the evening passed with the appearance, on his side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to distinguish Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a mutual desire of never meeting again. When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton, from whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation between her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the only one who shed tears; but they were tears of vexation and envy. Mrs. Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter, and impressive in her injunctions that she should not miss the opportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible—advice which there was every reason to believe would be well attended to; and in the clamorous happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle adieus of her sisters were uttered without being heard. CHAPTER 42 HAD ELIZABETH’S OPINION been all drawn from her own family, she could not have formed a very pleasing opinion of conjugal felicity or domestic comfort. Her father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance of good humour which youth and beauty generally give, had married a woman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind had very early in their marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect, esteem, and confidence had vanished for ever; and all his views of domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own imprudence had brought on. Instead, he sought to ensure that his daughters would not follow in their mother’s silly, idle footsteps. In this regard, he had tried five times, and succeeded two. Other than the gift of Jane and Elizabeth, to Mrs. Bennet he was very little otherwise indebted. This is not the sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his wife. Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her father’s behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of herself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation and decorum. This had been especially arduous during their trips to China, which Mr. Bennet had supervised without the company of his wife, and during which he had taken many a beautiful Oriental to his bedchamber. Master Liu had defended this as acquiescence to local custom, and Elizabeth had more than once felt the sting of wet bamboo on her back for daring to question her father’s propriety. But she had never felt so strongly as now the disadvantages that must attend the children of so unsuitable a marriage. When Lydia went away she promised to write very often and very minutely to her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and always very short. Those to her mother contained little else than that they were just returned from the library, where such and such officers had attended them, and that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which she would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going off to the camp; and from her correspondence with her sister, there was still less to be learnt—for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were much too full of lines under the words to be made public. After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, good humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn. Everything wore a happier aspect. The families who had fled the infestation came back again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose for the first time in memory. Mrs. Bennet was restored to her usual querulous serenity; and, by the middle of June, Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without tears; an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope that by the following Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable as not to mention an officer above once a day, unless, by some cruel and malicious arrangement at the War Office, another regiment should be quartered in Meryton. The time fixed for the beginning of Elizabeth’s northern tour was now fast approaching, and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and curtailed its extent. Due to the recent troubles in Birmingham, and the army’s want of more flints and powder, Mr. Gardiner would be prevented from setting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again within a month, and as that left too short a period for them to go so far, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with the leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up the Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour, and, according to the present plan, were to go no farther northwards than Derbyshire. In that county there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The town where she had formerly passed some years of her life, and where they were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of her curiosity as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, Dovedale, or the Peak. Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on seeing the Lakes, and still thought there might have been time enough. But she was glad for the chance of being anywhere other than Hertfordshire, and all was soon right again. Desperate to pass the time, Elizabeth set off to see the burning grounds of Oakham Mount one morning. It had been nearly two years since she had last visited, and it was only a few miles’ walk to the top of the Mount—which was little more than a hill, with an ever-present column of smoke rising from its top. Such columns could be seen from one end of England to the other, no matter the season or weather. There was always burning to be done. Elizabeth reached the grounds shortly after breakfast, and was somewhat surprised to see it so busy. Several wagons had already lined up outside the Paymaster’s shack; each of them carrying large, box-shaped iron cages on their backs. Each cage held anywhere from one to four zombies (in rare cases, one might see a cage with five, or even six). Most of them belonged to farmers, who trapped unmentionables as a means of earning extra money. But a few belonged to professional zombie hunters, called Reclaimers, who traveled the countryside setting cages. Elizabeth knew that some of these so-called “Reclaimers” were nothing more than scoundrels, who made their living abducting innocents, infecting them with the plague, and selling them to burning grounds. But better to burn a few innocents than let the guilty run free. Not far from the Paymaster’s shack, the Fire Master stood beside his pit, only feet from flames which rose to twice his height. His bare chest was covered in exercise moisture, for he never stopped working—whether coating logs with tar, raking embers, or throwing bails of hay into the fire. After haggling with the Paymaster and getting their pieces of silver, the men pulled their wagons to the Hook Master’s station, where the cages were hoisted off with a large mechanical device, and swung over the flames. Elizabeth could not help but feel a sense of joy as she watched cage after cage of zombies burn—heard their terrible shrieks as the fire (which they feared above all else) licked at their feet, then ignited the whole of their putrid flesh and hastened them back to Hell. When the zombies were nothing more than bone and ash, the cages were lowered back onto their wagons, and carried away to be filled anew. Apart from these sorts of excursions, the next four weeks passed slowly—but they did pass, and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two younger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their cousin Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and sweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every way—teaching them, playing with them, and loving them. The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement. One enjoyment was certain—that of suitableness of companions; a suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear inconveniences—cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure—and affection and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were disappointments abroad. It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, etc. are sufficiently known. Nor is it the object to describe the handful of zombie encounters which necessitated Elizabeth’s intervention—for not one was sufficient to yield even a drop of sweat from her brow. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present concern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner’s former residence, and where she had lately learned some acquaintance still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen all the principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of Lambton, Elizabeth found from her aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not in their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In talking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation. “My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so much?” said her aunt; “a place, too, with which so many of your acquaintances are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you know.” Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She must own that she was tired of seeing great houses; after going over so many, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains. Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. “If it were merely a fine house richly furnished,” said she, “I should not care about it myself; but the grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the country.” Elizabeth said no more—but her mind could not acquiesce. The possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly occurred. It would be dreadful! Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid whether Pemberley were not a very fine place? What was the name of its proprietor? And, with no little alarm, whether the family were down for the summer? A most welcome negative followed the last question—Mr. Darcy was reported to be in town for a meeting of the League of Gentlemen for the Encouragement of Continued Hostilities Against Our Most Unwelcome Enemy. Her alarms now being removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of curiosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the next morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and with a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike to the scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go. CHAPTER 43 ELIZABETH, AS THEY DROVE ALONG, watched for the first appearance of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter. The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent—taking care to listen closely for moans or the snapping of twigs, for there was rumoured to be a large herd of freshly de-graved dreadfuls about. Elizabeth’s mind was too full to be of much use in this regard, but she saw and admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for half a mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone building, made to resemble the grandest palaces of Kyoto, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills; and in front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled into a natural defense against frontal assault, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where the natural beauty of the Orient had been so little counteracted by English taste. They were all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something! They descended the hill, crossed between the stone dragons on either side of the bridge, and drove to the solid jade door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehension of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder at her being where she was. The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking English woman, dressed in a kimono and shuffling about on bound feet. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well proportioned room, handsomely fitted up with art and furniture from Darcy’s beloved Japan. Elizabeth, after surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms these objects were taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the proprietor’s taste for the East; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendour, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings. “And of this place,” thought she, “I might have been mistress! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt. But no,” recollecting herself, “that could never be; my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me; I should not have been allowed to invite them.” This was a lucky recollection—it saved her from something very like regret. She longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master was really absent, but had not the courage for it. At length however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied that he was, adding, “But we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends.” How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham, a crutch under each arm, amongst several other miniatures over the mantelpiece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was a picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master’s musket polisher, who had been brought up by him at his own expense. “He is now gone into the army,” she added; “but I am afraid he has turned out very wild.” Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it. “And that,” said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, “is my master—and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other—about eight years ago.” “I have heard much of your master’s fine person,” said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; “it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not.” Mrs. Reynolds respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this intimation of her knowing her master. “Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth coloured, and said—“A little.” “And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma’am?” “Yes, very handsome.” “I am sure I know none so handsome; but in the gallery upstairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master’s favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them.” This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham’s being among them. Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old. “And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?” said Mrs. Gardiner. “Oh! Yes—the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so accomplished! She beheaded her first unmentionable not one month after her eleventh birthday! I grant you Mr. Darcy had chained the vile creature to a tree, but it was an impressive kill nonetheless. In the next room is a new Katana just come for her—a present from my master; she comes here to-morrow with him.” Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either by pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her master and his sister. “Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?” “Not so much as I could wish, sir; but I dare say he may spend half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months.” “Except,” thought Elizabeth, “when she goes to Ramsgate.” “If your master would marry, you might see more of him.” “Yes, sir; but I do not know when that will be. I do not know who is good enough for him.” Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, “It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so.” “I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that knows him, “replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; and she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, “I have never known a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old. In that time, I have seen him savagely beat but one servant, and a most deserved beating it was. I dare say he is the gentlest man in all of Britain.” This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been her firmest opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more, and was grateful to her uncle for saying: “There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in having such a master.” “Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I could not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and he was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the world.” Elizabeth almost stared at her. “Can this be Mr. Darcy?” thought she. “His father was an excellent man,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “Yes, ma’am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him—just as affable to the poor. Kind even to the wretched accidents of God—the lame and the deaf alike.” “In what an amiable light does this place him!” thought Elizabeth. “This fine account of him,” whispered her aunt as they walked, “is not quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend.” “Perhaps we might be deceived.” “That is not very likely; our authority was too good.” On reaching the spacious lobby above they were shown into a very pretty sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than the apartments below; and were informed that it was but just done to give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room when last at Pemberley. “He is certainly a good brother,” said Elizabeth, as she walked towards one of the windows. Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy’s delight, when she should enter the room. “And this is always the way with him,” she added. “Whatever can give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in a moment. There is nothing he would not do for her.” The battle-gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms, were all that remained to be shown. In the former were many good zombie heads and suits of Samurai armor; but Elizabeth cared little for such trophies, and turned to look at some drawings of Miss Darcy’s, in crayons, whose subjects were almost exclusively the nude male form. When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen, they returned downstairs, and, taking leave of the housekeeper, were consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall-door. As the gardener led them along the river, stopping to point out the occasional coy pond or stone garden, Elizabeth turned back to appreciate the house from a greater distance, and was met with such a shock as to make her reach for the sword that she had neglected to bring—for behind them was a fast-approaching herd of unmentionables, no fewer than five-and-twenty in number. Elizabeth, her composure regained, alerted her party to this unhappy development, and ordered them to run and hide, which they did with no shortage of alacrity. With the herd nearly upon her, she prepared for battle—ripping a branch from a nearby tree and placing her feet in the first position for the Windswept Peasant method. Pole fighting had never been her strongest discipline, but as she was otherwise unarmed, it seemed the most practical approach, given the large number of opponents. The zombies let forth a most unpleasant roar as they came within biting distance, and Elizabeth returned it in kind as she began her counterattack. But no sooner had she struck down the first five or six, than the cracking of gunpowder scattered the score that remained. Elizabeth held a defensive pose as the zombies limped hurriedly for the safety of the woods, and then, upon being assured of their retreat, turned her gaze in the direction of the musket fire. On this she was again met with shock, though of a decidedly different nature—for upon a steed, holding a still-smoking Brown Bess, was none other than the owner of the grounds on which she stood. The smoke from Darcy’s musket hung in the air around him, wafting Heavenward through his thick mane of chestnut hair. His steed let forth a mighty neigh and reared upon its hind legs—high enough to throw a lesser horseman clear. But Darcy’s free hand held “THE SMOKE FROM DARCY’S MUSKET HUNG IN THE AIR AROUND HIM, WAFTING HEAVENWARD THROUGH HIS THICK MANE OF CHESTNUT HAIR.” true, and he coaxed the spooked beast back to earth. It was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards her, dismounted, and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility, as the rest of her party came out of hiding and joined them. Amazed at the alteration of his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the impropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the few minutes in which they continued were some of the most uncomfortable in her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his inquiries as to the well being of her aunt and uncle, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the distraction of his thoughts. At length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few moments without saying a word, he suddenly handed Elizabeth his Brown Bess, mounted his steed, and took leave. The others then joined her, and expressed admiration of his figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and wholly engrossed by her own feelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and vexation. Her coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged thing in the world! How strange it must appear to him! In what a disgraceful light might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if she had purposely thrown herself in his way again! Oh! Why did she come? Or, why did he thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his discrimination; for it was plain that he was that moment arrived. She blushed again and again over the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so strikingly altered—what could it mean? That he should even come to her aid was amazing! But to speak to her, and with such civility, to inquire after her well being! Never in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified, never had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put his letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, or how to account for it. They entered the woods and ascended some of the higher grounds, where the zombies, with their dry muscles and brittle bones, were less likely to bother them. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish of going round the whole park, but feared it might be too dangerous given the propinquity of the herd. A nearby roar from one of Satan’s soldiers settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which brought them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods, to the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They crossed it by a simple bridge, which they were informed was assembled from the violated headstones of Pemberley. It was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered it. Elizabeth longed to explore its windings, but when they had crossed the bridge and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner, who was still frightened by what had transpired, begged they go no farther, and thought only of returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was, therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction. Their progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were again surprised by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk here being less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. Perhaps he had merely returned to hunt the scattered unmentionables. The idea lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance, she saw that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place; but she had not got beyond the words “delightful,” and “charming,” when some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said no more. Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked her if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends. This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and she could hardly suppress a smile at his being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people against whom his pride had revolted in his offer to herself. “What will be his surprise,” thought she, “when he knows who they are? He takes them now for people of fashion.” The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore it, and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions. That he was surprised by the connection was evident; he sustained it, however, with fortitude, and so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners. The conversation soon turned upon musket fishing; and she heard Mr. Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to shoot fish there as often as he chose while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time to supply him with a fishing musket, and pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm-in-arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and continually was she repeating, “Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be for me—it cannot be for my sake that his manners are thus softened. It is impossible that he should still love me, unless, by kicking him into the mantelpiece during our battle at Hunsford, I affected some severe change in his countenance.” After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some zombie droppings, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth’s arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her husband’s. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected—“for your housekeeper,” she added, “informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country.” He acknowledged the truth of it all, and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. “They will join me early to-morrow,” he continued, “and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you—Mr. Bingley and his sisters.” Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley’s name had been the last mentioned between them; and, if she might judge by his complexion, his mind was not very differently engaged. “There is also one other person in the party,” he continued after a pause, “who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?” The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her must be the work of her brother, and, without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made him think really ill of her. They now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her was a compliment of the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a mile behind. He then asked her to walk into the house—but she declared herself not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time much might have been said, but nothing was. Elizabeth and Darcy merely looked at one another in awkward silence, until the latter reached both arms around her. She was frozen—“What does he mean to do?” she thought. But his intentions were respectable, for Darcy merely meant to retrieve his Brown Bess, which Elizabeth had affixed to her back during her walk. She remembered the lead ammunition in her pocket and offered it to him. “Your balls, Mr. Darcy?” He reached out and closed her hand around them, and offered, “They belong to you, Miss Bennet.” Upon this, their colour changed, and they were forced to look away from one another, lest they laugh. On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s coming up they were all pressed to go into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the ladies into the carriage; and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking slowly towards the house. The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them pronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they had expected. “He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming,” said her uncle. “There is something a little stately in him, to be sure,” replied her aunt, “but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now say with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud, I have seen nothing of it. Such horsemanship! Such musketry!” “I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling.” “To be sure, Lizzy,” said her aunt, “he is not so handsome as Wickham; or, rather, he has not Wickham’s countenance, for his features are perfectly good. But how came you to tell me that he was so disagreeable?” Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had liked him better when they had met in Kent than before, and that she had never seen him so pleasant as this morning. “But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,” replied her uncle. “Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him at his word, as he might change his mind another day, and bludgeon me with his musket for taking trout from his stock.” Elizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his character, but said nothing. “From what we have seen of him,” continued Mrs. Gardiner, “I really should not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by anybody as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look. On the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when he speaks. And there is something of dignity in the way his trousers cling to those most English parts of him. But, to be sure, the good lady who showed us his house did give him a most congratulatory appraisal! I could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal master, I suppose, and servants are often too complimentary out of a desire to keep their heads.” Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of his behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them to understand, in as guarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from his relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different construction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor Wickham’s so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In confirmation of this, she related the particulars of the stable boy business, without actually naming her authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on. Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out to her husband all the interesting spots where she and her former lover had frittered away many a summer afternoon, before circumstances required the affair to be broken off. Fatigued as she had been by the morning’s attack, they had no sooner dined than she set off in quest of her former acquaintance, and (unbeknownst to the sleeping Mr. Gardiner) her evening was spent in the satisfactions of intercourse renewed after many years’ discontinuance. The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth much attention for her aunt’s dalliances; and she could do nothing but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy’s civility, and, above all, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister. CHAPTER 44 ELIZABETH HAD SETTLED IT that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was consequently resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning. But her conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their arrival at Lambton, these visitors came. Much to Mr. Gardiner’s displeasure, they had been walking about the place with Mrs. Gardiner’s old “friend,” a Polish-born gentleman who went only by “Sylak,” and were just returning to the inn to dress themselves for dining with the same, when the sound of a carriage drew them to a window, and they saw a gentleman and a lady in a curricle driving up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognizing the livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of her surprise to her relations by acquainting them with the honour which she expected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and the embarrassment of her manner as she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many of the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a new idea on the business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they felt that there was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such a quarter than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these newly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of Elizabeth’s feelings was at every moment increasing. Given her battle-tested nerves, she was quite amazed at her own discomposure; but amongst other causes of disquiet, she dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much in her favour; and, more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally suspected that every power of pleasing would fail her. She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she walked up and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw such looks of inquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made everything worse. Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see that her new acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself. Since her being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud; but the observation of a very few minutes convinced her that she was only exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain even a word from her beyond a monosyllable. Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and, though little more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance womanly and soft. There was something of a natural grace to her movements, and though she clearly had much to learn in the ways of delivering death, she was far from the distracting clumsiness of most girls her age. Her legs and fingers were uncommonly long, and Elizabeth could not help but think what a fine apprentice she would make, were she only inclined to follow her brother’s example with greater enthusiasm. She was less handsome than her brother; but there was sense and good humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly unassuming and gentle. They had not long been together before Mr. Darcy told her that Bingley was also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time to express her satisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when Bingley’s clumsy, untrained steps were heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the room. All Elizabeth’s anger against him had been long done away; but had she still felt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected cordiality with which he expressed himself on seeing her again. He inquired in a friendly, though general way, after her family, and looked and spoke with the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done. In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to Jane; and, oh! How ardently did she long to know whether any of his were directed in a like manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he talked less than on former occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with the notion that, as he looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But, though this might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his behaviour to Miss Darcy, who had been set up as a rival to Jane. No look appeared on either side that spoke to an attraction. Nothing occurred between them that could justify the hopes of Bingley’s sister. On this point she was soon satisfied; and two or three little circumstances occurred before they parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted a recollection of Jane touched by tenderness, and a wish of saying more that might lead to the mention of her, had he dared. He observed to her, at a moment when the others were talking together, and in a tone which had something of real regret, that it “was a very long time since he had had the pleasure of seeing her”; and, before she could reply, he added: “It is above eight months. We have not met since the 26th of November, when my staff at Netherfield was so unhappily visited upon.” Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he afterwards took occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of the rest, whether all her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the question, nor in the preceding remark; but there was a look and a manner which gave them meaning. It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself; but, whenever she did catch a glimpse, she felt an excitement greater even than the thrill of confronting the Devil’s legions, and in all that he said she heard an accent so removed from hauteur or disdain of his companions, as convinced her that the improvement of manners which she had yesterday witnessed had at least outlived one day. When she saw him thus courting the good opinion of people with whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a disgrace—when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to the very relations whom he had openly disdained—the difference, the change was so great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she could hardly believe herself unaffected by a cup of dragon’s milk tea. Never, even in the company of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please as now, when no importance could result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the acquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed would draw down the ridicule and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and Rosings. Their visitors stayed with them above half-an-hour; and when they arose to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner at Pemberley, before they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a timidity which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations, readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing how she, whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its acceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming however, that this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment than any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for her attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on. Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Elizabeth again, having still a great deal to say to her, and many inquiries to make after all their Hertfordshire friends. Elizabeth, construing all this into a wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was pleased, and on this account, as well as some others, found herself, when their visitors left them, capable of considering the last half-hour as one of the happiest she had ever spent without spilling a drop of blood. Eager to be alone, and fearful of inquiries or hints from her uncle and aunt, she stayed with them only long enough to hear their favourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress. But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s curiosity; for unlike her meddling mother, it was not their wish to force her communication. It was evident that she was much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had before any idea of; it was evident that he was very much in love with her. They saw much to interest, but nothing to justify inquiry. Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They could not be untouched by his coming to their rescue at Pemberley, or his politeness thereafter; and had they drawn his character from their own feelings and his servant’s report, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known would not have recognized it for Mr. Darcy. With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was not held there in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns with the son of his patron were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well-known fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged. It was also widely rumoured that he had engaged in improprieties with two local girls, both of whom, sadly, fell victim to the plague and had to be burned before charges could be brought. As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening more than the last; and the evening, though as it passed it seemed long, was not long enough to determine her feelings towards one in that mansion; and she lay awake two whole hours endeavouring to make them out. She certainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she had almost as long been ashamed of ever wishing to drink the blood from his severed head. The respect created by the conviction of his valuable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some time ceased to be repugnant to her feeling; and it was now heightened into somewhat of a friendlier nature, by the testimony so highly in his favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light, which yesterday had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem, there was a motive within her of goodwill which could not be overlooked. It was gratitude; gratitude, not merely for having once loved her, but for loving her still well enough to forgive all the petulance and acrimony of her manner in rejecting his offer with a kick to the face, and all the unjust accusations accompanying her rejection. He who, she had been persuaded, would avoid her as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this accidental meeting, most eager to preserve the acquaintance, and without any indelicate display of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where their two selves only were concerned, was soliciting the good opinion of her friends, and bent on making her known to his sister. Such a change in a man of so much pride exciting not only astonishment but gratitude—for to love, ardent love, it must be attributed; and as such its impression on her was by no means unpleasing, though it could not be exactly defined. She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to him, she felt a real interest in his welfare; where she had been taught to ignore all feeling, all excitement—she now found herself with an excess of both. How strange! For the more she dwelled on the subject, the more powerful she felt; not for her mastery of the deadly arts, but for her power over the heart of another. What a power it was! But how to wield it? Of all the weapons she had commanded, Elizabeth knew the least of love; and of all the weapons in the world, love was the most dangerous. It had been settled in the evening between the aunt and the niece, that such a striking civility as Miss Darcy’s in coming to see them on the very day of her arrival at Pemberley ought to be imitated, though it could not be equalled, by some exertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that it would be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following morning. They were, therefore, to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though when she asked herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply. Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme had been renewed the day before, and a positive engagement made of his meeting some of the gentlemen at Pemberley before noon. CHAPTER 45 CONVINCED AS ELIZABETH now was that Miss Bingley’s dislike of her had originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how unwelcome her appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know with how much civility on that lady’s side the acquaintance would now be renewed. On reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the Shinto shrine, whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows opening to the ground, the shrine admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody hills behind the house, and its many sacred mirrors honored the gods while creating a most pleasing abundance of light. In this shrine they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting there with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived in London. Georgiana’s reception of them was very civil, but attended with all the embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the fear of doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves inferior the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and her niece, however, did her justice, and pitied her. By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only by a curtsey; and, on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be, succeeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a genteel, agreeable-looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind of discourse proved her to be more truly well-bred than either of the others; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from Elizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she wished for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a short sentence when there was least danger of its being heard. Elizabeth saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss Bingley, and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without calling her attention. “Oh! How she must long to strike at me with her clumsy, untrained fists,” thought Elizabeth. “What fun it would be to see her lose her composure so!” The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of Japanese delicacies. There was now employment for the whole party—for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the beautiful pyramids of ham, frosting, and zarezushi soon collected them round the table. While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding whether she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by the feelings which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but a moment before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to regret that he came—for she realized that her breath must tang of sweets and raw eel. He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three other gentlemen from the house, was musket fishing in the river, and had left him only on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear than Elizabeth wisely resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed, because she saw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them, and that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour when he first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley’s, in spite of the smiles which over-spread her face whenever she spoke to one of its objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attentions to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother’s entrance, exerted herself much more to talk, and Elizabeth saw that he was anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded as much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the first opportunity of saying, with sneering civility: “Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the Militia removed from Meryton? They must be a great loss to your family.” In Darcy’s presence she dared not mention Wickham’s name; but Elizabeth instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and she had to forcefully repress the desire to blacken Miss Bingley’s eyes for such insolence. Exerting her tongue rather than her fists to repel the ill-natured attack, she presently answered the question in a tolerably detached tone. While she spoke, an involuntary glance showed her Darcy, with a heightened complexion, his sword hand twitching ever so slightly, and his sister overcome with confusion, and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what pain she was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would have refrained from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose Elizabeth by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she believed her partial, to make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in Darcy’s opinion, and, perhaps, to remind the latter of all the follies and absurdities by which some part of her family were connected with that corps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss Darcy’s meditated elopement. Elizabeth’s collected behaviour, however, soon quieted Mr. Darcy’s emotion; and as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able to speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely recollected her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which had been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth seemed to have fixed them on her more and more cheerfully. Not since the Battle of Tumu Fortress had an assault been so poorly conceived. Their visit did not continue long after the above mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their carriage Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth’s person, behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join her. Her brother’s recommendation was enough to ensure her favour; his judgement could not err. And he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana without the power of finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When Darcy returned to the shrine, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to him some part of what she had been saying to his sister. “How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy,” she cried; “I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she is since the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing that we should not have known her again.” However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented himself with coolly replying that he perceived no other alteration than her being rather tanned, no miraculous consequence of traveling in the summer. “For my own part,” she rejoined, “I must confess that I never could see any beauty in her. Her midriff is too firm; her arms too free of loose flesh; and her legs too long and flexible. Her nose wants character—it is unbearably petite. Her teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes, which have sometimes been called so fine, I could never see anything extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, knowing look, which I do not like at all; and in her air altogether there is a self sufficiency and composure, which is intolerable.” Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the success she expected. He was resolutely silent, however, and, from a determination of making him speak, she continued: “I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, ‘She a beauty! I should as soon call her mother a wit.’ But afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at one time.” “Yes,” replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, “but that was only when I first saw her, for I now consider her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.” He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself. Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred during their visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested them both. The look and behaviour of everybody they had seen were discussed, except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked of his sister, his friends, his shrine, his zarezushi—of everything but himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece’s beginning the subject. CHAPTER 46 ELIZABETH HAD BEEN a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but on the third her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that it had been aboard a post carriage that had been overrun by zombies, thus the delay in its delivery. They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by them-selves. The one delayed must first be attended to; it had been written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded; but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect: Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a most unexpected and serious nature. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland with one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our surprise. I am very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step (and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How thankful am I that we never let them know of his falling out with Mr. Darcy, or of his treatment of the deaf; we must forget it ourselves. On finishing this letter Elizabeth instantly seized the other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first. DEAREST LIZZY, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as the marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken place, for there is now reason to believe that Lydia may have been taken against her will! Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia’s short letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they intended to elope, something was dropped by another officer that Wickham had no such intentions, which was repeated to Colonel F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B. intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham, but no further; for on entering that place, he was met with a hail of musket balls, and forced to seek cover while Wickham and Lydia removed into a hackney coach and sped away. All that is known after this is, that they were seen to continue the London road. I know not what to think. After making every possible inquiry on that side of London, Colonel F. came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F., but no one can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the worst, that she will be stripped of her clothes, her honour, and her head in quick succession—but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make it more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to pursue their first plan; and even if he could carry out such a scheme against a young woman of Lydia’s training, which is not likely, can I suppose his character so misjudged by us? Impossible! My father is going to London with Colonel Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do I am sure I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such distress, my uncle’s advice and assistance would be everything in the world; he will immediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness. “Oh! Where, where is my uncle?” cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat as she finished the letter, without losing a moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door it was opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous manner made him start, and before he could recover himself to speak, she hastily exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not an instant to lose.” “Good God! What is the matter?” cried he, “I will not detain you a minute; but let me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are not well enough; you cannot go yourself.” Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she felt how little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and mistress home instantly. On his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support herself, and looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration, “Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you present relief? Kampo herbs; shall I get you some? You are very ill.” “No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. “There is nothing the matter with me. I am only distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn.” She burst into tears and for a few minutes could not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate silence. At length she spoke again. “I have just had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My younger sister is in the power of—of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. You know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections, nothing that can tempt him to marriage—she is lost for ever.” Darcy was fixed in astonishment. “When I consider,” she added in a yet more agitated voice, “that I might have prevented it! I, who knew what he was. Had I but explained some part of it only—some part of what I learnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not have happened. But it is all—all too late now.” “I am grieved indeed,” cried Darcy; “grieved—shocked. But is it certain—absolutely certain?” “Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced almost to London, but not beyond; Colonel Foster has reason to doubt their elopement, and suspects that Lydia was taken against her will.” “And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?” “My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle’s immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in half-an-hour. But nothing can be done. How are they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope.” Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence. “When my eyes were opened to his real character—Oh! Had I known what I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not—I was afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!” Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking up and down the room in earnest meditation, his brow contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. His opinion of her was sinking; everything must sink under such a proof of family weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. Never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved him, as now, when all love must be vain. Covering her face with her handkerchief, Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else; and was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the voice of her companion. “Would to Heaven that anything could be either said or done on my part that might offer consolation to such distress! But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister’s having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley to-day.” “Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us to Miss Darcy. Say that urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as long as it is possible, I know it cannot be long.” He readily assured her of his secrecy; again expressed his sorrow for her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present reason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her relations, with only one serious, parting look, went away. As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality again; and as she threw a retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those feelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would formerly have rejoiced in its termination. She saw him go with regret; and in this early example of the shame which Lydia’s imminent violation and murder must produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched business. Never, since reading Jane’s second letter, had she entertained a hope of Wickham’s meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought, could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least of her feelings on this development. While the contents of the first letter remained in her mind, she was all surprise—all astonishment that Wickham should have captured a student of Shaolin—even one so careless as Lydia. But now it was all too natural. For such was her eagerness for the company of handsome officers, that her guard would have been sufficiently lowered to allow such a disgrace. Elizabeth was wild to be at home—to hear, to see, to be upon the spot to share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a family so deranged, a father absent, a mother surely vomiting by now, and requiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing could be done for Lydia, her uncle’s interference seemed of the utmost importance, and till he entered the room her impatience was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing by the servant’s account that their niece was slain by some unknown enemy; but satisfying them instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their summons, reading the two letters aloud. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be deeply afflicted. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after the first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner promised every assistance in his power. Elizabeth, though expecting no less, thanked him with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated by one spirit, everything relating to their journey was speedily settled. They were to be off as soon as possible. “But what is to be done about Pemberley?” cried Mrs. Gardiner. “John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for us; was it so?” “Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement. That is all settled.” “What shall we tell our other friends?” said the other, as she ran into her room to prepare. “Oh, how I wish there were time to see Sylak once more!” But wishes were vain, or at least could only serve to amuse her in the hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure to be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was impossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of business as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to be written to all their friends at Lambton, with false excuses for their sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr. Gardiner meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing remained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of the morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn. CHAPTER 47 “I HAVE BEEN THINKING it over again, Elizabeth,” said her uncle, as they drove from the town; “and really, upon serious consideration, I am much more inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does on the matter. It appears to me so very unlikely that any young man should form such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or friendless, and who was actually staying in his colonel’s family, that I am strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends would not step forward? Could he expect that her sisters would not pursue him to the ends of the earth with their swords? Could he expect to be noticed again by the regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is not adequate to the risk!” “Do you really think so?” cried Elizabeth. “Upon my word,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “I begin to be of your uncle’s opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and interest, for him to be guilty of. I cannot think so very ill of Wickham. Can you yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him up, as to believe him capable of it?” “Not, perhaps, of neglecting his own interest; but of every other neglect I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I dare not hope it. Why should he fire upon the Colonel if that had been the case?” “In the first place,” replied Mr. Gardiner, “there is no absolute proof that they do not intend to marry.” “But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their marriage be private? Oh, no, no—this is not likely. His fellow officer, you see by Jane’s account, was persuaded of his never intending to marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some money. He cannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia—what attraction has she beyond youth and good length of bone that could make him, for her sake, forego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to your other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. My sisters and I cannot spend any substantial time searching for Wickham, as we are each commanded by His Majesty to defend Hertfordshire from all enemies until such time as we are dead, rendered lame, or married.” “But can you think that Lydia is so helpless as to allow herself—nay, her family to be so dishonoured?” “It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed,” replied Elizabeth, with tears in her eyes, “that a Bennet sister’s mastery of the deadly arts should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say. Perhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young; and for the last half-year, nay, for a twelvemonth—she has been given up to nothing but amusement and vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle and frivolous manner, and to neglect her daily sparring, meditation, or even the simplest game of Kiss Me Deer. Since the Militia were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love, flirtation, and officers have been in her head. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of person and address that can captivate a woman.” “But you see that Jane,” said her aunt, “does not think so very ill of Wickham as to believe him capable of the attempt.” “Of whom does Jane ever think ill? I have seen her cradle unmentionables in her arms, apologising for taking their limbs, even as they tried to bite her with their last. But Jane knows, as well as I do, what Wickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every sense of the word; that he has neither integrity nor honour.” “And do you really know all this?” cried Mrs. Gardiner. “I do indeed,” replied Elizabeth, colouring. “I told you, the other day, of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you yourself, when last at Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man who had behaved with such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other circumstances which I am not at liberty—which it is not worth while to relate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless.” “But does Lydia know nothing of this? Can she be ignorant of what you and Jane seem so well to understand?” “Oh, yes! That is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was ignorant of the truth myself—so ignorant that my honour required the seven cuts. And when I returned home, the Militia was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight’s time. As that was the case, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it necessary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could it apparently be to any one, that the good opinion which all the neighbourhood had of him should then be overthrown? And even when it was settled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening her eyes to his character never occurred to me.” “When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I suppose, to believe them fond of each other?” “Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either side, other than her carving his name into her midriff with a dagger; but this was customary with Lydia. When first he entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all were. Every girl in or near Meryton was out of her senses about him for the first two months; but he never distinguished her by any particular attention; and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy gave way, and others of the regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites.” However little of novelty could be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth’s thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could find no interval. They travelled as expeditiously as possible, until they neared the village of Lowe, where there had lately been a skirmish between the King’s army and a southerly herd. Here, the road became so littered with bodies (human and unmentionable alike), that it was rendered almost impassable. As the bodies were unsafe to touch, the coachman was forced to lift the iron beak from the undercarriage and affix it to the horses—hanging it with leather straps from their necks, so that it rested front of their feet, forming a plow, which pushed the bodies aside as they continued. Determined that they should lose no more time, Elizabeth sat next to the coachman with her Brown Bess, ready to meet the slightest sign of trouble with the crack of powder. She ordered him to stop for nothing; even that most personal business would have to be attended to from where they sat. They drove through the night, and reached Longbourn by dinner time the next day. It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied by long expectations. The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing on the steps of the house as they entered the paddock; and, when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their faces was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome. Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them a hasty kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane immediately met her. Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether anything had been heard of the fugitives. “Not yet,” replied Jane. “But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope everything will be well. Oh! Lizzy! Our sister abducted and repeatedly dishonoured, even as we stand here helpless!” “Is my father in town?” “Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word.” “And have you heard from him often?” “We have heard only twice. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely added that he should not write again till he had something of importance to mention.” “And my mother—how is she? How are you all?” “Mother is tolerably well, I trust; though she vomits often, and quite copiously, as you no doubt expected. She is upstairs and will have great satisfaction in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank Heaven, are quite well, and have both sworn blood-oaths against Mr. Wickham, bless their hearts.” “But you—how are you?” cried Elizabeth. “You look pale. How much you must have gone through!” Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well; and their conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were engaged with their children, was now put an end to by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears. When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth had already asked were of course repeated by the others, and they soon found that Jane had no intelligence to give. She still clung to the sanguine hope that it would all end well, and that every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father, to explain their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce their marriage. Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes’ conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous conduct of Wickham, and half a bucket’s worth of vomit; blaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the errors of her daughter must principally be owing. “If I had been able,” said she, “to carry my point in going to Brighton, with all my family, this would not have happened; but poor dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing if she had been well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the charge of her; but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor dear child! And now here’s Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight Wickham wherever he meets him, and then he will be killed—for no matter how full his mind of Oriental trickery, his frail old body possesses none of its former grace. And then what is to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out before he is cold in his grave, and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what we shall do.” They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia. “Do not give way to useless alarm,” added he. “Till we know that they are not married, and have no design of marrying, do not let us give her honour over as lost. As soon as I get to town I shall go to my brother, and make him come home with me to Section Six East; and then we may consult together as to what is to be done.” “Oh! My dear brother,” replied Mrs. Bennet, “that is exactly what I could most wish for. When you get to town, find them out; and if they are not married already, make them marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them, after they are married. And, above all, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in, that I am frighted out of my wits—and have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me—such spasms in my side and pains in my head, and such a ceaseless torrent of sick into my bucket, that I can get no rest by night nor by day.” Mr. Gardiner assured her again of his earnest endeavours in the cause, and after talking with her in this manner till dinner was on the table, they all left her to vomit in the company of the housekeeper, who attended in the absence of her daughters. Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to oppose it. In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been too busily engaged in their sparring to make their appearance before. They had been busy at little else since swearing their blood oaths. Soon after they were seated at the table, Mary whispered to Elizabeth: “This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much talked of. But we must stem the tide of idle chatter, and pour into our wounded bosoms the soothing balm of vengeance.” Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added, “Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful lesson: that virtue in a female is as easily removed as a piece of clothing; that one false step can cause endless ruin; that the only remedy for wounded honour is the blood of he who hath defiled it.” Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed to make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such kind of moral extractions from the evil before them. In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for half-an-hour by themselves; after joining in general lamentations over the dreadful dishonouring of their sister, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Jane could not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued the subject, by saying, “But tell me all and everything about it which I have not already heard. Give me further particulars. What did Colonel Forster say? Had they no apprehension of anything before the abduction took place?” “Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality, especially on Lydia’s side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so grieved for him! His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He was coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had any idea of Wickham’s having no intention of marrying: when that apprehension first got abroad, it hastened his journey.” “And was the officer convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of their intending to go off?” “Yes; but, when questioned by him, the officer denied knowing anything of their plans, and would not give his real opinion about it, even after the Colonel threatened to feed his most English parts to the unmentionables. He did not repeat his persuasion of their not marrying—and from that, I am inclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before.” “And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you doubted that they would be hastily married?” “How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I felt a little uneasy—a little fearful of my sister’s happiness with him in marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite right. My father and mother knew nothing of that; they only felt how imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia’s last letter she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their being in love with each other, many weeks.” “But not before they went to Brighton?” “No, I believe not.” “And did Colonel Forster appear to think well of Wickham himself? Does he know his real character?” “I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad affair has taken place, it is said that he left Meryton greatly in debt, and left at least one poor milkmaid in a delicate condition; but I hope this may be false.” “Oh, Jane, had we told what we knew of him, this could not have happened!” “Perhaps it would have been better,” replied her sister. “But to expose the former faults of any person without knowing what their present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions.” “Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia’s note to his wife?” “He brought it with him for us to see.” Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These were the contents: MY DEAR HARRIET, You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who, I shall think your brains in a zombie’s teeth, for there is but one man in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater, when I write to them and sign my name “Lydia Wickham.” What a good joke it will be! I can hardly write for laughing. I shall send for my clothes and weapons when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell Sally to mend a great claw mark in my worked muslin gown before they are packed up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster. I hope you will drink to our good journey. Your affectionate friend, LYDIA BENNET. “Oh! Thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!” cried Elizabeth when she had finished it. “What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment! But at least it shows that she was serious on the subject of their journey. Whatever he might afterwards force her into, it was not on her side a scheme of infamy. My poor father! How he must have felt it!” “I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in such confusion!” “Oh! Jane,” cried Elizabeth, “you do not look well. Oh that I had been with you! You have had every care and anxiety upon yourself alone.” “Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every fatigue, I am sure, had they not been engaged in crafting Mr. Wickham’s doom. My aunt Philips came to Longbourn on Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all. And Lady Lucas has been very kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to condole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters’, if they should be of use to us.” Upon hearing Lady Lucas mentioned, Elizabeth’s thoughts turned to Hunsford. She wondered if there were any of the old Charlotte left, or if Mr. Collins had yet perceived her affliction. It had, after all, been some time since she had received a letter from the parsonage. Was her friend still living? It was too frightful a subject to long dwell upon. She then proceeded to inquire into the measures which her father had intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter. “He meant I believe,” replied Jane, “to go to Epsom, the place where they last changed horses. His principal object must be to discover the number of the hackney coach which took them from Clapham after Mr. Wickham tried to kill the Colonel. It had come with a fare from London; and as he thought that the circumstance of a gentleman and lady’s removing from one carriage into another in a hail of musket fire might be remembered, he meant to make inquiries at Clapham.” CHAPTER 48 THE WHOLE PARTY were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him. His family knew him to be a most negligent and dilatory correspondent; but at such a time they had hoped for exertion. They were forced to conclude that he had no pleasing intelligence to send; but even of that they would have been glad to be certain. Mr. Gardiner had waited only for the letters before he set off, with three hired men and their guns as his companions and guarantors of expeditious passage. Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few days longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable to her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a great comfort to them in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also visited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of cheering and heartening them up—though, as she never came without reporting some fresh instance of Wickham’s leaving this bill or that bastard child, she seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found them. All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three months before, had been hailed as “more praiseworthy than Christ himself.” He was declared to be in debt to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman’s family. Everybody declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world; and everybody began to find out that they had always distrusted the appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above half of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of her sister’s ruin more certain; and even Jane, who believed still less of it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now come when, if they had been married, they must in all probability have gained some news of it. Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday his wife received a letter from him; it told them that, on his arrival, he had immediately found out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Section Six East; that Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival, but without gaining any satisfactory information; and that he was now determined to inquire at all the principal hotels in town. There was also a postscript to this effect: I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if possible, from some of the young man’s intimates in the regiment, whether Wickham has any relations or connections who would be likely to know in what part of town he has now concealed himself. If there were anyone that one could apply to with a probability of gaining such a clue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we have nothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do everything in his power to satisfy us on this head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps, Lizzy could tell us what relations he has now living, better than any other person. Elizabeth had never heard of his having had any relations, except a father and mother, both of whom had been dead many years. It was possible, however, that some of his companions in the Militia might be able to give more information, though she was not very sanguine in expecting it. Elizabeth and Jane could find no solace in their deer wrestling, nor could they depend on their younger sisters for company, as both were forever engaged in crafting some new method of disembowelment for Mr. Wickham. Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters was the grand object of every morning’s impatience. Through letters, whatever of good or bad was to be told would be communicated, and every succeeding day was expected to bring some news of importance. But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived for their father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins; which, as Jane had received directions to open all that came for him in his absence, she accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his letters always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as follows: MY DEAR SIR, I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now suffering under, and likewise inform you of my own suffering, due to a tragedy that has befallen one of your dearest acquaintances, my beloved wife, Charlotte. It is my sad duty to report that she is no more with us upon this earth; that she was somehow stricken with the strange plague—an affliction we were all blind to until Lady Catherine de Bourgh condescended to bring it to my attention in a most graceful manner. Her ladyship, I might add, was kind enough to offer her hand in carrying out the customary beheading and burning; but I felt it my husbandly duty to perform them with my own hand—trembling though it was. Be assured, my dear sir, that despite my own crippling grief, I sincerely sympathise with you and all your respectable family, in your present distress, which must be of the bitterest kind. The death of your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison of this, just as the beheading and burning of my bride was a fate preferable to seeing her join the ranks of Lucifer’s brigade. You are grievously to be pitied; in which opinion I am joined Lady Catherine and her daughter, to whom I have related the affair. They agree with me in apprehending that this dishonouring of one’s daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of all the others; for “who,” as Lady Catherine herself condescendingly says, “will connect themselves with such a family?” And this consideration leads me moreover to reflect, with augmented satisfaction, on my offer to Elizabeth last November; for had she replied otherwise, I must have been involved in your disgrace, instead of the mere sorrow which I am presently condemned to. Let me then advise you, dear sir, to throw off your unworthy child from your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of her own heinous offense. And let me conclude by congratulating you, for I shall no longer be requiring Longbourn upon your death, as I shall myself be dead by the time this post reaches you—hanging from a branch of Charlotte’s favourite tree, in the garden which her ladyship was so magnanimous in granting us stewardship over. I AM, DEAR SIR, ETC., ETC. Mr. Gardiner did not write again till he had received an answer from Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send. It was not known that Wickham had a single relationship with whom he kept up any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one living. His former acquaintances had been numerous; but since he had been in the militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship with any of them. There was no one, therefore, who could be pointed out as likely to give any news of him. And in the wretched state of his own finances, there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in addition to his fear of discovery by Lydia’s relations, for it had just transpired that he had left bastards and gaming debts behind him to a very considerable amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than a thousand pounds would be necessary to clear his expenses at Brighton, and another thousand to provide for those sorry girls he had left with the stains of shame. Mr. Gardiner did not attempt to conceal these particulars from the Longbourn family. Jane heard them with horror. “A gamester! A bastard maker!” she cried. “This is wholly unexpected. I had not an idea of it.” Mr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see their father at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered spiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours, he had yielded to his brother-in-law’s entreaty that he would return to his family. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did not express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering what her anxiety for his life had been before. “What, is he coming home? And without poor Lydia?” she cried. “Sure he will not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Wickham, and make him marry her, if he comes away?” As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that she and the children should go to London, at the same time that Mr. Bennet came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their journey, and brought its master back to Longbourn. Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy that had attended her from that part of the world. His name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece; and Elizabeth had received no letters since her return that could come from Pemberley. The present unhappy state of the family rendered any other excuse for the lowness of her spirits unnecessary. Elizabeth, who was by this time tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of Lydia’s infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought, one sleepless night out of two. When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the habit of saying; made no mention of the business that had taken him away, and it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of it. It was not till the afternoon, when he had joined them at tea, that Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly expressing her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, “Say nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? ‘For every rod of wet bamboo upon the student’s back, the teacher deserves two.’ Did not Master Liu say as much?” “You must not be too severe upon yourself,” replied Elizabeth. “You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone to fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have been to blame. For it was I who resolved that you should be warriors, and not ladies. It is I who saw to your instruction in the ways of death, while neglecting to teach you anything of life. Grant me my shame, for it is most deserved.” “Do you suppose them to be in London?” “Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?” “And Lydia used to want to go to London,” added Kitty. “She is happy then,” said her father drily; “and her residence there will probably be of some duration.” Then after a short silence he continued: “Lizzy, I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your advice to me last May, which, considering the event, shows some greatness of mind.” They were interrupted by Kitty, who came to fetch her mother’s tea. “This is a parade!” he cried. “Can I have not a moment’s peace in which to suffer my misfortune? Tomorrow I will sit in my library, in my nightcap and robes of silk, and remain there till Kitty runs away.” “I am not going to run away, papa,” said Kitty fretfully. “If I should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia.” “You go to Brighton. I would not trust you so near it as Eastbourne for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter into my house again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be absolutely prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters. And you are never to stir out of doors till you can prove that you have spent ten hours of every day in pursuit of your studies.” Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry. “Well, well,” said he, “do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of them.” CHAPTER 49 TWO DAYS AFTER Mr. Bennet’s return, as Jane and Elizabeth were tracking a buck through the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper coming towards them, and, concluding that she came to report their mother’s latest fit of vomiting, went forward to meet her; but, instead of the expected news, when they approached her, she said to Miss Bennet, “I beg your pardon, madam, for interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some good news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask.” “What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town.” “Dear madam,” cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, “don’t you know there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He has been here this half-hour, and master has had a letter.” Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech. They ran through the vestibule into the breakfast-room; from thence to the library; their father was in neither; and they were on the point of seeking him upstairs with their mother, when they were met by the butler, who said: “If you are looking for my master, ma’am, he is walking towards the dojo.” Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall once more, and ran across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately pursuing his way toward the modest building. Elizabeth came up with him, and eagerly cried out: “Oh, papa, what news—what news? Have you heard from my uncle?” “Yes I have had a letter from him by express.” “Well, and what news does it bring—good or bad?” “What is there of good to be expected?” said he, taking the letter from his pocket. “But perhaps you would like to read it.” Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up. “Read it aloud,” said their father, “for I hardly know myself what it is about.” Section Six East, Monday, August 2. MY DEAR BROTHER, At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such as, upon the whole, I hope it will give you satisfaction. Soon after you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what part of London they were. The particulars I reserve till we meet; it is enough to know they are discovered. I have seen them both— “Then it is as I always hoped,” cried Jane; “they are married!” Elizabeth read on: I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find there was any intention of being so; but I can happily report that Mr. Wickham has lately undergone a most remarkable change of heart on the subject, and wishes they be wed with the utmost expediency. He is in a most dreadful state, however, for a carriage accident has left him bedridden and unable to move his limbs, or control his personal business. I am afraid his doctors are of the opinion that he shall remain thus for the whole course of his life; but imagine their relief to know that he shall have a devoted wife to attend to his every need till death do they part. He wishes no share of your daughter’s five thousand pounds, nor does he require more than five pounds per annum to offset the cost of his linens. These are conditions which, considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying with, as far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by express, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers to act in your name throughout the whole of this business, there will not be the smallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore stay quiet at Longbourn, and depend on my diligence and care. Send back your answer as fast as you can, and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it best that my niece should be married at Wickham’s bedside, of which I hope you will approve, as there is little chance of his being moved. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as anything more is determined on. Yours, etc., EDW. GARDINER. “Is it possible?” cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. “Can it be possible that he will marry her?” “Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we thought him. Oh! Rendered lame by a carriage! Cruel fate!” said her sister. “My dear father, I congratulate you.” “And have you answered the letter?” cried Elizabeth. “No; but it must be done soon.” “Oh! My dear father,” she cried, “come back and write immediately. Consider how important every moment is in such a case.” “Let me write for you,” said Jane, “if you dislike the trouble yourself.” “I dislike it very much,” he replied; “but it must be done.” And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house. “And may I ask,” said Elizabeth; “but the terms, I suppose, must be complied with.” “Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little.” “Oh! Wretched Lydia! To be a nurse for the rest of her days! And they must marry! Yet he is a cripple!” “Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there are two things that I want very much to know; one is, how much money your uncle has laid down to bring it about; and the other, how am I ever to pay him.” “Money! My uncle!” cried Jane, “what do you mean, sir?” “I mean, that no man in his senses would marry Lydia on so slight a temptation as five pounds a year during my life, and nothing after I am gone.” “That is very true,” said Elizabeth; “though it had not occurred to me before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh! It must be my uncle’s doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this.” “No,” said her father; “Wickham’s a fool if he takes her with a farthing less than ten thousand pounds, especially since he will now have little opportunity of earning and fortune of his own. I should be sorry to think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship.” “Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be repaid?” Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued silent till they reached the house. Their father then went on to the library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room. “And they are really to be married!” cried Elizabeth, as soon as they were by themselves. “How strange this is! And for this we are to be thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness, and wretched as is his broken body, we are forced to rejoice. Oh, Lydia!” “I comfort myself with thinking,” replied Jane, “that he certainly would not marry Lydia if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds, or anything like it, has been advanced. He has children of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds?” “If he were ever able to learn what Wickham’s debts have been,” said Elizabeth, “and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be requited. Their affording her their personal protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage as years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. If such goodness does not make her miserable now, she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she first sees my aunt!” “We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,” said Jane, “I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself they will settle so quietly—he in his bed, and she at his side, as may in time make their past imprudence forgotten.” “Their conduct has been such,” replied Elizabeth, “as neither you, nor I, nor anybody can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it, except to persuade our younger sisters that they must renounce their blood oath post haste.” It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library, therefore, and asked their father whether he would not wish them to make it known to her. He was writing and, without raising his head, coolly replied: “Just as you please.” “May we take my uncle’s letter to read to her?” “Take whatever you like, and get away.” Elizabeth took the letter from his writing-table, and they went upstairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one communication would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself. As soon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner’s hope of Lydia’s being soon married, her joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its exuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she had ever been fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her happiness as the eternal nurse to a lame, fortuneless husband, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct. “My dear, dear Lydia!” she cried. “This is delightful indeed! She will be married! I shall see her again! She will be married at sixteen! My good, kind brother! I knew how it would be. I knew he would manage everything! How I long to see her! And to see dear Wickham too! Dear, crippled Wickham! What a husband he shall make! In a short time I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well it sounds! And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in such a flutter, that I am sure I can’t write; so I will dictate, and you write for me. We will settle with your father about the money afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately.” She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and silver bedpans, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait till her father was at leisure to be consulted. One day’s delay, she observed, would be of small importance; and her mother was too happy to be quite so obstinate as usual. Other schemes, too, came into her head. “I will go to Meryton,” said she, “as soon as I am dressed, and tell the good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come back, I can call on Lady Lucas. Her grief for dear Charlotte will be much assuaged by this joyous development! Kitty, run down and order the carriage. An airing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do anything for you in Meryton? Oh! Here comes Hill! My dear Hill, have you heard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be married; and you shall all have a bowl of punch to make merry at her wedding.” CHAPTER 50 MR. BENNET HAD VERY OFTEN wished before this period of his life that, instead of spending his whole income every year, he had set aside an annual sum for the better provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived him. He now wished it more than ever. Had he done his duty in that respect, Lydia need not have been indebted to her uncle for whatever of honour or credit could now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of prevailing on one of the most worthless young men in Great Britain might have been a trifle less disappointing than it now was. He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage to anyone should be forwarded at the sole expense of his brother-in-law, and he was determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his assistance, and to discharge the obligation as soon as he could. When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly useless, for, of course, they were to have a son. The son was to join in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age, and the widow and younger children would by that means be provided for. Five daughters successively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs. Bennet, for many years after Lydia’s birth, had been certain that he would. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then too late to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy, and her husband’s love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their income. Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs. Bennet and the children. But in what proportions it should be divided amongst the latter depended on the will of the parents. This was one point, with regard to Lydia, at least, which was now to be settled, for Mr. Bennet felt no obligation to leave her a single sixpence. In terms of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother, though expressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfill the engagements that had been made for him. He had never before supposed that, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would be done with so little inconvenience to himself as by the present arrangement. That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was another very welcome surprise; for his wish at present was to have as little trouble in the business as possible. When the first transports of rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were over, he naturally returned to all his former lethargy. His letter was soon dispatched; for, though dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick in its execution. He begged to know further particulars of what he was indebted to his brother, but was too angry with Lydia to send any message to her. The good news spread quickly through the house, and with proportionate speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter with decent philosophy. To be sure, it would have been more for the advantage of conversation had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the happiest alternative, been secluded from the world, in some distant Eastern land. But there was much to be talked of in marrying her; and the good-natured wishes for her well-doing which had proceeded before from all the spiteful old ladies in Meryton lost but a little of their spirit in this change of circumstances, because with such a lame, indebted husband her misery was considered certain. It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been downstairs; but on this happy day she again took her seat at the head of her table, and in spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object of her wishes since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of accomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on those attendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new muskets, and servants. She was busily searching through the neighbourhood for a proper house for her daughter, and, without knowing or considering what their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and importance. “Haye Park might do,” said she, “if the Gouldings could quit it—or the great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but Ashworth is too far off! I could not bear to have her ten miles from me; and as for Pulvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful.” Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her: “Mrs. Bennet, before you take any or all of these houses for your son and daughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into one house in this neighbourhood they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage the impudence of either, by receiving them at Longbourn.” A long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was firm. It soon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with amazement and horror, that her husband would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his daughter. He protested that she should receive from him no mark of affection whatever on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend it. That his anger could be carried to such a point of inconceivable resentment as to refuse his daughter a privilege without which her marriage would scarcely seem valid, exceeded all she could believe possible. She was more alive to the disgrace which her want of new clothes must reflect on her daughter’s nuptials, than to any sense of shame at her future son’s having abducted her daughter a fortnight before they took place. Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the distress of the moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted with their fears for her sister; for since her marriage would so shortly give the proper termination to the elopement, they might hope to conceal its unfavourable beginning from all those who were not immediately on the spot. She had no fear of its spreading farther through his means. There were few people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently depended; but, at the same time, there was no one whose knowledge of a sister’s frailty would have mortified her so much—not, however, from any fear of disadvantage to herself, for she expected there would be no more civilities between them. Had Lydia’s marriage been concluded on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that Mr. Darcy would connect himself with a family where, to every other objection, would now be added an alliance with a man whom he so justly scorned. “What a triumph for him,” she often thought, “could he know that the proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago, would now have been most gladly and gratefully received!” He was as generous, she doubted not, as the most generous of his sex; but while he was mortal, there must be a triumph. She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It was an union that must have been to the advantage of both; by her aggression and liveliness, his introversion might have been softened, his manners improved; and from his judgement, information, and knowledge of the world, she must have received benefit of greater importance. What a pair of warriors they would make! Sparring by the river at Pemberley; crossing the Altai Mountains in a fine coach on their way to Kyoto or Shanghai—their children eager to master death as their mother and father had before them. But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what connubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and precluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their family. How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence, she could not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could belong to a couple who were only brought together by an abduction, an attempted murder, and a carriage accident, she could easily conjecture. Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. The principal purport of his letter was to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved on quitting the militia. It was greatly my wish that he should do so, as soon as his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me, in considering that he can do little good in the fight against the zombies given his present condition. It is Mr. Wickham’s intention to enter the priesthood; and among his former friends, there are still some who are able and willing to assist him in this endeavour. He has the promise of joining a special seminary for the lame in northernmost Ireland. It is an advantage to have it so far from this part of the kingdom. He promises fairly; and I hope among different people, where they may each have a character to preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have written to Colonel Forster, to inform him of our present arrangements, and to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr. Wickham in and near Brighton, with assurances of speedy payment, for which I have pledged myself. And will you give yourself the trouble of carrying similar assurances to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin a list according to his information? He has given in all his debts; I hope at least he has not deceived us. I understand from Mrs. Gardiner, that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all before she leaves for Ireland. She is well, and begs to be dutifully remembered to you and your mother. Yours, etc., E. GARDINER. Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham’s removal from England as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But Mrs. Bennet was not so well pleased with it. Lydia’s being settled in the north, just when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her company, was a severe disappointment; and, besides, it was such a pity that Lydia should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted with everybody, and could instruct soldiers in new methods of annihilating the walking dead. “She is so fond of Mrs. Forster,” said she, “it will be quite shocking to send her away! And there are several of the young men, too, that she likes very much.” His daughter’s request, for such it might be considered, of being admitted into her family again before she set off for the North, received at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth, who agreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister’s feelings and consequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by her parents, urged him so earnestly yet so rationally and so mildly, to receive her and her husband at Longbourn, as soon as they were married, that he was prevailed on to think as they thought, and act as they wished. And their mother had the satisfaction of knowing that she would be able to show her married daughter in the neighbourhood before she was banished to St. Lazarus Seminary for the Lame at Kilkenny. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore, he sent his permission for them to come; and it was settled, that as soon as the ceremony was over, they should proceed to Longbourn. Elizabeth was surprised, however, that Wickham should consent to such a scheme, considering what a dreadful visage he must present in his sorry condition. CHAPTER 51 THEIR SISTER’S WEDDING DAY arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt for her probably more than Lydia felt for herself. The carriage was sent to meet them, and they were to return in it by dinner-time. Their arrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets, and Jane more especially, who imagined the feelings which would have attended herself, had she been forced to marry her crippled abductor, and was wretched in the thought of what her sister must endure for the rest of her miserable life. They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room to receive them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet as the carriage drove up to the door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed, anxious, uneasy. Lydia’s voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown open, and she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand, with an affectionate smile, to Wickham, who was carried through the door by servants. Leather straps kept him fastened to his traveling bed, which was redo-lent of stale piss; and Elizabeth, who had been expecting as much, was nevertheless shocked at the severity of his injuries. His face remained bruised—his eyes half closed with swelling. His legs were broken and bent beyond hope, and his speech much affected. “Dear, sweet Wickham!” cried Mrs. Bennet. “What a fine priest you shall make! What a delightful husband!” Wickham replied with a polite moan. Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely opened his lips. The stench of Wickham’s bed, indeed, was enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their congratulations; and when at length they all sat down—save Wickham, who was placed by the fire—looked eagerly round the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and observed, with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been there. There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither of them talk fast enough. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the world. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led voluntarily to subjects which her sisters would not have alluded to for the world. “Only think of its being three months,” she cried, “since I went away; it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been things enough happened in the time. Good gracious! When I went away, I am sure I had no more idea of being married till I came back again! Though I thought it would be very good fun if I was.” Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw anything of which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, “Oh! Mamma, do the people hereabouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might not; and we passed William Goulding, whose curricle had been overturned and horses devoured, so I was determined he should know it, and so I let down the side-glass next to him, and took off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like anything. He yelled after us—something about his son being trapped; but oh! Mamma, I am sure he saw the ring. Oh! Think of how the news will spread!” Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room; and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to the dining parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with anxious parade, walk up to her mother’s right hand, and hear her say to her eldest sister, “Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a married woman.” It was not to be supposed that time or the odor of stale piss would give Lydia that embarrassment from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Philips, the Lucases, and all their other neighbours, and to hear herself called “Mrs. Wickham” by each of them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to show her ring, and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids. “Well, mamma,” said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast room, “and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go.” “Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don’t at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?” “Oh, Lord! Yes—there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come to the seminary and see us. We shall be at Kilkerry these next three years, and I will take care to get good husbands for them all.” “I should like it beyond anything!” said her mother. “Oh! So many young priests! And each of them in dire need of a loving, caring wife! I dare say I shall see each of my sisters married before winter!” “I thank you for my share of the favour,” said Elizabeth; “but I do not particularly desire the rest of my life spent emptying piss pots.” Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham had received his letter of acceptance to Kilkerry, and given his condition, the journey North would be frightfully slow. No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so short; and she made the most of the time by visiting about with her daughter, and having very frequent parties at home, so that their neighbors might congratulate Mr. Wickham, who remained by the fire during the whole of their stay. Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every occasion. He did every thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more zombies this season, than any body else in the country, in spite of the fact that he had no use of his arms. One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth: “Lizzy, I never gave you an account of my wedding. Are not you curious to hear how it was managed?” “No really,” replied Elizabeth; “I think there cannot be too little said on the subject.” “La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were married, you know, at St. Clement’s, because it had the fewest steps to carry my beloved up. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven o’clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others were to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss! I was so afraid, you know, that something would happen to put it off, for there had lately been some trouble on the east wall, and everywhere one heard talk of relinquishing the neighborhood for safety. And there was my aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to know whether he would be married in his blue coat, or if he had soiled it like the others.” “Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you’ll believe me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a fortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or anything. To be sure London was rather thin because of the attacks, but, however, the Little Theatre was open. Well, and so just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon business to that horrid powder factory. Well, I was so frightened I did not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we were beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he came back again in ten minutes’ time, and then we all set out. However, I recollected afterwards that if he had been prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well.” “Mr. Darcy!” repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement. “Oh, yes! He was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!” “If it was to be secret,” said Jane, “say not another word on the subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further.” “Oh! Certainly,” said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; “we will ask you no questions.” “Thank you,” said Lydia, “for if you did, I should certainly tell you all, and then Wickham would surely punish me with an ill-timed soiling.” On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her power by running away. But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at her sister’s wedding. What possible motive could he have had? Conjectures, rapid and wild, hurried into her brain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as placing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She could not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what Lydia had dropt. “You may readily comprehend,” she added, “what my curiosity must be to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively speaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such a time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it—unless it is, for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with ignorance.” “And my dear aunt,” she added to herself, as she finished the letter; “if you do not tell me in an honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it out.” CHAPTER 52 ELIZABETH HAD THE SATISFACTION of receiving an answer to her letter as soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it than, hurrying into the dojo, where she was least likely to be interrupted, she sat down and prepared to be happy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not contain a denial. Section Six East, Sept. 6. MY DEAR NIECE, I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole morning to answering it, as I foresee that a little writing will not comprise what I have to tell you. On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up with him several hours. It was all over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so dreadfully racked as yours seems to have been. He came to tell Mr. Gardiner that he had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day after ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting for them. Mr. Darcy felt himself to blame for not making Wickham’s worthlessness more known—for if he had, no young woman of character would have dared love or confide in him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his private actions open to the world. He called it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and endeavour to remedy an evil which had been brought on by himself. There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago governess to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed from her charge on some cause of disapprobation, though he did not say what. She then took a large house in Edward Street, and has since maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs. Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham; and he went to her for intelligence of him as soon as he got to town. But it was two or three minutes of savage beating before he could get from her what he wanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without an application of severe blows about the head and neck. At length, however, our kind friend procured the wished-for direction. They were in Hen’s Quarry Street. Mr. Darcy saw Wickham, and with no want of force, insisted on seeing Lydia. His first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade her to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her, offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But he found Lydia absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared for none of her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not hear of leaving Wickham, who, in spite of his abducting her, she claimed to love more than anything on earth. Since such were her feelings, Mr. Darcy had but one choice to restore her honour—to secure and expedite a marriage between she and Wickham. But the latter had no intentions of marrying, and as to his future situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He must go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew he should have nothing to live on. Mr. Darcy asked him why he did not marry your sister at once. Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would be able to do something for him, and his situation would be benefited by marriage. But he found, in reply to this question, that Wickham still cherished the hope of more effectually making his fortune by marriage into a family of greater means. Mr. Darcy saw an opportunity here, and met with Wickham again to propose a solution beneficial to all parties. Mr. Wickham, after a great deal of consideration, agreed. Every thing being settled between them, Mr. Darcy’s next step was to make your uncle acquainted with the arrangement, and he first called in Section Six East the evening before I came home, and they had a great deal of talk together. They met again on Sunday, and then I saw him too. It was not all settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express was sent off to Longbourn. The terms were as follows: Wickham’s debts were to be paid, amounting, I believe, to considerably more than a thousand pounds, plus another thousand per annum to sustain him. In return, he would marry Lydia, thus restoring her honour, and that of the Bennet family. Second, he would allow Mr. Darcy to render him lame, as punishment for a lifetime of vice and betrayal, and to ensure that he would never lay another hand in anger, nor leave another bastard behind. To spare what little of his reputation remained, the injuries would be attributed to a carriage accident. Finally, he would pursue the priesthood, in hopes that the teachings of Christ would improve his general character. Darcy personally saw to it that all of this was attended to with the greatest expedience. (I dare say he took particular pleasure in beating Mr. Wickham lame.) I fancy, Lizzy, that stubbornness is the real defect of his character, after all. He has been accused of many faults at different times, but this is the true one. He insisted on shouldering the entire burden himself; though I am sure (and I do not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it), your uncle would most readily have settled the whole. He and your uncle battled it together for a long time, which was more than either the gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your uncle was forced to yield, and instead of being allowed to be of use to his niece, was forced to put up with only having the probable credit of it, which went sorely against the grain; and I really believe your letter this morning gave him great pleasure, because it required an explanation that would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where it was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no farther than yourself, or Jane at most. The reason why all this was to be done by him alone, was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his reserve, that Wickham’s character had been so misunderstood. Perhaps there was some truth in this; though I doubt whether his reserve, or anybody’s reserve, can be answerable to anything so scandalous. But in spite of all this fine talking, my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured that your uncle would never have yielded, if we had not been convinced of Mr. Darcy’s having another interest in the affair. When all this was resolved on, he returned again to his friends, who were still staying at Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be in London once more when the wedding took place, and all money matters were then to receive the last finish. I believe I have now told you every thing. It is a relation which you tell me is to give you great surprise; I hope at least it will not afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to us; and Wickham, newly lame, was carried to the house to recover, and to be fitted for his traveling bed, which Mr. Darcy generously paid for. I would not tell you how little I was satisfied with your sister’s behaviour while she remained with us, if I had not perceived, by Jane’s letter last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home was exactly as reprehensible, and therefore what I now tell you can give you no fresh pain. Mr. Darcy was punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you, attended the wedding. He dined with us the next day, gave his congratulations to the new couple, and took leave. Will you be very angry with me, my dear Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying 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 Pemberley. I shall never be quite happy till I have been all round the park. A low phaeton, pulled by a pair of captured zombies, would be the very thing. But I must write no more. There is some commotion on the street, and I fear the east gate has fallen again. 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 of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister’s match, which she had feared too great to be probable, and at the same time wished for more than anything, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true! He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on himself to defile his hands with the blood of a woman whom he surely never wished to see again, and he was reduced to 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 Lydia—a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. 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. Oh! How she longed to see her seven scabs opened and bleeding once more! True, Darcy 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; 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 Elizabeth and her family were under obligations to a person who could never receive a return. They owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, every thing, 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 reflections by some one’s approach. She scarcely had time to fold the letter and remove it from sight before a pair of servants entered the dojo carrying Mr. Wickham on his traveling bed. They set him down on the floor beside her and took their leave. “I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?” mumbled he through a shattered jaw. “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. I thought the peace of the dojo a most refreshing change from my little corner of the breakfast parlor.” “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 in my sorry state. And you saw the old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of me—to see me thus affected would be quite a shock to her. 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 that—that you 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: “Did you see Darcy while you were there? 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 some rather extraordinary challenges.” “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 house! It would have suited me in every respect.” “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 you were a most disagreeable child, exceedingly cruel to the elder Darcy’s servants, and disrespectful of his wishes. As to your more recent behaviour, I have heard nothing that would persuade me of your having improved; whether it be your debts of honour, or the countless bastards strewn about His Majesty’s empire.” To this, Wickham could find no reply other than a fresh, aromatic soiling. Elizabeth stood and grabbed one end of his traveling bed, lifting it to her waist. Then, with a good-humoured smile, she said: “Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let us quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of one mind.” She dragged his bed across the dojo floor, through the grass, and towards the house. CHAPTER 53 MR. WICKHAM WAS SO PERFECTLY DISMAYED by this conversation that he never again provoked his dear sister Elizabeth by introducing the subject of it; and she was pleased to find that she had said enough to keep him quiet. The day of his and Lydia’s departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet was forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means entered into her scheme of their all going to Ireland, was likely to continue at least a twelvemonth. “Oh! My dear Lydia,” she cried, “when shall we meet again?” “Oh, Lord! I don’t know. Not these two or three years, perhaps.” “Write to me very often, my dear.” “As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for writing. My sisters may write to me. They will have nothing else to do.” Mr. Wickham’s adieus were no more affectionate than his wife’s. He said little as his traveling bed was hoisted into the carriage, accompanied by spare linens and feeding jars. “He is as fine a fellow,” said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of the house, “as ever I saw. I dare say I much prefer him in this relaxed state.” The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days. “I often think,” said she, “that there is nothing so bad as parting with one’s friends. One seems so forlorn without them.” “This is the consequence of marrying a daughter,” said Elizabeth. “It must make you better satisfied that your other four are single.” “It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is married, but only because St. Lazarus happens to be so far off. If it had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon.” But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was shortly relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope, by an article of news which then began to be in circulation. The housekeeper at Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the arrival of her master, who was coming down in a day or two to inspect his new staff, and the reinforcements made to the kitchen. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and smiled, and shook her head by turns. “Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down. Not that I care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am sure I never want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome to come to Netherfield, if he likes it. Is it quite certain he is coming?” “You may depend on it,” replied the other, “for Mrs. Nicholls was in Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was certain true. He comes down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was going to the butcher’s, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat on Wednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks just fit to be killed.” Jane Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without changing colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said: “I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the present report; and I know I appeared distressed. But don’t imagine it was from any silly cause. I was only confused for the moment, because I felt that I should be looked at. I do assure you that the news does not affect me either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes alone; because we shall see the less of him.” Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen Mr. Bingley in Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming there with no other view than what was acknowledged; but she still thought him partial to Jane, and she wavered as to the greater probability of his coming there with his friend’s permission, or being bold enough to come without it. “Yet it is hard,” she sometimes thought, “that this poor man cannot come to a house which he has legally hired, without raising all this speculation! I will leave him to himself.” In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be her feelings in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed, more unequal, than she had often seen them. No longer did she suggest morning games of Kiss Me Deer or evening games of Crypt and Coffin. So occupied were her thoughts that Mary was able to pin her during afternoon grappling for the first time. The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their parents, about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again. “As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “you will wait on him of course.” “No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised, if I went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it ended in nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool’s errand again. Not by a fool such as yourself, anyhow.” His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his returning to Netherfield. “’Tis an etiquette I despise,” said he. “If he wants our society, let him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not spend my hours in running after my neighbours every time they go away and come back again.” “Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do not wait on him. But, however, that shan’t prevent my asking him to dine here, I am determined.” Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of servants, contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the period of anxiety and fretfulness on her side might be as long as it could. She counted the days that must intervene before their invitation could be sent; hopeless of seeing him before. But on the third morning after his arrival in Hertfordshire, she saw him, from her dressing-room window, enter the paddock and ride towards the house with his French musket. Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane resolutely kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother, went to the window—she looked, she saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat down again by her sister, suddenly alarmed beyond the capacity for rational thought. “There is a gentleman with him, mamma,” said Kitty; “who can it be?” “Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do not know.” “La!” replied Kitty, “it looks just like that man that used to be with him before. Mr. What’s-his-name. That tall, proud man.” “Good gracious! Mr. Darcy! And so it does, I vow. Well, any friend of Mr. Bingley’s will always be welcome here, to be sure; but else I must say that I hate the very sight of him.” Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness which must attend her sister, in seeing him almost for the first time after receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable enough. Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and their mother talked on, of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be civil to him only as Mr. Bingley’s friend, without being heard by either of them. But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to reveal her aunt’s letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him. To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she had refused, and whose head she had sent crashing into a mantle; but to her own more extensive information, he was the person to whom the whole family were indebted, and whom she regarded herself with an interest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and just as what Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his coming—at his coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again, was almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing his altered behaviour in Derbyshire. The colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half a minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to her eyes, as she thought for that space of time that his affection and wishes must still be unshaken. But she would not be secure. “Let me first see how he behaves,” said she. She sat intently at work whittling blowgun darts, striving to be composed, and without daring to lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of her sister as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little paler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the gentlemen’s appearing, her colour increased; yet she received them with tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any symptom of resentment or any unnecessary complaisance. Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not often command. She had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious, as usual; and, she thought, more as he had used to look in Hertfordshire, than as she had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother’s presence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but not an improbable, conjecture. Bingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs. Bennet with a degree of civility which made her two daughters ashamed, especially when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of her curtsey and address to his friend. Elizabeth, particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the latter the preservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy, was hurt and distressed to a most painful degree by a distinction so ill applied. Darcy, after inquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner fared in the collapse of the east gate, a question which she could not answer, said scarcely anything. She was in no humour for conversation with anyone but himself; and to him she had hardly courage to speak. “Me!” she thought. “Who fears no man! Who fears not death itself! And yet unable am I to summon but a single word.” “It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away,” said Mrs. Bennet. He readily agreed to it. “I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People did say you meant to quit the place entirely; but, however, I hope it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood, since you went away. The number of unmentionables has been happily reduced to but a fraction of what it was when first you came. Miss Lucas is sent to her grave by the plague. And one of my own daughters is newly married. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you must have seen it in the papers. It was in the Times and the Courier, I know; though it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, ‘Lately, George Wickham, Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,’ without there being a syllable said of her father, or her service to His Majesty, or anything. Did you see it?” Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could not tell. “It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married,” continued her mother, “but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very hard to have her taken such a way from me. They are gone down to Kilkenny, a place in Ireland, it seems, and there they are to stay I do not know how long. The St. Lazarus Seminary for the Lame is there; for I suppose you have heard of his being crippled in a carriage accident, and of his intention to enter the priesthood. Oh! My poor Wickham! If only he had as many friends as he deserves.” Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such misery of shame, that she could hardly keep her seat. Her misery received soon afterwards material relief, from observing how much the beauty of her sister rekindled the admiration of her former lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little; but every five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He found her as handsome as she had been last year; as good natured, and as unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no difference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded that she talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged, that she did not always know when she was silent. When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at Longbourn in a few days time. “You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley,” she added, “for when you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure you, I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep your engagement.” Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of his concern at having been prevented by business. They then went away. Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine there that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did not think anything less than two courses could be good enough for a man on whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride of one who had ten thousand a year. CHAPTER 54 AS SOON AS THEY WERE GONE, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits. Mr. Darcy’s behaviour astonished and vexed her. “Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,” said she, “did he come at all?” She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure. “He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teasing, teasing, man! I will think no more about him. I am Death’s betrothed, after all. Sworn to honour and obey only the warrior code and my beloved Master Liu.” Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look. “Now,” said she, “that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by his coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly seen that, on both sides, we meet only as common and indifferent acquaintance.” “Yes, very indifferent indeed,” said Elizabeth, laughing. “Oh, Jane, take care.” “My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak.” “Weak? Not in the slightest. Rather I think you more powerful than ever, in making him fall very much in love with you.” They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs. Bennet, in the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes, which the good humour and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour’s visit, had revived. On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two who were most anxiously expected were in very good time. When they repaired to the dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take the place, which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by her sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore to invite him to sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to hesitate; but Jane happened to look round, and happened to smile: It was decided. He placed himself by her. Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards Mr. Darcy, who bore his friend’s choice of seat with noble indifference. She would have imagined that Bingley had received his permission to pursue Jane, had she not seen his eyes likewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing alarm. His behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as showed an admiration of her, which persuaded Elizabeth, that if left wholly to himself, Jane’s happiness, and his own, would be speedily secured. Though she dared not depend upon the consequence, she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It gave her all the animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in no cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her as the table could divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little such a situation would give pleasure to either. She was not near enough to hear any of their discourse, but she could see how seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and cold was their manner whenever they did. Her mother’s ungraciousness, made the sense of what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth’s mind; and she would, at times, have given anything to leap onto the table and administer the seven cuts of shame in front of Mr. Darcy—to see her pitiful blood drip onto his plate; atonement for her many prejudices against him. She was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity of bringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not pass away without enabling them to enter into something more of conversation than the mere ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious and uneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room, before the gentlemen came, was wearisome and dull to a degree that almost made her uncivil. She looked forward to their entrance as the point on which all her chance of pleasure for the evening must depend. “If he does not come to me, then,” said she, “I shall give him up for ever, and shall never again divert my eyes from the end of my blade.” The gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have answered her hopes; but, alas! The ladies had crowded round the table, where Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee, in so close a confederacy that there was not a single vacancy near her which would admit of a chair. Darcy walked away to another part of the room. She followed him with her eyes, envied everyone to whom he spoke, had scarcely patience enough to help anybody to coffee; and then was enraged against herself for being so silly! “A man who has been refused with foot and fist! How could I ever be foolish enough to expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex who would not protest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman? He should sooner make an offer to a zombie!” She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his coffee cup himself; and she seized the opportunity of saying: “Is your sister at Pemberley still?” “Yes, she will remain there till Christmas.” “And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?” “All but the servants and her personal guard.” She could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to converse with her, he might have better success. He stood by her, however, for some minutes, in silence; and, at last, walked away. When the tea-things were removed, and the card-tables placed, the ladies all rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined by Mr. Darcy, when all her hopes were overthrown by seeing him fall a victim to her mother’s voracious recruitment of Crypt and Coffin players. She now lost every expectation of pleasure. They were confined for the evening at different tables, and she had nothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side of the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself. Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to supper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of the others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them. “Well girls,” said she, as soon as they were left to themselves, “What say you to the day? I think every thing has passed off uncommonly well, I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The venison was roasted to a turn—and everybody said they never saw so fat a haunch. Thank you, Lizzy, for wrestling us so fine a buck. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the Lucases’ last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges were remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French cooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater beauty.” Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen enough of Bingley’s behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she would get him at last; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy humour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at not seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals. “It has been a very agreeable day,” said Jane to Elizabeth. “The party seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we may often meet again.” Elizabeth smiled. “Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me. I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied, from what his manners now are, that he never had any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally pleasing, than any other man.” “You are very cruel,” said her sister, “you will not let me smile, and are provoking me to it every moment. I have half a mind to force a profession of love from you.” “How hard it is in some cases to be believed!” “And how impossible in others!” “But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I acknowledge?” “Oh! You are more obstinate than a Hunan mule! If you persist in indifference, do not make me your confidante.” CHAPTER 55 A FEW DAYS AFTER this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dinewith them; but he confessed himself engaged elsewhere. “Next time you call,” said she, “I hope we shall be more lucky.” He should be particularly happy at any time, etc. etc.; and if she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them. “Can you come to-morrow?” Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was accepted with alacrity. He came, and in such very good time that the ladies were still in their sparring gowns, and none of them without considerable beads of exercise moisture on their skin. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter’s room, in her dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out: “My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come—Mr. Bingley is come. He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, wash away her exercise moisture, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Lizzy’s hair.” “We will be down as soon as we can,” said Jane; “but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago.” “Oh! Hang Kitty! What has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! Where is your sash, my dear?” But Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her weights. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Kitty for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said, “What is the matter, mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?” “Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you.” She then sat still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, “Come here, my love, I want to speak to you,” took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her entreaty that she would not give in to it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half-opened the door and called out: “Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you.” Elizabeth was forced to go. “We may as well leave them by themselves you know,” said her mother, as soon as she was in the hall. “Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in my dressing-room.” Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned into the drawing-room. Mrs. Bennet’s schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command of countenance particularly grateful to the daughter. He scarcely needed an invitation to stay for supper; and before he went away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet’s means, for his coming next morning to shoot the first autumn zombies with her husband. After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. However, she felt tolerably persuaded that Bingley’s attentiveness to Jane had met with that gentleman’s concurrence. Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the morning together hunting the first unmentionables to wander south in search of soft earth. Mr. Bennet lead his companion to Longbourn’s northernmost field, where they spent the better part of an hour setting several hand traps (of Mr. Bennet’s own design), which they baited with heads of cauliflower. Every so often, a zombie would stagger out of the woods and into the field, where Mr. Bennet and Mr. Bingley were concealed beneath a bundle of branches. The living would watch as the dead discovered the cauliflower, and, thinking it was a soft, succulent brain, reach down to grab it. Upon this, the trap would clamp shut around its arm, and the men would advance—beating the creature with their musket stocks, shooting it, and setting it alight. Bingely was much more agreeable than Mr. Bennet expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in the young man that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and for his part, Mr. Bennet was more communicative, and less eccentric, than Mr. Bingley had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; and in the evening Mrs. Bennet’s invention was again at work to get every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea. On returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she saw her sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of both, as they hastily turned round and moved away from each other, would have told it all. Their situation was awkward enough; but hers she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world. “’Tis too much!” she added, “by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not everybody as happy?” Elizabeth’s congratulations were given with a sincerity which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said for the present. “I must go instantly to my mother,” she cried. “I would not on any account allow her to hear it from anyone but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family! How shall I bear so much happiness!” She then hastened away to her mother, who was sitting upstairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation. For the moment, it mattered little to Elizabeth that she would be losing her most trusted companion on the battlefield; her closest confidant, and the only sister she never feared the slightest silliness from. She was overcome by a feeling of complete victory; for after all of Darcy’s anxious circumspection, all of Miss Bingley’s falsehood and contrivance, the affair had reached the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end. In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her father had been short and to the purpose. “Where is your sister?” said he. “With my mother upstairs. She will be down in a moment, I dare say.” He then shut the door, and, coming up to her, claimed the good wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with great cordiality; and then, till her sister came down, she listened to all he had to say of his own happiness, and of Jane’s perfections; and in spite of his being little trained in the deadly arts, Elizabeth really believed all his expectations of felicity to be rationally founded, because he and Jane were so alike in every other imaginable way. It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of Miss Bennet’s mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as made her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent or speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings; and when Mr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly showed how really happy he was. Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he turned to his daughter, and said: “Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman.” Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his goodness. “You are a good girl,” he replied, “and I have great pleasure in thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are each of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so easy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will always exceed your income.” “I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters would be unpardonable in me.” “Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet,” cried his wife, “what are you talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year, and very likely more.” Then addressing her daughter, “Oh! My dear, dear Jane, I am so happy! I was sure you could not be so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when he first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was that you should come together. Oh! He is the handsomest young man that ever was seen!” Wickham, Lydia, all were forgotten. Jane was beyond competition her favourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her younger sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness which she might in future be able to dispense. Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and Kitty begged very hard for a few balls there every winter. Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at Longbourn; coming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after supper; unless when some barbarous neighbour, who could not be enough detested, had given him an invitation to dinner which he thought himself obliged to accept. As the days grew shorter, the number of zombies in Hertfordshire grew greater. The herds now came in droves, chased south by hardening earth and His Majesty’s muskets. Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister; for she, Kitty, and Mary were every day needed to dispense of this trouble or that; and Jane could bestow no attention on anyone else while Bingley was present. In the absence of Jane, he always attached himself to Elizabeth, for the pleasure of talking of her; and when Bingley was gone, Jane constantly sought the same means of relief. “He has made me so happy,” said she, one evening, “by telling me that he was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I had not believed it possible.” “I suspected as much,” replied Elizabeth. “But how did he account for it?” “It must have been his sister’s doing. They were certainly no friends to his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he might have chosen so much more advantageously in many respects. But when they see, as I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though we can never be what we once were to each other.” “That is the most unforgiving speech,” said Elizabeth, “that I ever heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again the dupe of Miss Bingley’s pretended regard.” “Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last November, he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of my being indifferent or another siege of London would have prevented his coming to the country again!” Elizabeth was pleased to find that he had not betrayed the interference of his friend; for, though Jane had the most generous and forgiving heart in the world, she knew it was a circumstance which must prejudice her against him. “I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!” cried Jane. “Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed above them all! If I could but see you as happy! If there were but such another man for you!” “If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy as you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your happiness. No, no, let me find comfort in cutting down dreadfuls; and, perhaps, if I have very good luck, I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time.” The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be long a secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Philips, and she ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all her neighbours in Meryton. The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the world, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run away, they had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune. CHAPTER 56 ONE MORNING, about a week after Bingley’s engagement with Jane had been formed, as he and the females of the family were sitting together in the dining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window, by the sound of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and four driving up the lawn. The horses were post; and neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who preceded it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that somebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Jane to avoid the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the shrubbery, where she had promised to instruct him in buck wrestling. They both set off, and the conjectures of the remaining three continued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown open and their visitor entered, accompanied by a pair of ninjas. It was Lady Catherine de Bourgh. They were of course all intending to be surprised; but their astonishment was beyond their expectation. She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious, made no other reply to Elizabeth’s salutation than a slight inclination of the head, dismissed her guard, and sat down without saying a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her name to her mother on her ladyship’s entrance, though no request of introduction had been made. Mrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such high importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After sitting for a moment in silence, she said very stiffly to Elizabeth: “I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady, I suppose, is your mother.” Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was. “And that I suppose is one of your sisters.” “Yes, madam,” said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to a Lady Catherine. “She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all is lately married, and my eldest is somewhere about the grounds, walking with a young man who, I believe, will soon become a part of the family.” “You have a very small park here,” returned Lady Catherine after a short silence. “It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say.” Elizabeth now expected that she would bestow her condolences on the passing of Charlotte and Mr. Collins, as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But none were offered, and she was completely puzzled. Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take some refreshment; but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not very politely, declined eating anything; and then, rising up, said to Elizabeth: “Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish little dojo on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to examine it, if you will favour me with your company.” “Go, my dear,” cried her mother, “and show her ladyship about. I think she will be pleased with the artifacts.” Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her parasol, attended her noble guest downstairs. As they passed through the hall, Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and drawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be decent looking rooms, walked on. Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her waiting-geisha was in it. They proceeded in silence to the dojo; Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for conversation with a woman who was now more than usually insolent and disagreeable. “How could I ever think her like her nephew?” said she, as she looked in her face. As soon as they entered, Lady Catherine began in the following manner: “You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I come.” Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment. “Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been able to account for the honour of seeing you here.” “Miss Bennet,” replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, “you ought to know, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere you may choose to be, you shall not find me so. My character has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, just as my killing powers have been celebrated as having no equal. A report of a most alarming nature reached me two days ago. I was told that not only was your sister on the point of being most advantageously married, but that you, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would, in all likelihood, be soon afterwards united to my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I know it must be a scandalous falsehood, though I would not injure him so much as to suppose him to take any interest in a girl of your low birth, I instantly resolved on setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to you.” “If you believed it impossible to be true,” said Elizabeth, colouring with astonishment and disdain, “I wonder you took the trouble of coming so far. What could your ladyship propose by it?” “To insist upon having such a report universally contradicted.” “Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family,” said Elizabeth coolly, “will be rather a confirmation of it; if, indeed, such a report is in existence.” “If! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a report is spread abroad?” “I never heard that it was.” “And can you likewise declare, that there is no foundation for it?” “I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. You may ask questions which I shall not choose to answer.” “This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied. Has he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?” “Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible.” “It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of his reason. But your arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation, have made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You may have drawn him in with your cheap Chinese parlour tricks.” “If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.” “Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? Have you not heard the songs of my victories over legions of Satan’s slaves? Have you not read of my unmatched skill? I am almost Mr. Darcy’s nearest relation in the world, and entitled to know all his dearest concerns.” “Such great skills! Such a slayer of zombies! And yet, when one was in your home, you had not perception enough to see her.” “Are you so daft as to suppose that I did not know Charlotte for what she was? Are you incapable of understanding my generous motives? That my new priest might know some measure of happiness? Tell me, why do you suppose she changed so slowly? Why did I invite her to tea so often—for the pleasure of her company? No! It was my serum which kept her alive those few happy months. A few drops at a time, unnoticed, into her cup.” “Such an experiment can hardly be called ‘generous.’ You did nothing but prolong her suffering!” “Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the presumption to aspire, can never take place. Never! Mr. Darcy is engaged to my daughter. Now what have you to say?” “Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will make an offer to me.” Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied: “The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy, they have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of his mother, as well as of hers. While in their cradles, we planned the union: and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would be accomplished in their marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and trained in China of all places! Are you lost to every feeling of propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say that from his earliest hours he was destined for his cousin?” “Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is no other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not be kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to marry Miss de Bourgh. If Mr. Darcy is neither by honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make another choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?” “Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it. Yes, Miss Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or friends, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will be censured, slighted, and despised, by everyone connected with him. Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned by any of us.” “These are heavy misfortunes,” replied Elizabeth. “But the wife of Mr. Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily attached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause to repine.” “Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that score? I am not in the habit of being refused!” “Nor am I in the habit of being intimidated.” “I will not be interrupted! Hear me in silence! My daughter and my nephew are formed for each other. Their fortune on both sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of every member of their respective houses; and what is to divide them? The upstart pretensions of a young woman whose sister was lately concerned in a scandalous elopement with the son of the elder Darcy’s musket-polisher? A woman without family, connections, or fortune?” “Your daughter’s fortune is indeed splendid. But pray tell, what other qualities does she possess? Is she fetching? Is she trained in the deadly arts? Has she even strength enough to lift a Katana?” “How dare you! Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?” Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady Catherine, have answered this question, she could not but say, after a moment’s deliberation: “I am not.” Lady Catherine seemed pleased. “And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?” “I would sooner die than see my honour so defiled.” “Then Miss Bennet,” said Lady Catherine, setting down her parasol and removing her coat, “die you shall.” Upon this, she set her feet for combat. “Do you mean to challenge me to a duel, your ladyship? Here, in my family dojo?” “I mean only to rid the world of an insolent little girl, and preserve the dignity of a superior man, lest Pemberley be forever polluted by your stench.” “If that be the case,” said Elizabeth, dropping her parasol, “then let this be our first and final battle.” Elizabeth set her feet in return. The two ladies—separated by more than fifty years, yet hardly at all in abilities—remained thus for a moment, until Lady Catherine, her plan of attack fully formed, leapt skyward with a strength quite striking for a woman of her advanced age. She flipped through the air, over Elizabeth’s head, and landed a blow on the top of her skull, the force of which brought the younger to her knees. Had Elizabeth been anything less than perfectly fit, the blow would have most assuredly splintered her spine. Lady Catherine landed gently on her feet, and seeing her opponent attempt to rise, sent her flying the length of the dojo with a ruinous kick to the back. Unable to gain her wind, Elizabeth struggled to stand as the aged warrior again approached. “You have no regard for the honour and credit of my nephew! Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?” Her ladyship grabbed Elizabeth’s gown and lifted her to her feet. “Well? Have you anything to say before I remit you to Satan?” “Just . . . one thing, your ladyship . . .” Lady Catherine’s eyes widened as she felt a sharp pain in her belly. She let go and stumbled backward, the handle of Elizabeth’s dagger protruding from her gown. The younger took full advantage of this confusion, striking her ladyship about the head, neck, and bosom with a severe combination of blows, and a final kick which drove her so high as to shatter two of the wooden rafters overhead. Outside, Lady Catherine’s ninjas turned towards the dojo, alarmed by this tumult. Inside, her ladyship lay motionless on the floor. Elizabeth stood over her, waiting for any sign of life—but none appeared. “Dear Lord,” she thought. “What have I done? How shall Darcy ever forgive me for killing his beloved aunt?” The thought was no sooner in her head than Elizabeth felt herself fall to the ground, brought down by Lady Catherine’s legs. The latter leapt to her feet, and with a hearty laugh, pulled the dagger from her belly, and flung it into Elizabeth’s hand—pinning her to the floor. “It would take skills far exceeding your own to draw but a single bead of exercise moisture from my skin. Weak, silly girl! So long as there is life in this old body, you shall never again be in the company of my nephew!” Lady Catherine’s ninjas entered, throwing stars at the ready, but were quickly put at ease by their master, who had the duel well in hand. “Remain thus, dear ninjas. When I have removed her head, you may do with the body as you please.” As Elizabeth struggled to free herself, her ladyship removed one of the swords from the wall. She unsheathed it and examined its glistening blade. “Remarkable. As fine a Katana as ever I saw in Kyoto. Pity it should have spent these many years in the charge of so unworthy a family.” Lady Catherine looked up from the blade, expecting to see her opponent. Instead, she saw nothing—nothing but an empty dojo, and a pair of broken, lifeless ninjas. She met this, too, with a hearty laugh. “What good fun! I must admit, had you been vanquished with so little effort, I should have been rather disappointed.” “‘WEAK, SILLY GIRL! SO LONG AS THERE IS LIFE IN THIS OLD BODY, YOU SHALL NEVER AGAIN BE IN THE COMPANY OF MY NEPHEW!’” Lady Catherine walked to the center of the dojo, sword in hand. She turned herself round, expecting an attack—but none came. “Such cowardice!” she cried. “Have you not courage enough to face me? Did your master teach you nothing more than retreat?” “My master,” said Elizabeth, “taught me that the shortest path to ruin was underestimating one’s opponent.” Her ladyship looked skyward and saw Elizabeth atop a rafter—sword in hand. The younger dove toward the floor as the elder leapt toward the ceiling; and their swords met in the air that separated the two. A ferocious contest of blades filled the dojo with the clanging of steel upon steel. The two women were evenly matched, but Elizabeth’s youth bestowed to her the advantage of vigor, and she tired more slowly than her ladyship. After several minutes of flying about, attacking one another with force that would have sent legions of lesser warriors to their graves, Lady Catherine’s sword was dispatched with a well-aimed butterfly kick. Defenseless, her ladyship retreated to the wall of weaponry, where she hastily procured a pair of nunchucks; but these were promptly cut in two by Elizabeth’s Katana. Elizabeth backed Lady Catherine against a wall, and held the tip of her sword to her wrinkled throat. “Well?” said Catherine, “Take my head then, but be quick about it.” Elizabeth lowered her blade, and with a voice much affected by exercise, said, “To what end, your ladyship? That I might procure the condemnation of a man for whom I care so much? No. No, your lady-ship—whether you shall live to see him married to your daughter, or married to me, I know not. But you shall live. And for the rest of your days, you shall know that you have been bested by a girl for whom you have no regard, and whose family and master you have insulted in the harshest possible manner. Now, I beg you take your leave.” Upon being walked to her carriage, Lady Catherine turned hastily round, and added, “My position remains unchanged. I send no compliments to your mother. You deserve no such attention. I am most seriously displeased.” “Her ladyship would be wise to climb into her carriage, lest I change my mind about taking her head.” With the deepest disgust, the elder did as she was told. Offering not so much as a slight bow, Elizabeth turned and walked toward the house. She heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded up stairs, taking care to conceal her injuries. Her mother impatiently followed her, to ask why Lady Catherine would not come in again and rest herself. “She did not choose it,” said her daughter. “She is a very fine-looking woman! And her calling here was prodigiously civil! For she only came, I suppose, to offer her condolences for the passing of Mr. Collins and his wife. She is on her road somewhere, I dare say, and so, passing through Meryton, thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had nothing particular to say to you, Lizzy?” Elizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for to acknowledge the truth of what has passed between them was impossible. CHAPTER 57 THE DISCOMFITURE OF SPIRITS which this extraordinary visit threw Elizabeth into, could not be easily overcome; nor could she, after burying the ninjas, learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine, it appeared, had actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings, for the sole purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr. Darcy. But from what the report of their engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine; till she recollected that his being the intimate friend of Bingley, and her being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the expectation of one wedding made everybody eager for another, to supply the idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her sister must bring them more frequently together. However, she could not help feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her duel with Lady Catherine. From what she had said of her resolution to prevent their marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she would relate the whole of their battle to her nephew; and how he might be swayed by her reasoning, and a natural admiration for his aunt. If he had been wavering before as to what he should do, which had often seemed likely, the advice and entreaty of so near a relation might settle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy as dignity unblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady Catherine might see him in her way through town; and the sight of his aunt so freshly bloodied might provoke any number of feelings—not the least of which was resentment for the one who bore responsibility for the injuries. The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their visitor had been, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied it, with the same kind of supposition which had appeased Mrs. Bennet’s curiosity; and Elizabeth was spared from much teasing on the subject. The next morning, as she was going downstairs, she was met by her father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand. “Lizzy,” said he, “I was going to look for you; come into my room.” She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had to tell her was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it might be from Lady Catherine; and she anticipated with dismay all the consequent explanations. She followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat down. He then said: “I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its contents. I did not know before, that I had two daughters on the brink of matrimony. Let me congratulate you on a very important conquest.” The colour now rushed into Elizabeth’s cheeks in the instantaneous conviction of its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the aunt; and she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained himself at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to herself; when her father continued: “You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such matters as these; but I think I may defy even your sagacity, to discover the name of your admirer. This letter is from a Colonel Fitzwilliam—a man who, before receipt of this letter, I had never heard of in all my life.” “From Colonel Fitzwilliam! And what can he have to say?” “Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with congratulations on Jane’s approaching nuptials, of which, it seems, he has been told by some good natured gentleman. I shall not sport with your impatience, by reading what he says on that point. What relates to yourself, is as follows: Having thus offered you the sincere congratulations on this happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another; of which I have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after her elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate may be reasonably looked up to as one of the most illustrious personages in this land. “Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this?” This young gentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with every thing the heart of mortal can most desire—splendid property, noble kindred, and extensive patronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn you of what evils you may incur by a precipitate closure with this gentleman’s proposals, which, of course, you will be inclined to take immediate advantage of. “Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out:” My motive for cautioning you is as follows. We have reason to imagine that his aunt and mine, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with a friendly eye. “Mr. Darcy, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I have surprised you. Could he have pitched on any man within the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie more effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at you in his life! Imagine such a thing!” Elizabeth tried to join in her father’s pleasantry, but could only force one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so little agreeable to her. “Are you not surprised?” “Oh! Yes. Pray read on.” After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her last night, she immediately expressed what she felt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that on the score of some family objections on the part of your daughter, she would never give her consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty to give the speediest intelligence of this to you, that Elizabeth and her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned. “The rest of his letter is only about his sorrow upon hearing of Charlotte’s beheading and Mr. Collins’s suicide. But, Lizzy, you look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not, I hope, pretending to be affronted at an idle report.” “Oh!” cried Elizabeth, “I am excessively amused. But it is so strange!” “Yes—that is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man it would have been nothing; but his perfect indifference, and your pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine about this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?” To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as it had been asked without the least suspicion. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her feelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when she would rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her, by what he said of Mr. Darcy’s indifference, and she could do nothing but wonder at such a want of perception, or fear that perhaps, instead of his seeing too little, she might have fancied too much. CHAPTER 58 TO ELIZABETH’S GREAT SURPRISE, Mr. Bingley brought Darcy with him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine’s visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time to tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the habit of walking; Mary could never spare time; but the remaining five set off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty was too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a desperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same. They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for joining her, when Kitty left them she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the moment for her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was high, she immediately said: “Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding yours. I can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.” “I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,” replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise and emotion, “that you have ever been informed of what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardiner was so little to be trusted.” “You must not blame my aunt. Lydia’s carelessness first betrayed to me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again, in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble, and offer to kneel before you now and administer the seven cuts, that you might be honoured by trampling my blood.” “If you will thank me,” he replied, “let it be for yourself alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your family owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of you.” Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause, her companion added, “You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.” Elizabeth now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The happiness which this reply produced, was such as he had probably never felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him; but, though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of feelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his affection every moment more valuable. They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding to the efforts of his aunt, who did call on him in her return through London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the substance of her duel with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on the latter’s failure to kill her when she had the chance, in the belief that such a show of weakness would forever turn Darcy’s eye away. But, unluckily for her ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise. “It taught me to hope,” said he, “as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain that, had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have beheaded Lady Catherine without a moment’s hesitation.” Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, “Yes, you know enough of my temper to believe me capable of that. After abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in beheading any number of your relations.” “What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.” “We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that evening,” said Elizabeth. “The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved in civility.” “I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: ‘had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.’Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me—though it was some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.” “I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a way.” Darcy mentioned his letter. “Did it make you think better of me?” She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her former prejudices had been removed. “I knew,” said he, “that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly make you hate me.” “Think no more of the letter. The feelings of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now so widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure.” “With me, it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude which cannot, which ought not, to be repelled. I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given the best training, but left to use it in pride and conceit. Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only child), I was spoilt by my parents, who, though good themselves (my father, particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable), allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing; to care for nothing beyond the defense of my estate; to think meanly of all the rest of the world. Such I was, from eight to eight-and-twenty; and such I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.” After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know anything about it, they found at last, on examining the precise position of the sun, that it was time to be at home. “What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!” was a wonder which introduced the discussion of their affairs. Darcy was delighted with their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information of it. “I must ask whether you were surprised?” said Elizabeth. “Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.” “That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much.” And though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much the case. “On the evening before my going to London,” said he, “I made a confession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I told him of all that had occurred to make my former interference in his affairs absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had the slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent to him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together.” Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his friend. “Did you speak from your own observation,” said she, “when you told him that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?” “From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visits which I had lately made here; and I was convinced of her affection.” “And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to him.” “It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His timidity had prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but his reliance on mine made every thing easy. I was obliged to confess one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months last winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was angry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained in any doubt of your sister’s sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me now.” As they made for the house, Elizabeth and Darcy happened upon a herd of unmentionables, no more than a dozen in number, which had quartered itself in a garden not ten yards from the road. The creatures were crawling on their hands and knees, biting into ripe heads of cauliflower, which they had mistaken for stray brains. Elizabeth and Darcy laughed at the sight, and for a moment, resolved to keep walking—as the zombies had failed to take notice of them. But, sharing a glance and a smile, the pair realised they had stumbled onto their first opportunity to fight side by side. And so they did. “THE CREATURES WERE CRAWLING ON THEIR HANDS AND KNEES, BITING INTO RIPE HEADS OF CAULIFLOWER, WHICH THEY HAD MISTAKEN FOR STRAY BRAINS.” 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. 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, anticipated what would be felt in the family when her situation became known. At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far from Jane’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.” Jane 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 our games of Kiss Me Deer. 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 the way his trousers clung to those most English parts.” 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!” Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. But now she would no longer conceal from her Darcy’s 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 the burning grounds of Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has never seen the flames.” “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 flames of 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. 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 best warrior, 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. “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, or the loss of my sword?” “None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; and Longbourn—indeed all of Hertfordshire would be the worse for losing you; 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 extraordinary skill in the deadly arts 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.” 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; gave the money, paid the fellow’s debts, and rendered him lame! 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 Colonel Fitzwilliam’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 meditation 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; 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, and very likely more! ’Tis as good as a Lord! And a special license. You must and shall be married by a special license. 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 much to be wished for: peace in England, the approbation of Mr. Darcy’s relatives, and a mother with whom she had anything whatsoever in common. 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 more tea, or wipe crumbs from his trousers. 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. “Though Wickham,” he said with a sly smile, “is perhaps my favourite, for he fidgets the least.” CHAPTER 60 ELIZABETH’S SPIRITS SOON rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr. Darcy to account for his falling in love with her. “How could you begin?” said she. “I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first place?” “I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.” “It could not have been my beauty, or my killing skills, for they are each quite equal to your own. As for my manners—my behaviour to you was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke to you without wishing to give you pain. Now be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?” “For the liveliness of your mind, I did.” “You may as well call it impertinence. It was very little else. The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious attention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking, and looking, and thinking for your approbation alone. I roused, and interested you, because I was so unlike them. I knew the joy of standing over a vanquished foe; of painting my face and arms with their blood, yet warm, and screaming to the heavens—begging, nay daring, God to send me more enemies to kill. The gentle ladies who so assiduously courted you knew nothing of this joy, and therefore, could never offer you true happiness. There—I have saved you the trouble of accounting for it; and really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly reasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of me—but nobody thinks of that when they fall in love.” “Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane while she was ill at Netherfield?” “Dearest Jane! Who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are to exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me to find occasions for teasing and quarrelling with you as often as may be; and I shall begin directly by asking you what made you so unwilling to come to the point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first called, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you called, did you look as if you did not care about me?” “Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement.” “But I was embarrassed.” “And so was I.” “You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner.” “A man who had felt less, might.” “How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that I should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how long you would have gone on, if you had been left to yourself. I wonder when you would have spoken, if I had not asked you!” “Lady Catherine’s unjustifiable endeavour to separate us, and your head from its perch, were the means of removing all my doubts. Your refusal to finish her had given me hope, and I was determined at once to know every thing.” “Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy, for she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down to Netherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed? Or had you intended any more serious consequence?” “My real purpose was to see you, and to judge, if I could, whether I might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or what I avowed to myself, was to see whether Jane was still partial to Bingley, and if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since made.” “Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine what is to befall her?” “Like you, I am not wanting courage; but I am wanting time, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it shall be done directly.” “And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you and admire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady once did. But I have an aunt, too, who must not be longer neglected.” From an unwillingness to confess how her prospects with Mr. Darcy had been over-rated, Elizabeth had never answered Mrs. Gardiner’s long letter; but now, having news which she knew would be most welcome, she was almost ashamed to find that her uncle and aunt had already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as follows: I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have done, for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of particulars; but to say the truth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than really existed. But now suppose as much as you choose; give a loose rein to your fancy, indulge your imagination in every possible flight which the subject will afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you cannot greatly err. You must write again very soon, and praise him a great deal more than you did in your last. I thank you, again and again, for not going to the Lakes. How could I be so silly as to wish it! Your idea of the phaeton and zombies is delightful. We will go round the park every day, whipping them till their limbs fall off. I am the happiest creature in the world. Perhaps other people have said so before, but not one with such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she only smiles, I laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world that he can spare from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas. YOURS, ETC. The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar information, was as sincere as her brother’s in sending it. Four sides of paper were insufficient to contain all her delight, and all her earnest desire of being loved and trained by her sister. CHAPTER 61 HAPPY FOR ALL HER MATERNAL feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride she afterwards visited the new Mrs. Bingley, and talked of the new Mrs. Darcy, may be guessed. I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the accomplishment of seeing so many of her children happily settled made her a sensible, amiable, well-informed woman for the rest of her life; though perhaps it was lucky for her husband, who took such pleasure in teasing her, that she still was occasionally nervous and invariably silly. Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection for her drew him oftener from home than anything else could do. He delighted in going to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected. As Mr. Bennet had predicted, Hertfordshire also longed for the company of its two fiercest protectors. In the days and months proceeding, with only two of the younger Bennet sisters to ward them off, the zombies descended in ever greater numbers, until Colonel Forster returned with the militia and set the burning grounds afire once more. Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. Jane could not bear to be so close to Longbourn as a married woman; for every unmentionable attack made her long for her sword. The darling wish of Mr. Bingley’s sisters was then gratified; he bought an estate in a neighbouring county to Derbyshire, and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source of happiness, were within thirty miles of each other. Determined that they should keep their skills sharp, though His Majesty no longer required them to do so, their husbands built them a sparring cottage precisely between the two estates, in which the sisters met joyously and often. Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had generally known, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable a temper as Lydia; and, removed from the influence of Lydia’s example, she became, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less ignorant, and less insipid. When she announced that she should like to return to Shaolin, for two or three years, in hopes of becoming as fine a warrior as Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy was only too happy to pay for the whole. Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; both by the necessity of there being at least one warrior to protect Hertfordshire, and Mrs. Bennet’s being quite unable to sit alone. As she was no longer mortified by comparisons between her sisters’ beauty and her own, Mary began to mix more with the world, eventually taking up rather intimate, infrequent, friendships with several soldiers of the returned militia. As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution from the marriage of her sisters. In spite of every thing, they were not wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be prevailed on to make Wickham’s fortune. The congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received from Lydia on her marriage, explained to her that, by his wife at least, if not by himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this effect: MY DEAR LIZZY, I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my Dear, lame Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you so rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will think of us. I am sure Wickham would like a parsonage very much when he is finished at seminary, and I do not think we shall have quite money enough to live upon without some help. Any parsonage would do, of about three or four hundred a year; but however, do not speak to Mr. Darcy about it, if you had rather not. I must be off, as my beloved has soiled himself anew. YOURS, ETC. Elizabeth endeavoured in her answer to put an end to every entreaty and expectation of the kind. Such relief, however, as it was in her power to afford, in the form of fresh linens and salted beef, she frequently sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an income as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in their wants, and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to their support; and whenever Wickham’s studies required the purchase of a new hymnal for the lame, or lectern for the lame, or altar for the lame; either Jane or herself were sure of being applied to for some little assistance towards discharging their bills. Though Darcy could never receive him at Pemberley, for Elizabeth’s sake, he assisted him further in his profession. Lydia was occasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone to minister in the asylums of London; and with the Bingleys they both of them frequently stayed so long, that even Bingley’s good humour was overcome, and he proceeded so far as to talk of giving them a hint to be gone. Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy’s marriage; but as she thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility to Elizabeth. Pemberley was now Georgiana’s home; and the attachment of the sisters was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each other even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion in the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with an astonishment bordering on alarm at her lively, sportive, manner of talking to her brother, and cringed at her tales of ripping the beating hearts from the chests of untold enemies. Through Elizabeth’s instructions, Miss Darcy became a finer warrior than she ever dared hope—for beyond improving her musketry and bladesmanship, she also began to comprehend that a woman may take liberties with her husband which a brother will not always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself. Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew; and her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement came not in written form, but in the form of an attack on Pemberley by five-and-ten of her ladyship’s ninjas. For some time after this was thwarted, all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth’s persuasion, he was prevailed on to seek a reconciliation; and, after a little further resistance on the part of his aunt, her resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity to see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait on them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the visits of her uncle and aunt—with whom Darcy and Elizabeth were always on the most intimate terms. Like so many before it, her ladyship’s serum proved folly, for while it slowed some effects of the strange plague, it was helpless to stop them all. England remained in the shadow of Satan. The dead continued to claw their way through crypt and coffin alike, feasting on British brains. Victories were celebrated, defeats lamented. And the sisters Bennet—servants of His Majesty, protectors of Hertfordshire, beholders of the secrets of Shaolin, and brides of death—were now, three of them, brides of man, their swords quieted by that only force more powerful than any warrior. THE END. Pride and Prejudice and Zombies A Reader’s Discussion Guide Pride and Prejudice and Zombies is a rich, multilayered study of love, war, and the supernatural. We hope these questions will deepen your appreciation and enjoyment of this towering work of classical zombie literature. 1. Many critics have addressed the dual nature of Elizabeth’s personality. On one hand, she can be a savage, remorseless killer, as we see in her vanquishing of Lady Catherine’s ninjas. On the other hand, she can be tender and merciful, as in her relationships with Jane, Charlotte, and the young bucks that roam her family’s estate. In your opinion, which of these “halves” best represents the real Elizabeth at the beginning—and end of the novel? 2. Is Mr. Collins merely too fat and stupid to notice his wife’s gradual transformation into a zombie, or could there be another explanation for his failure to acknowledge the problem? If so, what might that explanation be? How might his occupation (as a pastor) relate to his denial of the obvious, or his decision to hang himself? 3. The strange plague has been the scourge of England for “five-and-fifty years.” Why do the English stay and fight, rather than retreat to the safety of eastern Europe or Africa? 4. Who receives the sorrier fate: Wickham, left paralyzed in a seminary for the lame, forever soiling himself and studying ankle-high books of scripture? Or Lydia, removed from her family, married to an invalid, and childless, yet forever changing filthy diapers? 5. Due to her fierce independence, devotion to exercise, and penchant for boots, some critics have called Elizabeth Bennett “the first literary lesbian.” Do you think the authors intended her to be gay? And if so, how would this Sapphic twist serve to explain her relationships with Darcy, Jane, Charlotte, Lady Catherine, and Wickham? 6. Some critics have suggested that the zombies represent the authors’ views toward marriage—an endless curse that sucks the life out of you and just won’t die. Do you agree, or do you have another opinion about the symbolism of the unmentionables? 7. Does Mrs. Bennett have a single redeeming quality? 8. Vomit plays an important role in Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Mrs. Bennett frequently vomits when she’s nervous, coachmen vomit in disgust when they witness zombies feasting on corpses, even the steady Elizabeth can’t help but vomit at the sight of Charlotte lapping up her own bloody pus. Do the authors mean for this regurgitation to symbolize something greater, or is it a cheap device to get laughs? 9. Is Lady Catherine’s objection to Elizabeth (as a bride for her nephew) merely a matter of Elizabeth’s inferior wealth and rank? Or could there be another explanation? Could she be intimidated by Elizabeth’s fighting skills? Is she herself secretly in love with Darcy? Or is she bitter about the shortcomings of her own daughter? 10. Some scholars believe that the zombies were a last-minute addition to the novel, requested by the publisher in a shameless attempt to boost sales. Others argue that the hordes of living dead are integral to Jane Austen’s plot and social commentary. What do you think? Can you imagine what this novel might be like without the violent zombie mayhem? '"
+      ]
+     },
+     "execution_count": 7,
+     "metadata": {},
+     "output_type": "execute_result"
+    }
+   ],
+   "source": [
+    "book"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "And we create a table from it.  The table contains counts of the character names per chapter."
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": 10,
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [
+    {
+     "data": {
+      "text/html": [
+       "<table border=\"1\" class=\"dataframe\">\n",
+       "    <thead>\n",
+       "        <tr>\n",
+       "            <th>Dorian</th> <th>Painting</th> <th>Lydia</th> <th>Catherine</th> <th>Darcy</th> <th>Georgiana</th>\n",
+       "        </tr>\n",
+       "    </thead>\n",
+       "    <tbody>\n",
+       "        <tr>\n",
+       "            <td>0     </td> <td>0       </td> <td>0    </td> <td>0        </td> <td>0    </td> <td>0        </td>\n",
+       "        </tr>\n",
+       "        <tr>\n",
+       "            <td>0     </td> <td>0       </td> <td>2    </td> <td>0        </td> <td>0    </td> <td>0        </td>\n",
+       "        </tr>\n",
+       "        <tr>\n",
+       "            <td>0     </td> <td>0       </td> <td>2    </td> <td>2        </td> <td>9    </td> <td>0        </td>\n",
+       "        </tr>\n",
+       "        <tr>\n",
+       "            <td>0     </td> <td>1       </td> <td>0    </td> <td>0        </td> <td>5    </td> <td>0        </td>\n",
+       "        </tr>\n",
+       "        <tr>\n",
+       "            <td>0     </td> <td>0       </td> <td>0    </td> <td>0        </td> <td>1    </td> <td>0        </td>\n",
+       "        </tr>\n",
+       "        <tr>\n",
+       "            <td>0     </td> <td>0       </td> <td>0    </td> <td>0        </td> <td>13   </td> <td>0        </td>\n",
+       "        </tr>\n",
+       "        <tr>\n",
+       "            <td>0     </td> <td>0       </td> <td>4    </td> <td>2        </td> <td>1    </td> <td>0        </td>\n",
+       "        </tr>\n",
+       "        <tr>\n",
+       "            <td>0     </td> <td>1       </td> <td>0    </td> <td>0        </td> <td>8    </td> <td>1        </td>\n",
+       "        </tr>\n",
+       "        <tr>\n",
+       "            <td>0     </td> <td>0       </td> <td>2    </td> <td>0        </td> <td>7    </td> <td>0        </td>\n",
+       "        </tr>\n",
+       "        <tr>\n",
+       "            <td>0     </td> <td>1       </td> <td>0    </td> <td>0        </td> <td>14   </td> <td>0        </td>\n",
+       "        </tr>\n",
+       "    </tbody>\n",
+       "</table>\n",
+       "<p>... (51 rows omitted)</p>"
+      ],
+      "text/plain": [
+       "Dorian | Painting | Lydia | Catherine | Darcy | Georgiana\n",
+       "0      | 0        | 0     | 0         | 0     | 0\n",
+       "0      | 0        | 2     | 0         | 0     | 0\n",
+       "0      | 0        | 2     | 2         | 9     | 0\n",
+       "0      | 1        | 0     | 0         | 5     | 0\n",
+       "0      | 0        | 0     | 0         | 1     | 0\n",
+       "0      | 0        | 0     | 0         | 13    | 0\n",
+       "0      | 0        | 4     | 2         | 1     | 0\n",
+       "0      | 1        | 0     | 0         | 8     | 1\n",
+       "0      | 0        | 2     | 0         | 7     | 0\n",
+       "0      | 1        | 0     | 0         | 14    | 0\n",
+       "... (51 rows omitted)"
+      ]
+     },
+     "execution_count": 10,
+     "metadata": {},
+     "output_type": "execute_result"
+    }
+   ],
+   "source": [
+    "table = Table().with_columns([\n",
+    "    \"Dorian\",   np.char.count(chapters, \"Dorian\"),\n",
+    "    \"Painting\",  np.char.count(chapters, \"painting\") + np.char.count(chapters, \"picture\"),\n",
+    "    \"Lydia\",  np.char.count(chapters, \"Lydia\"),\n",
+    "    \"Catherine\",  np.char.count(chapters, \"Catherine\"),\n",
+    "    \"Darcy\", np.char.count(chapters, \"Darcy\"),\n",
+    "    \"Georgiana\", np.char.count(chapters, \"Georgiana\")\n",
+    "])\n",
+    "table"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "## Data Visualization\n",
+    "\n",
+    "Visualization helps us quickly summarize and understand the data.\n",
+    "\n",
+    "In this example, who are the main characters?  Who are minor characters?"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": 11,
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [
+    {
+     "data": {
+      "image/png": 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\n",
+      "text/plain": [
+       "<Figure size 432x288 with 1 Axes>"
+      ]
+     },
+     "metadata": {},
+     "output_type": "display_data"
+    }
+   ],
+   "source": [
+    "table.plot(overlay=True)"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "Can we establish a trend over time?"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": 12,
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [
+    {
+     "data": {
+      "image/png": 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\n",
+      "text/plain": [
+       "<Figure size 432x288 with 1 Axes>"
+      ]
+     },
+     "metadata": {},
+     "output_type": "display_data"
+    }
+   ],
+   "source": [
+    "table.cumsum().plot(overlay=True)"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "Each chapter is a different length in terms of words or characters.  How is this related to the number of period in a chapter?  What does this mean?"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": 13,
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [
+    {
+     "data": {
+      "image/png": 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\n",
+      "text/plain": [
+       "<Figure size 360x360 with 1 Axes>"
+      ]
+     },
+     "metadata": {},
+     "output_type": "display_data"
+    }
+   ],
+   "source": [
+    "Table().with_columns([\n",
+    "        \"Characters\", [len(c) for c in chapters],\n",
+    "        \"Periods\", np.char.count(chapters, \".\"),\n",
+    "    ]).scatter('Periods')"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": []
+  }
+ ],
+ "metadata": {
+  "kernelspec": {
+   "display_name": "Python 3 (ipykernel)",
+   "language": "python",
+   "name": "python3"
+  },
+  "language_info": {
+   "codemirror_mode": {
+    "name": "ipython",
+    "version": 3
+   },
+   "file_extension": ".py",
+   "mimetype": "text/x-python",
+   "name": "python",
+   "nbconvert_exporter": "python",
+   "pygments_lexer": "ipython3",
+   "version": "3.9.12"
+  }
+ },
+ "nbformat": 4,
+ "nbformat_minor": 2
+}
diff --git a/Week 2/01 Pride and Prejudice(1).ipynb b/Week 2/01 Pride and Prejudice(1).ipynb
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..d04310b
--- /dev/null
+++ b/Week 2/01 Pride and Prejudice(1).ipynb	
@@ -0,0 +1,282 @@
+{
+ "cells": [
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "# Analyzing The Picture of Dorian Gray\n",
+    "\n",
+    "Lets use a *Jupyter Notebook* to understand a popular novel.\n",
+    "\n",
+    "![yy](https://d28hgpri8am2if.cloudfront.net/book_images/onix/cvr9781499806250/pride-and-prejudice-9781499806250_lg.jpg \"xx\")\n",
+    "\n",
+    "We start with some initialization code."
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": 3,
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "from datascience import *\n",
+    "import numpy as np\n",
+    "%matplotlib inline\n",
+    "import matplotlib.pyplot as plots\n",
+    "plots.style.use('fivethirtyeight')\n",
+    "import warnings\n",
+    "warnings.simplefilter(action=\"ignore\", category=FutureWarning)\n",
+    "from urllib.request import urlopen \n",
+    "import re\n",
+    "\n",
+    "def read_url(url): \n",
+    "    return re.sub('\\\\s+', ' ', urlopen(url).read().decode())\n",
+    "\n",
+    "def read_file(name):\n",
+    "    return re.sub('\\\\s+', ' ', open(name, \"r\").read())"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "We load a plain text file from the current directory."
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": 4,
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "book = read_url(\"https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/4078/pg4078.txt\")\n",
+    "#book = read_file(\"01_pride_and_prejudice_and_zombies.txt\")\n",
+    "chapters = book.split('CHAPTER ')[1:]"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": 5,
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [
+    {
+     "data": {
+      "text/plain": [
+       "'\\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg EBook of The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Picture of Dorian Gray 13 chapter version Author: Oscar Wilde Posting Date: February 9, 2013 [EBook #4078] Release Date: May, 2003 First Posted: November 12, 2001 Last Updated: January 29, 2005 Language: English *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY *** Produced by Alfred J. Drake. HTML version by Al Haines. THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY by Oscar Wilde 1890, 13-CHAPTER VERSION CONTENTS Chapter I: 3-12 Chapter II: 12-22 Chapter III: 22-32 Chapter IV: 32-36 Chapter V: 36-43 Chapter VI: 43-52 Chapter VII: 52-58 Chapter VIII: 58-64 Chapter IX: 65-77 Chapter X: 77-81 Chapter XI: 81-86 Chapter XII: 86-93 Chapter XIII: 94-100 CHAPTER I [3] The studio was filled with the rich odor of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn. From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as usual, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-colored blossoms of the laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flame-like as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid jade-faced painters who, in an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the black-crocketed spires of the early June hollyhocks, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive, and the dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ. In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public excitement, and gave rise to so many strange conjectures. As he looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and, closing [4] his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he might awake. \"It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done,\" said Lord Henry, languidly. \"You must certainly send it next year to the Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. The Grosvenor is the only place.\" \"I don\\'t think I will send it anywhere,\" he answered, tossing his head back in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at Oxford. \"No: I won\\'t send it anywhere.\" Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows, and looked at him in amazement through the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls from his heavy opium-tainted cigarette. \"Not send it anywhere? My dear fellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps you painters are! You do anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon as you have one, you seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you, for there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about. A portrait like this would set you far above all the young men in England, and make the old men quite jealous, if old men are ever capable of any emotion.\" \"I know you will laugh at me,\" he replied, \"but I really can\\'t exhibit it. I have put too much of myself into it.\" Lord Henry stretched his long legs out on the divan and shook with laughter. \"Yes, I knew you would laugh; but it is quite true, all the same.\" \"Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn\\'t know you were so vain; and I really can\\'t see any resemblance between you, with your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young Adonis, who looks as if he was made of ivory and rose-leaves. Why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you--well, of course you have an intellectual expression, and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself an exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But then in the Church they don\\'t think. A bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and consequently he always looks absolutely delightful. Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of that. He is a brainless, beautiful thing, who should be always here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don\\'t flatter yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him.\" \"You don\\'t understand me, Harry. Of course I am not like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that [5] seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one\\'s fellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit quietly and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should live, undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others nor ever receive it from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are,--my fame, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray\\'s good looks,--we will all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly.\" \"Dorian Gray? is that his name?\" said Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward. \"Yes; that is his name. I didn\\'t intend to tell it to you.\" \"But why not?\" \"Oh, I can\\'t explain. When I like people immensely I never tell their names to any one. It seems like surrendering a part of them. You know how I love secrecy. It is the only thing that can make modern life wonderful or mysterious to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town I never tell my people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into one\\'s life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?\" \"Not at all,\" answered Lord Henry, laying his hand upon his shoulder; \"not at all, my dear Basil. You seem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception necessary for both parties. I never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing. When we meet,--we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go down to the duke\\'s,--we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces. My wife is very good at it,--much better, in fact, than I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. But when she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes wish she would; but she merely laughs at me.\" \"I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry,\" said Basil Hallward, shaking his hand off, and strolling towards the door that led into the garden. \"I believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary fellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing. Your cynicism is simply a pose.\" \"Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know,\" cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the garden together, and for a time they did not speak. After a long pause Lord Henry pulled out his watch. \"I am afraid I must be going, Basil,\" he murmured, \"and before I go I insist on your answering a question I put to you some time ago.\" \"What is that?\" asked Basil Hallward, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. \"You know quite well.\" \"I do not, Harry.\" [6] \"Well, I will tell you what it is.\" \"Please don\\'t.\" \"I must. I want you to explain to me why you won\\'t exhibit Dorian Gray\\'s picture. I want the real reason.\" \"I told you the real reason.\" \"No, you did not. You said it was because there was too much of yourself in it. Now, that is childish.\" \"Harry,\" said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, \"every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the colored canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown with it the secret of my own soul.\" Lord Harry laughed. \"And what is that?\" he asked. \"I will tell you,\" said Hallward; and an expression of perplexity came over his face. \"I am all expectation, Basil,\" murmured his companion, looking at him. \"Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry,\" answered the young painter; \"and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly believe it.\" Lord Henry smiled, and, leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from the grass, and examined it. \"I am quite sure I shall understand it,\" he replied, gazing intently at the little golden white-feathered disk, \"and I can believe anything, provided that it is incredible.\" The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy lilac blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the languid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup in the grass, and a long thin dragon-fly floated by on its brown gauze wings. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward\\'s heart beating, and he wondered what was coming. \"Well, this is incredible,\" repeated Hallward, rather bitterly,--\"incredible to me at times. I don\\'t know what it means. The story is simply this. Two months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon\\'s. You know we poor painters have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to remind the public that we are not savages. With an evening coat and a white tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gain a reputation for being civilized. Well, after I had been in the room about ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious Academicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at me. I turned half-way round, and saw Dorian Gray for the first time. When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious instinct of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. I did not want any external influence in my life. You know yourself, Harry, how independent I am by nature. My father destined me for the army. I insisted on [7] going to Oxford. Then he made me enter my name at the Middle Temple. Before I had eaten half a dozen dinners I gave up the Bar, and announced my intention of becoming a painter. I have always been my own master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray. Then--But I don\\'t know how to explain it to you. Something seemed to tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had a strange feeling that Fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows. I knew that if I spoke to Dorian I would become absolutely devoted to him, and that I ought not to speak to him. I grew afraid, and turned to quit the room. It was not conscience that made me do so: it was cowardice. I take no credit to myself for trying to escape.\" \"Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil. Conscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all.\" \"I don\\'t believe that, Harry. However, whatever was my motive,--and it may have been pride, for I used to be very proud,--I certainly struggled to the door. There, of course, I stumbled against Lady Brandon. \\'You are not going to run away so soon, Mr. Hallward?\\' she screamed out. You know her shrill horrid voice?\" \"Yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty,\" said Lord Henry, pulling the daisy to bits with his long, nervous fingers. \"I could not get rid of her. She brought me up to Royalties, and people with Stars and Garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiaras and hooked noses. She spoke of me as her dearest friend. I had only met her once before, but she took it into her head to lionize me. I believe some picture of mine had made a great success at the time, at least had been chattered about in the penny newspapers, which is the nineteenth-century standard of immortality. Suddenly I found myself face to face with the young man whose personality had so strangely stirred me. We were quite close, almost touching. Our eyes met again. It was mad of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him. Perhaps it was not so mad, after all. It was simply inevitable. We would have spoken to each other without any introduction. I am sure of that. Dorian told me so afterwards. He, too, felt that we were destined to know each other.\" \"And how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man? I know she goes in for giving a rapid précis of all her guests. I remember her bringing me up to a most truculent and red-faced old gentleman covered all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into my ear, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to everybody in the room, something like \\'Sir Humpty Dumpty--you know--Afghan frontier--Russian intrigues: very successful man--wife killed by an elephant--quite inconsolable--wants to marry a beautiful American widow--everybody does nowadays--hates Mr. Gladstone--but very much interested in beetles: ask him what he thinks of Schouvaloff.\\' I simply fled. I like to find out people for myself. But poor Lady Brandon treats her guests exactly as an auctioneer treats his goods. She either explains them entirely away, or tells one everything about them except what one wants to know. But what did she say about Mr. Dorian Gray?\" [8] \"Oh, she murmured, \\'Charming boy--poor dear mother and I quite inseparable--engaged to be married to the same man--I mean married on the same day--how very silly of me! Quite forget what he does--afraid he--doesn\\'t do anything--oh, yes, plays the piano--or is it the violin, dear Mr. Gray?\\' We could neither of us help laughing, and we became friends at once.\" \"Laughter is not a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is the best ending for one,\" said Lord Henry, plucking another daisy. Hallward buried his face in his hands. \"You don\\'t understand what friendship is, Harry,\" he murmured,--\"or what enmity is, for that matter. You like every one; that is to say, you are indifferent to every one.\" \"How horribly unjust of you!\" cried Lord Henry, tilting his hat back, and looking up at the little clouds that were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the summer sky, like ravelled skeins of glossy white silk. \"Yes; horribly unjust of you. I make a great difference between people. I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their characters, and my enemies for their brains. A man can\\'t be too careful in the choice of his enemies. I have not got one who is a fool. They are all men of some intellectual power, and consequently they all appreciate me. Is that very vain of me? I think it is rather vain.\" \"I should think it was, Harry. But according to your category I must be merely an acquaintance.\" \"My dear old Basil, you are much more than an acquaintance.\" \"And much less than a friend. A sort of brother, I suppose?\" \"Oh, brothers! I don\\'t care for brothers. My elder brother won\\'t die, and my younger brothers seem never to do anything else.\" \"Harry!\" \"My dear fellow, I am not quite serious. But I can\\'t help detesting my relations. I suppose it comes from the fact that we can\\'t stand other people having the same faults as ourselves. I quite sympathize with the rage of the English democracy against what they call the vices of the upper classes. They feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and immorality should be their own special property, and that if any one of us makes an ass of himself he is poaching on their preserves. When poor Southwark got into the Divorce Court, their indignation was quite magnificent. And yet I don\\'t suppose that ten per cent of the lower orders live correctly.\" \"I don\\'t agree with a single word that you have said, and, what is more, Harry, I don\\'t believe you do either.\" Lord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard, and tapped the toe of his patent-leather boot with a tasselled malacca cane. \"How English you are, Basil! If one puts forward an idea to a real Englishman,--always a rash thing to do,--he never dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong. The only thing he considers of any importance is whether one believes it one\\'s self. Now, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do with the sincerity of the man who expresses it. Indeed, the probabilities are that the more insincere the man is, the more purely intellectual will the idea be, as in that case it [9] will not be colored by either his wants, his desires, or his prejudices. However, I don\\'t propose to discuss politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you. I like persons better than principles. Tell me more about Dorian Gray. How often do you see him?\" \"Every day. I couldn\\'t be happy if I didn\\'t see him every day. Of course sometimes it is only for a few minutes. But a few minutes with somebody one worships mean a great deal.\" \"But you don\\'t really worship him?\" \"I do.\" \"How extraordinary! I thought you would never care for anything but your painting,--your art, I should say. Art sounds better, doesn\\'t it?\" \"He is all my art to me now. I sometimes think, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the history of the world. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art, and the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also. What the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of Antinoüs was to late Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will some day be to me. It is not merely that I paint from him, draw from him, model from him. Of course I have done all that. He has stood as Paris in dainty armor, and as Adonis with huntsman\\'s cloak and polished boar-spear. Crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms, he has sat on the prow of Adrian\\'s barge, looking into the green, turbid Nile. He has leaned over the still pool of some Greek woodland, and seen in the water\\'s silent silver the wonder of his own beauty. But he is much more to me than that. I won\\'t tell you that I am dissatisfied with what I have done of him, or that his beauty is such that art cannot express it. There is nothing that art cannot express, and I know that the work I have done since I met Dorian Gray is good work, is the best work of my life. But in some curious way--I wonder will you understand me?--his personality has suggested to me an entirely new manner in art, an entirely new mode of style. I see things differently, I think of them differently. I can now re-create life in a way that was hidden from me before. \\'A dream of form in days of thought,\\'--who is it who says that? I forget; but it is what Dorian Gray has been to me. The merely visible presence of this lad,--for he seems to me little more than a lad, though he is really over twenty,--his merely visible presence,--ah! I wonder can you realize all that that means? Unconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh school, a school that is to have in itself all the passion of the romantic spirit, all the perfection of the spirit that is Greek. The harmony of soul and body,--how much that is! We in our madness have separated the two, and have invented a realism that is bestial, an ideality that is void. Harry! Harry! if you only knew what Dorian Gray is to me! You remember that landscape of mine, for which Agnew offered me such a huge price, but which I would not part with? It is one of the best things I have ever done. And why is it so? Because, while I was painting it, Dorian Gray sat beside me.\" \"Basil, this is quite wonderful! I must see Dorian Gray.\" Hallward got up from the seat, and walked up and down the [10] garden. After some time he came back. \"You don\\'t understand, Harry,\" he said. \"Dorian Gray is merely to me a motive in art. He is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there. He is simply a suggestion, as I have said, of a new manner. I see him in the curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and the subtleties of certain colors. That is all.\" \"Then why won\\'t you exhibit his portrait?\" \"Because I have put into it all the extraordinary romance of which, of course, I have never dared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He will never know anything about it. But the world might guess it; and I will not bare my soul to their shallow, prying eyes. My heart shall never be put under their microscope. There is too much of myself in the thing, Harry,--too much of myself!\" \"Poets are not so scrupulous as you are. They know how useful passion is for publication. Nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions.\" \"I hate them for it. An artist should create beautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. We live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of autobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty. If I live, I will show the world what it is; and for that reason the world shall never see my portrait of Dorian Gray.\" \"I think you are wrong, Basil, but I won\\'t argue with you. It is only the intellectually lost who ever argue. Tell me, is Dorian Gray very fond of you?\" Hallward considered for a few moments. \"He likes me,\" he answered, after a pause; \"I know he likes me. Of course I flatter him dreadfully. I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall be sorry for having said. I give myself away. As a rule, he is charming to me, and we walk home together from the club arm in arm, or sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer\\'s day.\" \"Days in summer, Basil, are apt to linger. Perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. It is a sad thing to think of, but there is no doubt that Genius lasts longer than Beauty. That accounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate ourselves. In the wild struggle for existence, we want to have something that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and facts, in the silly hope of keeping our place. The thoroughly well informed man,--that is the modern ideal. And the mind of the thoroughly well informed man is a dreadful thing. It is like a bric-à-brac shop, all monsters and dust, and everything priced above its proper value. I think you will tire first, all the same. Some day you will look at Gray, and he will seem to you to be a little out of drawing, or you won\\'t like his tone of color, or something. You will bitterly reproach him in your own heart, and seriously think that he has behaved very badly to you. The next time he calls, you will be [11] perfectly cold and indifferent. It will be a great pity, for it will alter you. The worst of having a romance is that it leaves one so unromantic.\" \"Harry, don\\'t talk like that. As long as I live, the personality of Dorian Gray will dominate me. You can\\'t feel what I feel. You change too often.\" \"Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I can feel it. Those who are faithful know only the pleasures of love: it is the faithless who know love\\'s tragedies.\" And Lord Henry struck a light on a dainty silver case, and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and self-satisfied air, as if he had summed up life in a phrase. There was a rustle of chirruping sparrows in the ivy, and the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass like swallows. How pleasant it was in the garden! And how delightful other people\\'s emotions were!--much more delightful than their ideas, it seemed to him. One\\'s own soul, and the passions of one\\'s friends,--those were the fascinating things in life. He thought with pleasure of the tedious luncheon that he had missed by staying so long with Basil Hallward. Had he gone to his aunt\\'s, he would have been sure to meet Lord Goodbody there, and the whole conversation would have been about the housing of the poor, and the necessity for model lodging-houses. It was charming to have escaped all that! As he thought of his aunt, an idea seemed to strike him. He turned to Hallward, and said, \"My dear fellow, I have just remembered.\" \"Remembered what, Harry?\" \"Where I heard the name of Dorian Gray.\" \"Where was it?\" asked Hallward, with a slight frown. \"Don\\'t look so angry, Basil. It was at my aunt\\'s, Lady Agatha\\'s. She told me she had discovered a wonderful young man, who was going to help her in the East End, and that his name was Dorian Gray. I am bound to state that she never told me he was good-looking. Women have no appreciation of good looks. At least, good women have not. She said that he was very earnest, and had a beautiful nature. I at once pictured to myself a creature with spectacles and lank hair, horridly freckled, and tramping about on huge feet. I wish I had known it was your friend.\" \"I am very glad you didn\\'t, Harry.\" \"Why?\" \"I don\\'t want you to meet him.\" \"Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir,\" said the butler, coming into the garden. \"You must introduce me now,\" cried Lord Henry, laughing. Basil Hallward turned to the servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight. \"Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker: I will be in in a few moments.\" The man bowed, and went up the walk. Then he looked at Lord Henry. \"Dorian Gray is my dearest friend,\" he said. \"He has a simple and a beautiful nature. Your aunt was quite right in what she said of him. Don\\'t spoil him for me. Don\\'t try to influence him. Your influence would be bad. The world is wide, and has many marvellous people in it. Don\\'t take [12] away from me the one person that makes life absolutely lovely to me, and that gives to my art whatever wonder or charm it possesses. Mind, Harry, I trust you.\" He spoke very slowly, and the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will. \"What nonsense you talk!\" said Lord Henry, smiling, and, taking Hallward by the arm, he almost led him into the house. CHAPTER II [...12] As they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with his back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann\\'s \"Forest Scenes.\" \"You must lend me these, Basil,\" he cried. \"I want to learn them. They are perfectly charming.\" \"That entirely depends on how you sit to-day, Dorian.\" \"Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I don\\'t want a life-sized portrait of myself,\" answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool, in a wilful, petulant manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint blush colored his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. \"I beg your pardon, Basil, but I didn\\'t know you had any one with you.\" \"This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have spoiled everything.\" \"You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray,\" said Lord Henry, stepping forward and shaking him by the hand. \"My aunt has often spoken to me about you. You are one of her favorites, and, I am afraid, one of her victims also.\" \"I am in Lady Agatha\\'s black books at present,\" answered Dorian, with a funny look of penitence. \"I promised to go to her club in Whitechapel with her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to have played a duet together,--three duets, I believe. I don\\'t know what she will say to me. I am far too frightened to call.\" \"Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you. And I don\\'t think it really matters about your not being there. The audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to the piano she makes quite enough noise for two people.\" \"That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me,\" answered Dorian, laughing. Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely-curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All the candor of youth was there, as well as all youth\\'s passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him. He was made to be worshipped. \"You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray,--far too charming.\" And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan, and opened his cigarette-case. Hallward had been busy mixing his colors and getting his brushes ready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry\\'s last [13] remark he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, \"Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it awfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?\" Lord Henry smiled, and looked at Dorian Gray. \"Am I to go, Mr. Gray?\" he asked. \"Oh, please don\\'t, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky moods; and I can\\'t bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell me why I should not go in for philanthropy.\" \"I don\\'t know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. But I certainly will not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You don\\'t really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your sitters to have some one to chat to.\" Hallward bit his lip. \"If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. Dorian\\'s whims are laws to everybody, except himself.\" Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. \"You are very pressing, Basil, but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans.--Good-by, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I am nearly always at home at five o\\'clock. Write to me when you are coming. I should be sorry to miss you.\" \"Basil,\" cried Dorian Gray, \"if Lord Henry goes I shall go too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I insist upon it.\" \"Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me,\" said Hallward, gazing intently at his picture. \"It is quite true, I never talk when I am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay.\" \"But what about my man at the Orleans?\" Hallward laughed. \"I don\\'t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry.--And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don\\'t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the exception of myself.\" Dorian stepped up on the dais, with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little moue of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Hallward. They made a delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments he said to him, \"Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basil says?\" \"There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral,--immoral from the scientific point of view.\" \"Why?\" \"Because to influence a person is to give him one\\'s own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else\\'s music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one\\'s nature perfectly,--that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one\\'s [14] self. Of course they are charitable. They feed the hungry, and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of religion,--these are the two things that govern us. And yet--\" \"Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good boy,\" said Hallward, deep in his work, and conscious only that a look had come into the lad\\'s face that he had never seen there before. \"And yet,\" continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with that graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of him, and that he had even in his Eton days, \"I believe that if one man were to live his life out fully and completely, were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream,--I believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies of mediaevalism, and return to the Hellenic ideal,--to something finer, richer, than the Hellenic ideal, it may be. But the bravest man among us is afraid of himself. The mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind, and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame--\" \"Stop!\" murmured Dorian Gray, \"stop! you bewilder me. I don\\'t know what to say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don\\'t speak. Let me think, or, rather, let me try not to think.\" For nearly ten minutes he stood there motionless, with parted lips, and eyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh impulses were at work within him, and they seemed to him to have come really from himself. The few words that Basil\\'s friend had said to him--words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in them--had yet touched some secret chord, that had never been touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses. Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather a new chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! [15] They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words? Yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood. He understood them now. Life suddenly became fiery-colored to him. It seemed to him that he had been walking in fire. Why had he not known it? Lord Henry watched him, with his sad smile. He knew the precise psychological moment when to say nothing. He felt intensely interested. He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced, and, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, which had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he wondered whether Dorian Gray was passing through the same experience. He had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit the mark? How fascinating the lad was! Hallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had the true refinement and perfect delicacy that come only from strength. He was unconscious of the silence. \"Basil, I am tired of standing,\" cried Dorian Gray, suddenly. \"I must go out and sit in the garden. The air is stifling here.\" \"My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can\\'t think of anything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And I have caught the effect I wanted,--the half-parted lips, and the bright look in the eyes. I don\\'t know what Harry has been saying to you, but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I suppose he has been paying you compliments. You mustn\\'t believe a word that he says.\" \"He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the reason I don\\'t think I believe anything he has told me.\" \"You know you believe it all,\" said Lord Henry, looking at him with his dreamy, heavy-lidded eyes. \"I will go out to the garden with you. It is horridly hot in the studio.--Basil, let us have something iced to drink, something with strawberries in it.\" \"Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will tell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I will join you later on. Don\\'t keep Dorian too long. I have never been in better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands.\" Lord Henry went out to the garden, and found Dorian Gray burying his face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him, and put his hand upon his shoulder. \"You are quite right to do that,\" he murmured. \"Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul.\" The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened. His finely-chiselled nostrils quivered, and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling. [16] \"Yes,\" continued Lord Henry, \"that is one of the great secrets of life,--to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creature. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know.\" Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic olive-colored face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low, languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flower-like hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between then had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life\\'s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a school-boy, or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened. \"Let us go and sit in the shade,\" said Lord Henry. \"Parker has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not let yourself become sunburnt. It would be very unbecoming to you.\" \"What does it matter?\" cried Dorian, laughing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden. \"It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray.\" \"Why?\" \"Because you have now the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having.\" \"I don\\'t feel that, Lord Henry.\" \"No, you don\\'t feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? \"You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don\\'t frown. You have. And Beauty is a form of Genius,--is higher, indeed, than Genius, as it needs no explanation. It is one of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won\\'t smile. \"People say sometimes that Beauty is only superficial. That may be so. But at least it is not so superficial as Thought. To me, Beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible. \"Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in which really to live. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left [17] for you, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats. Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly. \"Realize your youth while you have it. Don\\'t squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless failure, or giving away your life to the ignorant, the common, and the vulgar, which are the aims, the false ideals, of our age. Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing. \"A new hedonism,--that is what our century wants. You might be its visible symbol. With your personality there is nothing you could not do. The world belongs to you for a season. \"The moment I met you I saw that you were quite unconscious of what you really are, what you really might be. There was so much about you that charmed me that I felt I must tell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will last,--such a little time. \"The common hill-flowers wither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as golden next June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will have its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty, becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we did not dare to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!\" Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fell from his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the fretted purple of the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion, for which we cannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays sudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time it flew away. He saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian convolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to and fro. Suddenly Hallward appeared at the door of the studio, and made frantic signs for them to come in. They turned to each other, and smiled. \"I am waiting,\" cried Hallward. \"Do come in. The light is quite perfect, and you can bring your drinks.\" They rose up, and sauntered down the walk together. Two green-and-white butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the end of the garden a thrush began to sing. \"You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray,\" said Lord Henry, looking at him. \"Yes, I am glad now. I wonder shall I always be glad?\" [18] \"Always! That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it. Women are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying to make it last forever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only difference between a caprice and a life-long passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer.\" As they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his hand upon Lord Henry\\'s arm. \"In that case, let our friendship be a caprice,\" he murmured, flushing at his own boldness, then stepped upon the platform and resumed his pose. Lord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair, and watched him. The sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that broke the stillness, except when Hallward stepped back now and then to look at his work from a distance. In the slanting beams that streamed through the open door-way the dust danced and was golden. The heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything. After about a quarter of an hour, Hallward stopped painting, looked for a long time at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at the picture, biting the end of one of his huge brushes, and smiling. \"It is quite finished,\" he cried, at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in thin vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas. Lord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly a wonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well. \"My dear fellow, I congratulate you most warmly,\" he said.--\"Mr. Gray, come and look at yourself.\" The lad started, as if awakened from some dream. \"Is it really finished?\" he murmured, stepping down from the platform. \"Quite finished,\" said Hallward. \"And you have sat splendidly to-day. I am awfully obliged to you.\" \"That is entirely due to me,\" broke in Lord Henry. \"Isn\\'t it, Mr. Gray?\" Dorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his picture and turned towards it. When he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks flushed for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes, as if he had recognized himself for the first time. He stood there motionless, and in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to him, but not catching the meaning of his words. The sense of his own beauty came on him like a revelation. He had never felt it before. Basil Hallward\\'s compliments had seemed to him to be merely the charming exaggerations of friendship. He had listened to them, laughed at them, forgotten them. They had not influenced his nature. Then had come Lord Henry, with his strange panegyric on youth, his terrible warning of its brevity. That had stirred him at the time, and now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full reality of the description flashed across him. Yes, there would be a day when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and colorless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. The scarlet would pass away from his lips, and the gold steal from his hair. The life that was to make his soul would mar his body. He would become ignoble, hideous, and uncouth. [19] As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck like a knife across him, and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes deepened into amethyst, and a mist of tears came across them. He felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart. \"Don\\'t you like it?\" cried Hallward at last, stung a little by the lad\\'s silence, and not understanding what it meant. \"Of course he likes it,\" said Lord Henry. \"Who wouldn\\'t like it? It is one of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you anything you like to ask for it. I must have it.\" \"It is not my property, Harry.\" \"Whose property is it?\" \"Dorian\\'s, of course.\" \"He is a very lucky fellow.\" \"How sad it is!\" murmured Dorian Gray, with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait. \"How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrid, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June. . . . If it was only the other way! If it was I who were to be always young, and the picture that were to grow old! For this--for this--I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give!\" \"You would hardly care for that arrangement, Basil,\" cried Lord Henry, laughing. \"It would be rather hard lines on you.\" \"I should object very strongly, Harry.\" Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. \"I believe you would, Basil. You like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a green bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say.\" Hallward stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like that. What had happened? He seemed almost angry. His face was flushed and his cheeks burning. \"Yes,\" he continued, \"I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your silver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me? Till I have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when one loses one\\'s good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. Your picture has taught me that. Lord Henry is perfectly right. Youth is the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing old, I will kill myself.\" Hallward turned pale, and caught his hand. \"Dorian! Dorian!\" he cried, \"don\\'t talk like that. I have never had such a friend as you, and I shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things, are you?\" \"I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me, and gives something to it. Oh, if it was only the other way! If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It will mock me some day,--mock me horribly!\" The hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away, and, flinging himself on the divan, he buried his face in the cushions, as if he was praying. \"This is your doing, Harry,\" said Hallward, bitterly. [20] \"My doing?\" \"Yes, yours, and you know it.\" Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. \"It is the real Dorian Gray,--that is all,\" he answered. \"It is not.\" \"If it is not, what have I to do with it?\" \"You should have gone away when I asked you.\" \"I stayed when you asked me.\" \"Harry, I can\\'t quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and color? I will not let it come across our three lives and mar them.\" Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and looked at him with pallid face and tear-stained eyes, as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the large curtained window. What was he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas. With a stifled sob he leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio. \"Don\\'t, Basil, don\\'t!\" he cried. \"It would be murder!\" \"I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian,\" said Hallward, coldly, when he had recovered from his surprise. \"I never thought you would.\" \"Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself, I feel that.\" \"Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and sent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself.\" And he walked across the room and rang the bell for tea. \"You will have tea, of course, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Tea is the only simple pleasure left to us.\" \"I don\\'t like simple pleasures,\" said Lord Henry. \"And I don\\'t like scenes, except on the stage. What absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after all: though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn\\'t really want it, and I do.\" \"If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I will never forgive you!\" cried Dorian Gray. \"And I don\\'t allow people to call me a silly boy.\" \"You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed.\" \"And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you don\\'t really mind being called a boy.\" \"I should have minded very much this morning, Lord Henry.\" \"Ah! this morning! You have lived since then.\" There came a knock to the door, and the butler entered with the tea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a [21] rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured the tea out. The two men sauntered languidly to the table, and examined what was under the covers. \"Let us go to the theatre to-night,\" said Lord Henry. \"There is sure to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White\\'s, but it is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire and say that I am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have the surprise of candor.\" \"It is such a bore putting on one\\'s dress-clothes,\" muttered Hallward. \"And, when one has them on, they are so horrid.\" \"Yes,\" answered Lord Henry, dreamily, \"the costume of our day is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only color-element left in modern life.\" \"You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry.\" \"Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?\" \"Before either.\" \"I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry,\" said the lad. \"Then you shall come; and you will come too, Basil, won\\'t you?\" \"I can\\'t, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do.\" \"Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray.\" \"I should like that awfully.\" Basil Hallward bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. \"I will stay with the real Dorian,\" he said, sadly. \"Is it the real Dorian?\" cried the original of the portrait, running across to him. \"Am I really like that?\" \"Yes; you are just like that.\" \"How wonderful, Basil!\" \"At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter,\" said Hallward. \"That is something.\" \"What a fuss people make about fidelity!\" murmured Lord Henry. \"And, after all, it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing to do with our own will. It is either an unfortunate accident, or an unpleasant result of temperament. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old men want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say.\" \"Don\\'t go to the theatre to-night, Dorian,\" said Hallward. \"Stop and dine with me.\" \"I can\\'t, really.\" \"Why?\" \"Because I have promised Lord Henry to go with him.\" \"He won\\'t like you better for keeping your promises. He always breaks his own. I beg you not to go.\" Dorian Gray laughed and shook his head. \"I entreat you.\" The lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them from the tea-table with an amused smile. [22] \"I must go, Basil,\" he answered. \"Very well,\" said Hallward; and he walked over and laid his cup down on the tray. \"It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better lose no time. Good-by, Harry; good-by, Dorian. Come and see me soon. Come to-morrow.\" \"Certainly.\" \"You won\\'t forget?\" \"No, of course not.\" \"And . . . Harry!\" \"Yes, Basil?\" \"Remember what I asked you, when in the garden this morning.\" \"I have forgotten it.\" \"I trust you.\" \"I wish I could trust myself,\" said Lord Henry, laughing.--\"Come, Mr. Gray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place.--Good-by, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon.\" As the door closed behind them, Hallward flung himself down on a sofa, and a look of pain came into his face. CHAPTER III [...22] One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious arm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry\\'s house in Curzon Street. It was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled wainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-colored frieze and ceiling of raised plaster-work, and its brick-dust felt carpet strewn with long-fringed silk Persian rugs. On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette by Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of \"Les Cent Nouvelles,\" bound for Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve, and powdered with the gilt daisies that the queen had selected for her device. Some large blue china jars, filled with parrot-tulips, were ranged on the mantel-shelf, and through the small leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-colored light of a summer\\'s day in London. Lord Henry had not come in yet. He was always late on principle, his principle being that punctuality is the thief of time. So the lad was looking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages of an elaborately-illustrated edition of \"Manon Lescaut\" that he had found in one of the bookcases. The formal monotonous ticking of the Louis Quatorze clock annoyed him. Once or twice he thought of going away. At last he heard a light step outside, and the door opened. \"How late you are, Harry!\" he murmured. \"I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray,\" said a woman\\'s voice. He glanced quickly round, and rose to his feet. \"I beg your pardon. I thought--\" \"You thought it was my husband. It is only his wife. You must let me introduce myself. I know you quite well by your photographs. I think my husband has got twenty-seven of them.\" [23] \"Not twenty-seven, Lady Henry?\" \"Well, twenty-six, then. And I saw you with him the other night at the Opera.\" She laughed nervously, as she spoke, and watched him with her vague forget-me-not eyes. She was a curious woman, whose dresses always looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest. She was always in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never returned, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to look picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy. Her name was Victoria, and she had a perfect mania for going to church. \"That was at \\'Lohengrin,\\' Lady Henry, I think?\" \"Yes; it was at dear \\'Lohengrin.\\' I like Wagner\\'s music better than any other music. It is so loud that one can talk the whole time, without people hearing what one says. That is a great advantage: don\\'t you think so, Mr. Gray?\" The same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and her fingers began to play with a long paper-knife. Dorian smiled, and shook his head: \"I am afraid I don\\'t think so, Lady Henry. I never talk during music,--at least during good music. If one hears bad music, it is one\\'s duty to drown it by conversation.\" \"Ah! that is one of Harry\\'s views, isn\\'t it, Mr. Gray? But you must not think I don\\'t like good music. I adore it, but I am afraid of it. It makes me too romantic. I have simply worshipped pianists,--two at a time, sometimes. I don\\'t know what it is about them. Perhaps it is that they are foreigners. They all are, aren\\'t they? Even those that are born in England become foreigners after a time, don\\'t they? It is so clever of them, and such a compliment to art. Makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn\\'t it? You have never been to any of my parties, have you, Mr. Gray? You must come. I can\\'t afford orchids, but I spare no expense in foreigners. They make one\\'s rooms look so picturesque. But here is Harry!--Harry, I came in to look for you, to ask you something,--I forget what it was,--and I found Mr. Gray here. We have had such a pleasant chat about music. We have quite the same views. No; I think our views are quite different. But he has been most pleasant. I am so glad I\\'ve seen him.\" \"I am charmed, my love, quite charmed,\" said Lord Henry, elevating his dark crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused smile.--\"So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece of old brocade in Wardour Street, and had to bargain for hours for it. Nowadays people know the price of everything, and the value of nothing.\" \"I am afraid I must be going,\" exclaimed Lady Henry, after an awkward silence, with her silly sudden laugh. \"I have promised to drive with the duchess.--Good-by, Mr. Gray.--Good-by, Harry. You are dining out, I suppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Thornbury\\'s.\" \"I dare say, my dear,\" said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her, as she flitted out of the room, looking like a bird-of-paradise that had been out in the rain, and leaving a faint odor of patchouli behind her. Then he shook hands with Dorian Gray, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on the sofa. [24] \"Never marry a woman with straw-colored hair, Dorian,\" he said, after a few puffs. \"Why, Harry?\" \"Because they are so sentimental.\" \"But I like sentimental people.\" \"Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed.\" \"I don\\'t think I am likely to marry, Harry. I am too much in love. That is one of your aphorisms. I am putting it into practice, as I do everything you say.\" \"Whom are you in love with?\" said Lord Henry, looking at him with a curious smile. \"With an actress,\" said Dorian Gray, blushing. Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. \"That is a rather common-place début,\" he murmured. \"You would not say so if you saw her, Harry.\" \"Who is she?\" \"Her name is Sibyl Vane.\" \"Never heard of her.\" \"No one has. People will some day, however. She is a genius.\" \"My dear boy, no woman is a genius: women are a decorative sex. They never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. They represent the triumph of matter over mind, just as we men represent the triumph of mind over morals. There are only two kinds of women, the plain and the colored. The plain women are very useful. If you want to gain a reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down to supper. The other women are very charming. They commit one mistake, however. They paint in order to try to look young. Our grandmothers painted in order to try to talk brilliantly. Rouge and esprit used to go together. That has all gone out now. As long as a woman can look ten years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly satisfied. As for conversation, there are only five women in London worth talking to, and two of these can\\'t be admitted into decent society. However, tell me about your genius. How long have you known her?\" \"About three weeks. Not so much. About two weeks and two days.\" \"How did you come across her?\" \"I will tell you, Harry; but you mustn\\'t be unsympathetic about it. After all, it never would have happened if I had not met you. You filled me with a wild desire to know everything about life. For days after I met you, something seemed to throb in my veins. As I lounged in the Park, or strolled down Piccadilly, I used to look at every one who passed me, and wonder with a mad curiosity what sort of lives they led. Some of them fascinated me. Others filled me with terror. There was an exquisite poison in the air. I had a passion for sensations. \"One evening about seven o\\'clock I determined to go out in search of some adventure. I felt that this gray, monstrous London of ours, with its myriads of people, its splendid sinners, and its sordid sins, as [25] you once said, must have something in store for me. I fancied a thousand things. \"The mere danger gave me a sense of delight. I remembered what you had said to me on that wonderful night when we first dined together, about the search for beauty being the poisonous secret of life. I don\\'t know what I expected, but I went out, and wandered eastward, soon losing my way in a labyrinth of grimy streets and black, grassless squares. About half-past eight I passed by a little third-rate theatre, with great flaring gas-jets and gaudy play-bills. A hideous Jew, in the most amazing waistcoat I ever beheld in my life, was standing at the entrance, smoking a vile cigar. He had greasy ringlets, and an enormous diamond blazed in the centre of a soiled shirt. \\'\\'Ave a box, my lord?\\' he said, when he saw me, and he took off his hat with an act of gorgeous servility. There was something about him, Harry, that amused me. He was such a monster. You will laugh at me, I know, but I really went in and paid a whole guinea for the stage-box. To the present day I can\\'t make out why I did so; and yet if I hadn\\'t!--my dear Harry, if I hadn\\'t, I would have missed the greatest romance of my life. I see you are laughing. It is horrid of you!\" \"I am not laughing, Dorian; at least I am not laughing at you. But you should not say the greatest romance of your life. You should say the first romance of your life. You will always be loved, and you will always be in love with love. There are exquisite things in store for you. This is merely the beginning.\" \"Do you think my nature so shallow?\" cried Dorian Gray, angrily. \"No; I think your nature so deep.\" \"How do you mean?\" \"My dear boy, people who only love once in their lives are really shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, I call either the lethargy of custom or the lack of imagination. Faithlessness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the intellectual life,--simply a confession of failure. But I don\\'t want to interrupt you. Go on with your story.\" \"Well, I found myself seated in a horrid little private box, with a vulgar drop-scene staring me in the face. I looked out behind the curtain, and surveyed the house. It was a tawdry affair, all Cupids and cornucopias, like a third-rate wedding-cake. The gallery and pit were fairly full, but the two rows of dingy stalls were quite empty, and there was hardly a person in what I suppose they called the dress-circle. Women went about with oranges and ginger-beer, and there was a terrible consumption of nuts going on.\" \"It must have been just like the palmy days of the British Drama.\" \"Just like, I should fancy, and very horrid. I began to wonder what on earth I should do, when I caught sight of the play-bill. What do you think the play was, Harry?\" \"I should think \\'The Idiot Boy, or Dumb but Innocent.\\' Our fathers used to like that sort of piece, I believe. The longer I live, Dorian, the more keenly I feel that whatever was good enough for our fathers is not good enough for us. In art, as in politics, les grand pères ont toujours tort.\" [26] \"This play was good enough for us, Harry. It was \\'Romeo and Juliet.\\' I must admit I was rather annoyed at the idea of seeing Shakespeare done in such a wretched hole of a place. Still, I felt interested, in a sort of way. At any rate, I determined to wait for the first act. There was a dreadful orchestra, presided over by a young Jew who sat at a cracked piano, that nearly drove me away, but at last the drop-scene was drawn up, and the play began. Romeo was a stout elderly gentleman, with corked eyebrows, a husky tragedy voice, and a figure like a beer-barrel. Mercutio was almost as bad. He was played by the low-comedian, who had introduced gags of his own and was on most familiar terms with the pit. They were as grotesque as the scenery, and that looked as if it had come out of a pantomime of fifty years ago. But Juliet! Harry, imagine a girl, hardly seventeen years of age, with a little flower-like face, a small Greek head with plaited coils of dark-brown hair, eyes that were violet wells of passion, lips that were like the petals of a rose. She was the loveliest thing I had ever seen in my life. You said to me once that pathos left you unmoved, but that beauty, mere beauty, could fill your eyes with tears. I tell you, Harry, I could hardly see this girl for the mist of tears that came across me. And her voice,--I never heard such a voice. It was very low at first, with deep mellow notes, that seemed to fall singly upon one\\'s ear. Then it became a little louder, and sounded like a flute or a distant hautbois. In the garden-scene it had all the tremulous ecstasy that one hears just before dawn when nightingales are singing. There were moments, later on, when it had the wild passion of violins. You know how a voice can stir one. Your voice and the voice of Sibyl Vane are two things that I shall never forget. When I close my eyes, I hear them, and each of them says something different. I don\\'t know which to follow. Why should I not love her? Harry, I do love her. She is everything to me in life. Night after night I go to see her play. One evening she is Rosalind, and the next evening she is Imogen. I have seen her die in the gloom of an Italian tomb, sucking the poison from her lover\\'s lips. I have watched her wandering through the forest of Arden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty cap. She has been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and given him rue to wear, and bitter herbs to taste of. She has been innocent, and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reed-like throat. I have seen her in every age and in every costume. Ordinary women never appeal to one\\'s imagination. They are limited to their century. No glamour ever transfigures them. One knows their minds as easily as one knows their bonnets. One can always find them. There is no mystery in one of them. They ride in the Park in the morning, and chatter at tea-parties in the afternoon. They have their stereotyped smile, and their fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. But an actress! How different an actress is! Why didn\\'t you tell me that the only thing worth loving is an actress?\" \"Because I have loved so many of them, Dorian.\" \"Oh, yes, horrid people with dyed hair and painted faces.\" \"Don\\'t run down dyed hair and painted faces. There is an extraordinary charm in them, sometimes.\" [27] \"I wish now I had not told you about Sibyl Vane.\" \"You could not have helped telling me, Dorian. All through your life you will tell me everything you do.\" \"Yes, Harry, I believe that is true. I cannot help telling you things. You have a curious influence over me. If I ever did a crime, I would come and confide it to you. You would understand me.\" \"People like you--the wilful sunbeams of life--don\\'t commit crimes, Dorian. But I am much obliged for the compliment, all the same. And now tell me,--reach me the matches, like a good boy: thanks,--tell me, what are your relations with Sibyl Vane?\" Dorian Gray leaped to his feet, with flushed cheeks and burning eyes. \"Harry, Sibyl Vane is sacred!\" \"It is only the sacred things that are worth touching, Dorian,\" said Lord Henry, with a strange touch of pathos in his voice. \"But why should you be annoyed? I suppose she will be yours some day. When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one\\'s self, and one always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls romance. You know her, at any rate, I suppose?\" \"Of course I know her. On the first night I was at the theatre, the horrid old Jew came round to the box after the performance was over, and offered to bring me behind the scenes and introduce me to her. I was furious with him, and told him that Juliet had been dead for hundreds of years, and that her body was lying in a marble tomb in Verona. I think, from his blank look of amazement, that he thought I had taken too much champagne, or something.\" \"I am not surprised.\" \"I was not surprised either. Then he asked me if I wrote for any of the newspapers. I told him I never even read them. He seemed terribly disappointed at that, and confided to me that all the dramatic critics were in a conspiracy against him, and that they were all to be bought.\" \"I believe he was quite right there. But, on the other hand, most of them are not at all expensive.\" \"Well, he seemed to think they were beyond his means. By this time the lights were being put out in the theatre, and I had to go. He wanted me to try some cigars which he strongly recommended. I declined. The next night, of course, I arrived at the theatre again. When he saw me he made me a low bow, and assured me that I was a patron of art. He was a most offensive brute, though he had an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare. He told me once, with an air of pride, that his three bankruptcies were entirely due to the poet, whom he insisted on calling \\'The Bard.\\' He seemed to think it a distinction.\" \"It was a distinction, my dear Dorian,--a great distinction. But when did you first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane?\" \"The third night. She had been playing Rosalind. I could not help going round. I had thrown her some flowers, and she had looked at me; at least I fancied that she had. The old Jew was persistent. He seemed determined to bring me behind, so I consented. It was curious my not wanting to know her, wasn\\'t it?\" [28] \"No; I don\\'t think so.\" \"My dear Harry, why?\" \"I will tell you some other time. Now I want to know about the girl.\" \"Sibyl? Oh, she was so shy, and so gentle. There is something of a child about her. Her eyes opened wide in exquisite wonder when I told her what I thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unconscious of her power. I think we were both rather nervous. The old Jew stood grinning at the door-way of the dusty greenroom, making elaborate speeches about us both, while we stood looking at each other like children. He would insist on calling me \\'My Lord,\\' so I had to assure Sibyl that I was not anything of the kind. She said quite simply to me, \\'You look more like a prince.\\'\" \"Upon my word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows how to pay compliments.\" \"You don\\'t understand her, Harry. She regarded me merely as a person in a play. She knows nothing of life. She lives with her mother, a faded tired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magenta dressing-wrapper on the first night, and who looks as if she had seen better days.\" \"I know that look. It always depresses me.\" \"The Jew wanted to tell me her history, but I said it did not interest me.\" \"You were quite right. There is always something infinitely mean about other people\\'s tragedies.\" \"Sibyl is the only thing I care about. What is it to me where she came from? From her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely and entirely divine. I go to see her act every night of my life, and every night she is more marvellous.\" \"That is the reason, I suppose, that you will never dine with me now. I thought you must have some curious romance on hand. You have; but it is not quite what I expected.\" \"My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and I have been to the Opera with you several times.\" \"You always come dreadfully late.\" \"Well, I can\\'t help going to see Sibyl play, even if it is only for an act. I get hungry for her presence; and when I think of the wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, I am filled with awe.\" \"You can dine with me to-night, Dorian, can\\'t you?\" He shook his head. \"To-night she is Imogen,\" he answered, \"and tomorrow night she will be Juliet.\" \"When is she Sibyl Vane?\" \"Never.\" \"I congratulate you.\" \"How horrid you are! She is all the great heroines of the world in one. She is more than an individual. You laugh, but I tell you she has genius. I love her, and I must make her love me. You, who know all the secrets of life, tell me how to charm Sibyl Vane to love me! I want to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the [29] world to hear our laughter, and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir their dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain. My God, Harry, how I worship her!\" He was walking up and down the room as he spoke. Hectic spots of red burned on his cheeks. He was terribly excited. Lord Henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure. How different he was now from the shy, frightened boy he had met in Basil Hallward\\'s studio! His nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of scarlet flame. Out of its secret hiding-place had crept his Soul, and Desire had come to meet it on the way. \"And what do you propose to do?\" said Lord Henry, at last. \"I want you and Basil to come with me some night and see her act. I have not the slightest fear of the result. You won\\'t be able to refuse to recognize her genius. Then we must get her out of the Jew\\'s hands. She is bound to him for three years--at least for two years and eight months--from the present time. I will have to pay him something, of course. When all that is settled, I will take a West-End theatre and bring her out properly. She will make the world as mad as she has made me.\" \"Impossible, my dear boy!\" \"Yes, she will. She has not merely art, consummate art-instinct, in her, but she has personality also; and you have often told me that it is personalities, not principles, that move the age.\" \"Well, what night shall we go?\" \"Let me see. To-day is Tuesday. Let us fix to-morrow. She plays Juliet to-morrow.\" \"All right. The Bristol at eight o\\'clock; and I will get Basil.\" \"Not eight, Harry, please. Half-past six. We must be there before the curtain rises. You must see her in the first act, where she meets Romeo.\" \"Half-past six! What an hour! It will be like having a meat-tea. However, just as you wish. Shall you see Basil between this and then? Or shall I write to him?\" \"Dear Basil! I have not laid eyes on him for a week. It is rather horrid of me, as he has sent me my portrait in the most wonderful frame, designed by himself, and, though I am a little jealous of it for being a whole month younger than I am, I must admit that I delight in it. Perhaps you had better write to him. I don\\'t want to see him alone. He says things that annoy me.\" Lord Henry smiled. \"He gives you good advice, I suppose. People are very fond of giving away what they need most themselves.\" \"You don\\'t mean to say that Basil has got any passion or any romance in him?\" \"I don\\'t know whether he has any passion, but he certainly has romance,\" said Lord Henry, with an amused look in his eyes. \"Has he never let you know that?\" \"Never. I must ask him about it. I am rather surprised to hear it. He is the best of fellows, but he seems to me to be just a bit of a Philistine. Since I have known you, Harry, I have discovered that.\" \"Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into [30] his work. The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his prejudices, his principles, and his common sense. The only artists I have ever known who are personally delightful are bad artists. Good artists give everything to their art, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in themselves. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.\" \"I wonder is that really so, Harry?\" said Dorian Gray, putting some perfume on his handkerchief out of a large gold-topped bottle that stood on the table. \"It must be, if you say so. And now I must be off. Imogen is waiting for me. Don\\'t forget about to-morrow. Good-by.\" As he left the room, Lord Henry\\'s heavy eyelids drooped, and he began to think. Certainly few people had ever interested him so much as Dorian Gray, and yet the lad\\'s mad adoration of some one else caused him not the slightest pang of annoyance or jealousy. He was pleased by it. It made him a more interesting study. He had been always enthralled by the methods of science, but the ordinary subject-matter of science had seemed to him trivial and of no import. And so he had begun by vivisecting himself, as he had ended by vivisecting others. Human life,--that appeared to him the one thing worth investigating. There was nothing else of any value, compared to it. It was true that as one watched life in its curious crucible of pain and pleasure, one could not wear over one\\'s face a mask of glass, or keep the sulphurous fumes from troubling the brain and making the imagination turbid with monstrous fancies and misshapen dreams. There were poisons so subtle that to know their properties one had to sicken of them. There were maladies so strange that one had to pass through them if one sought to understand their nature. And, yet, what a great reward one received! How wonderful the whole world became to one! To note the curious hard logic of passion, and the emotional colored life of the intellect,--to observe where they met, and where they separated, at what point they became one, and at what point they were at discord,--there was a delight in that! What matter what the cost was? One could never pay too high a price for any sensation. He was conscious--and the thought brought a gleam of pleasure into his brown agate eyes--that it was through certain words of his, musical words said with musical utterance, that Dorian Gray\\'s soul had turned to this white girl and bowed in worship before her. To a large extent, the lad was his own creation. He had made him premature. That was something. Ordinary people waited till life disclosed to them its secrets, but to the few, to the elect, the mysteries of life were revealed before the veil was drawn away. Sometimes this was the effect of art, and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealt immediately with the passions and the intellect. But now and then a complex personality took the place and assumed the office of art, was indeed, in its [31] way, a real work of art, Life having its elaborate masterpieces, just as poetry has, or sculpture, or painting. Yes, the lad was premature. He was gathering his harvest while it was yet spring. The pulse and passion of youth were in him, but he was becoming self-conscious. It was delightful to watch him. With his beautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at. It was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. He was like one of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem to be remote from one, but whose sorrows stir one\\'s sense of beauty, and whose wounds are like red roses. Soul and body, body and soul--how mysterious they were! There was animalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality. The senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. Who could say where the fleshly impulse ceased, or the psychical impulse began? How shallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists! And yet how difficult to decide between the claims of the various schools! Was the soul a shadow seated in the house of sin? Or was the body really in the soul, as Giordano Bruno thought? The separation of spirit from matter was a mystery, and the union of spirit with matter was a mystery also. He began to wonder whether we should ever make psychology so absolute a science that each little spring of life would be revealed to us. As it was, we always misunderstood ourselves, and rarely understood others. Experience was of no ethical value. It was merely the name we gave to our mistakes. Men had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of warning, had claimed for it a certain moral efficacy in the formation of character, had praised it as something that taught us what to follow and showed us what to avoid. But there was no motive power in experience. It was as little of an active cause as conscience itself. All that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same as our past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing, we would do many times, and with joy. It was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method by which one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions; and certainly Dorian Gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed to promise rich and fruitful results. His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane was a psychological phenomenon of no small interest. There was no doubt that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire for new experiences; yet it was not a simple but rather a very complex passion. What there was in it of the purely sensuous instinct of boyhood had been transformed by the workings of the imagination, changed into something that seemed to the boy himself to be remote from sense, and was for that very reason all the more dangerous. It was the passions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most strongly over us. Our weakest motives were those of whose nature we were conscious. It often happened that when we thought we were experimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves. While Lord Henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to the door, and his valet entered, and reminded him it was time to dress [32] for dinner. He got up and looked out into the street. The sunset had smitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite. The panes glowed like plates of heated metal. The sky above was like a faded rose. He thought of Dorian Gray\\'s young fiery-colored life, and wondered how it was all going to end. When he arrived home, about half-past twelve o\\'clock, he saw a telegram lying on the hall-table. He opened it and found it was from Dorian. It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to Sibyl Vane. CHAPTER IV [...32] \"I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?\" said Lord Henry on the following evening, as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol where dinner had been laid for three. \"No, Harry,\" answered Hallward, giving his hat and coat to the bowing waiter. \"What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope? They don\\'t interest me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons worth painting; though many of them would be the better for a little whitewashing.\" \"Dorian Gray is engaged to be married,\" said Lord Henry, watching him as he spoke. Hallward turned perfectly pale, and a curious look flashed for a moment into his eyes, and then passed away, leaving them dull. \"Dorian engaged to be married!\" he cried. \"Impossible!\" \"It is perfectly true.\" \"To whom?\" \"To some little actress or other.\" \"I can\\'t believe it. Dorian is far too sensible.\" \"Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear Basil.\" \"Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry,\" said Hallward, smiling. \"Except in America. But I didn\\'t say he was married. I said he was engaged to be married. There is a great difference. I have a distinct remembrance of being married, but I have no recollection at all of being engaged. I am inclined to think that I never was engaged.\" \"But think of Dorian\\'s birth, and position, and wealth. It would be absurd for him to marry so much beneath him.\" \"If you want him to marry this girl, tell him that, Basil. He is sure to do it then. Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it is always from the noblest motives.\" \"I hope the girl is good, Harry. I don\\'t want to see Dorian tied to some vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his intellect.\" \"Oh, she is more than good--she is beautiful,\" murmured Lord Henry, sipping a glass of vermouth and orange-bitters. \"Dorian says she is beautiful; and he is not often wrong about things of that kind. [33] Your portrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personal appearance of other people. It has had that excellent effect, among others. We are to see her to-night, if that boy doesn\\'t forget his appointment.\" \"But do you approve of it, Harry?\" asked Hallward, walking up and down the room, and biting his lip. \"You can\\'t approve of it, really. It is some silly infatuation.\" \"I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurd attitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to air our moral prejudices. I never take any notice of what common people say, and I never interfere with what charming people do. If a personality fascinates me, whatever the personality chooses to do is absolutely delightful to me. Dorian Gray falls in love with a beautiful girl who acts Shakespeare, and proposes to marry her. Why not? If he wedded Messalina he would be none the less interesting. You know I am not a champion of marriage. The real drawback to marriage is that it makes one unselfish. And unselfish people are colorless. They lack individuality. Still, there are certain temperaments that marriage makes more complex. They retain their egotism, and add to it many other egos. They are forced to have more than one life. They become more highly organized. Besides, every experience is of value, and, whatever one may say against marriage, it is certainly an experience. I hope that Dorian Gray will make this girl his wife, passionately adore her for six months, and then suddenly become fascinated by some one else. He would be a wonderful study.\" \"You don\\'t mean all that, Harry; you know you don\\'t. If Dorian Gray\\'s life were spoiled, no one would be sorrier than yourself. You are much better than you pretend to be.\" Lord Henry laughed. \"The reason we all like to think so well of others is that we are all afraid for ourselves. The basis of optimism is sheer terror. We think that we are generous because we credit our neighbor with those virtues that are likely to benefit ourselves. We praise the banker that we may overdraw our account, and find good qualities in the highwayman in the hope that he may spare our pockets. I mean everything that I have said. I have the greatest contempt for optimism. And as for a spoiled life, no life is spoiled but one whose growth is arrested. If you want to mar a nature, you have merely to reform it. But here is Dorian himself. He will tell you more than I can.\" \"My dear Harry, my dear Basil, you must both congratulate me!\" said the boy, throwing off his evening cape with its satin-lined wings, and shaking each of his friends by the hand in turn. \"I have never been so happy. Of course it is sudden: all really delightful things are. And yet it seems to me to be the one thing I have been looking for all my life.\" He was flushed with excitement and pleasure, and looked extraordinarily handsome. \"I hope you will always be very happy, Dorian,\" said Hallward, \"but I don\\'t quite forgive you for not having let me know of your engagement. You let Harry know.\" \"And I don\\'t forgive you for being late for dinner,\" broke in Lord [34] Henry, putting his hand on the lad\\'s shoulder, and smiling as he spoke. \"Come, let us sit down and try what the new chef here is like, and then you will tell us how it all came about.\" \"There is really not much to tell,\" cried Dorian, as they took their seats at the small round table. \"What happened was simply this. After I left you yesterday evening, Harry, I had some dinner at that curious little Italian restaurant in Rupert Street, you introduced me to, and went down afterwards to the theatre. Sibyl was playing Rosalind. Of course the scenery was dreadful, and the Orlando absurd. But Sibyl! You should have seen her! When she came on in her boy\\'s dress she was perfectly wonderful. She wore a moss-colored velvet jerkin with cinnamon sleeves, slim brown cross-gartered hose, a dainty little green cap with a hawk\\'s feather caught in a jewel, and a hooded cloak lined with dull red. She had never seemed to me more exquisite. She had all the delicate grace of that Tanagra figurine that you have in your studio, Basil. Her hair clustered round her face like dark leaves round a pale rose. As for her acting--well, you will see her to-night. She is simply a born artist. I sat in the dingy box absolutely enthralled. I forgot that I was in London and in the nineteenth century. I was away with my love in a forest that no man had ever seen. After the performance was over I went behind, and spoke to her. As we were sitting together, suddenly there came a look into her eyes that I had never seen there before. My lips moved towards hers. We kissed each other. I can\\'t describe to you what I felt at that moment. It seemed to me that all my life had been narrowed to one perfect point of rose-colored joy. She trembled all over, and shook like a white narcissus. Then she flung herself on her knees and kissed my hands. I feel that I should not tell you all this, but I can\\'t help it. Of course our engagement is a dead secret. She has not even told her own mother. I don\\'t know what my guardians will say. Lord Radley is sure to be furious. I don\\'t care. I shall be of age in less than a year, and then I can do what I like. I have been right, Basil, haven\\'t I, to take my love out of poetry, and to find my wife in Shakespeare\\'s plays? Lips that Shakespeare taught to speak have whispered their secret in my ear. I have had the arms of Rosalind around me, and kissed Juliet on the mouth.\" \"Yes, Dorian, I suppose you were right,\" said Hallward, slowly. \"Have you seen her to-day?\" asked Lord Henry. Dorian Gray shook his head. \"I left her in the forest of Arden, I shall find her in an orchard in Verona.\" Lord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative manner. \"At what particular point did you mention the word marriage, Dorian? and what did she say in answer? Perhaps you forgot all about it.\" \"My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a business transaction, and I did not make any formal proposal. I told her that I loved her, and she said she was not worthy to be my wife. Not worthy! Why, the whole world is nothing to me compared to her.\" \"Women are wonderfully practical,\" murmured Lord Henry,--\"much more practical than we are. In situations of that kind we often forget to say anything about marriage, and they always remind us.\" [35] Hallward laid his hand upon his arm. \"Don\\'t, Harry. You have annoyed Dorian. He is not like other men. He would never bring misery upon any one. His nature is too fine for that.\" Lord Henry looked across the table. \"Dorian is never annoyed with me,\" he answered. \"I asked the question for the best reason possible, for the only reason, indeed, that excuses one for asking any question,--simple curiosity. I have a theory that it is always the women who propose to us, and not we who propose to the women, except, of course, in middle-class life. But then the middle classes are not modern.\" Dorian Gray laughed, and tossed his head. \"You are quite incorrigible, Harry; but I don\\'t mind. It is impossible to be angry with you. When you see Sibyl Vane you will feel that the man who could wrong her would be a beast without a heart. I cannot understand how any one can wish to shame what he loves. I love Sibyl Vane. I wish to place her on a pedestal of gold, and to see the world worship the woman who is mine. What is marriage? An irrevocable vow. And it is an irrevocable vow that I want to take. Her trust makes me faithful, her belief makes me good. When I am with her, I regret all that you have taught me. I become different from what you have known me to be. I am changed, and the mere touch of Sibyl Vane\\'s hand makes me forget you and all your wrong, fascinating, poisonous, delightful theories.\" \"You will always like me, Dorian,\" said Lord Henry. \"Will you have some coffee, you fellows?--Waiter, bring coffee, and fine-champagne, and some cigarettes. No: don\\'t mind the cigarettes; I have some.--Basil, I can\\'t allow you to smoke cigars. You must have a cigarette. A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can you want?--Yes, Dorian, you will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you have never had the courage to commit.\" \"What nonsense you talk, Harry!\" cried Dorian Gray, lighting his cigarette from a fire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table. \"Let us go down to the theatre. When you see Sibyl you will have a new ideal of life. She will represent something to you that you have never known.\" \"I have known everything,\" said Lord Henry, with a sad look in his eyes, \"but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid that there is no such thing, for me at any rate. Still, your wonderful girl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more real than life. Let us go. Dorian, you will come with me.--I am so sorry, Basil, but there is only room for two in the brougham. You must follow us in a hansom.\" They got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing. Hallward was silent and preoccupied. There was a gloom over him. He could not bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better than many other things that might have happened. After a few moments, they all passed down-stairs. He drove off by himself, as had been arranged, and watched the flashing lights of the little brougham in front of him. A strange sense of loss came over him. [36] He felt that Dorian Gray would never again be to him all that he had been in the past. His eyes darkened, and the crowded flaring streets became blurred to him. When the cab drew up at the doors of the theatre, it seemed to him that he had grown years older. CHAPTER V [...36] For some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat Jew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with an oily, tremulous smile. He escorted them to their box with a sort of pompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands, and talking at the top of his voice. Dorian Gray loathed him more than ever. He felt as if he had come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban. Lord Henry, upon the other hand, rather liked him. At least he declared he did, and insisted on shaking him by the hand, and assured him that he was proud to meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gone bankrupt over Shakespeare. Hallward amused himself with watching the faces in the pit. The heat was terribly oppressive, and the huge sunlight flamed like a monstrous dahlia with petals of fire. The youths in the gallery had taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them over the side. They talked to each other across the theatre, and shared their oranges with the tawdry painted girls who sat by them. Some women were laughing in the pit; their voices were horribly shrill and discordant. The sound of the popping of corks came from the bar. \"What a place to find one\\'s divinity in!\" said Lord Henry. \"Yes!\" answered Dorian Gray. \"It was here I found her, and she is divine beyond all living things. When she acts you will forget everything. These common people here, with their coarse faces and brutal gestures, become quite different when she is on the stage. They sit silently and watch her. They weep and laugh as she wills them to do. She makes them as responsive as a violin. She spiritualizes them, and one feels that they are of the same flesh and blood as one\\'s self.\" \"Oh, I hope not!\" murmured Lord Henry, who was scanning the occupants of the gallery through his opera-glass. \"Don\\'t pay any attention to him, Dorian,\" said Hallward. \"I understand what you mean, and I believe in this girl. Any one you love must be marvellous, and any girl that has the effect you describe must be fine and noble. To spiritualize one\\'s age,--that is something worth doing. If this girl can give a soul to those who have lived without one, if she can create the sense of beauty in people whose lives have been sordid and ugly, if she can strip them of their selfishness and lend them tears for sorrows that are not their own, she is worthy of all your adoration, worthy of the adoration of the world. This marriage is quite right. I did not think so at first, but I admit it now. God made Sibyl Vane for you. Without her you would have been incomplete.\" \"Thanks, Basil,\" answered Dorian Gray, pressing his hand. \"I [37] knew that you would understand me. Harry is so cynical, he terrifies me. But here is the orchestra. It is quite dreadful, but it only lasts for about five minutes. Then the curtain rises, and you will see the girl to whom I am going to give all my life, to whom I have given everything that is good in me.\" A quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an extraordinary turmoil of applause, Sibyl Vane stepped on to the stage. Yes, she was certainly lovely to look at,--one of the loveliest creatures, Lord Henry thought, that he had ever seen. There was something of the fawn in her shy grace and startled eyes. A faint blush, like the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, came to her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded, enthusiastic house. She stepped back a few paces, and her lips seemed to tremble. Basil Hallward leaped to his feet and began to applaud. Dorian Gray sat motionless, gazing on her, like a man in a dream. Lord Henry peered through his opera-glass, murmuring, \"Charming! charming!\" The scene was the hall of Capulet\\'s house, and Romeo in his pilgrim\\'s dress had entered with Mercutio and his friends. The band, such as it was, struck up a few bars of music, and the dance began. Through the crowd of ungainly, shabbily-dressed actors, Sibyl Vane moved like a creature from a finer world. Her body swayed, as she danced, as a plant sways in the water. The curves of her throat were like the curves of a white lily. Her hands seemed to be made of cool ivory. Yet she was curiously listless. She showed no sign of joy when her eyes rested on Romeo. The few lines she had to speak,-- Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims\\' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers\\' kiss,-- with the brief dialogue that follows, were spoken in a thoroughly artificial manner. The voice was exquisite, but from the point of view of tone it was absolutely false. It was wrong in color. It took away all the life from the verse. It made the passion unreal. Dorian Gray grew pale as he watched her. Neither of his friends dared to say anything to him. She seemed to them to be absolutely incompetent. They were horribly disappointed. Yet they felt that the true test of any Juliet is the balcony scene of the second act. They waited for that. If she failed there, there was nothing in her. She looked charming as she came out in the moonlight. That could not be denied. But the staginess of her acting was unbearable, and grew worse as she went on. Her gestures became absurdly artificial. She over-emphasized everything that she had to say. The beautiful passage,-- Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face, Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night,-- [38] was declaimed with the painful precision of a school-girl who has been taught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution. When she leaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines,-- Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night: It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say, \"It lightens.\" Sweet, good-night! This bud of love by summer\\'s ripening breath May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet,-- she spoke the words as if they conveyed no meaning to her. It was not nervousness. Indeed, so far from being nervous, she seemed absolutely self-contained. It was simply bad art. She was a complete failure. Even the common uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost their interest in the play. They got restless, and began to talk loudly and to whistle. The Jew manager, who was standing at the back of the dress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. The only person unmoved was the girl herself. When the second act was over there came a storm of hisses, and Lord Henry got up from his chair and put on his coat. \"She is quite beautiful, Dorian,\" he said, \"but she can\\'t act. Let us go.\" \"I am going to see the play through,\" answered the lad, in a hard, bitter voice. \"I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an evening, Harry. I apologize to both of you.\" \"My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill,\" interrupted Hallward. \"We will come some other night.\" \"I wish she was ill,\" he rejoined. \"But she seems to me to be simply callous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was a great artist. To-night she is merely a commonplace, mediocre actress.\" \"Don\\'t talk like that about any one you love, Dorian. Love is a more wonderful thing than art.\" \"They are both simply forms of imitation,\" murmured Lord Henry. \"But do let us go. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is not good for one\\'s morals to see bad acting. Besides, I don\\'t suppose you will want your wife to act. So what does it matter if she plays Juliet like a wooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she knows as little about life as she does about acting, she will be a delightful experience. There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating,--people who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing. Good heavens, my dear boy, don\\'t look so tragic! The secret of remaining young is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming. Come to the club with Basil and myself. We will smoke cigarettes and drink to the beauty of Sibyl Vane. She is beautiful. What more can you want?\" \"Please go away, Harry,\" cried the lad. \"I really want to be alone.--Basil, you don\\'t mind my asking you to go? Ah! can\\'t you see that my heart is breaking?\" The hot tears came to his eyes. His [39] lips trembled, and, rushing to the back of the box, he leaned up against the wall, hiding his face in his hands. \"Let us go, Basil,\" said Lord Henry, with a strange tenderness in his voice; and the two young men passed out together. A few moments afterwards the footlights flared up, and the curtain rose on the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He looked pale, and proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemed interminable. Half of the audience went out, tramping in heavy boots, and laughing. The whole thing was a fiasco. The last act was played to almost empty benches. As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the greenroom. The girl was standing alone there, with a look of triumph on her face. Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. There was a radiance about her. Her parted lips were smiling over some secret of their own. When he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy came over her. \"How badly I acted to-night, Dorian!\" she cried. \"Horribly!\" he answered, gazing at her in amazement,--\"horribly! It was dreadful. Are you ill? You have no idea what it was. You have no idea what I suffered.\" The girl smiled. \"Dorian,\" she answered, lingering over his name with long-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to the red petals of her lips,--\"Dorian, you should have understood. But you understand now, don\\'t you?\" \"Understand what?\" he asked, angrily. \"Why I was so bad to-night. Why I shall always be bad. Why I shall never act well again.\" He shrugged his shoulders. \"You are ill, I suppose. When you are ill you shouldn\\'t act. You make yourself ridiculous. My friends were bored. I was bored.\" She seemed not to listen to him. She was transfigured with joy. An ecstasy of happiness dominated her. \"Dorian, Dorian,\" she cried, \"before I knew you, acting was the one reality of my life. It was only in the theatre that I lived. I thought that it was all true. I was Rosalind one night, and Portia the other. The joy of Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of Cordelia were mine also. I believed in everything. The common people who acted with me seemed to me to be godlike. The painted scenes were my world. I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came,--oh, my beautiful love!--and you freed my soul from prison. You taught me what reality really is. To-night, for the first time in my life, I saw through the hollowness, the sham, the silliness, of the empty pageant in which I had always played. To-night, for the first time, I became conscious that the Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words I had to speak were unreal, were not my words, not what I wanted to say. You had brought me something higher, something of which all art is but a reflection. You have made me understand what love really is. My love! my love! I am sick [40] of shadows. You are more to me than all art can ever be. What have I to do with the puppets of a play? When I came on to-night, I could not understand how it was that everything had gone from me. Suddenly it dawned on my soul what it all meant. The knowledge was exquisite to me. I heard them hissing, and I smiled. What should they know of love? Take me away, Dorian--take me away with you, where we can be quite alone. I hate the stage. I might mimic a passion that I do not feel, but I cannot mimic one that burns me like fire. Oh, Dorian, Dorian, you understand now what it all means? Even if I could do it, it would be profanation for me to play at being in love. You have made me see that.\" He flung himself down on the sofa, and turned away his face. \"You have killed my love,\" he muttered. She looked at him in wonder, and laughed. He made no answer. She came across to him, and stroked his hair with her little fingers. She knelt down and pressed his hands to her lips. He drew them away, and a shudder ran through him. Then he leaped up, and went to the door. \"Yes,\" he cried, \"you have killed my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don\\'t even stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because you were wonderful, because you had genius and intellect, because you realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and stupid. My God! how mad I was to love you! What a fool I have been! You are nothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will never think of you. I will never mention your name. You don\\'t know what you were to me, once. Why, once . . . . Oh, I can\\'t bear to think of it! I wish I had never laid eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of my life. How little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art! What are you without your art? Nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid, magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you would have belonged to me. What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty face.\" The girl grew white, and trembled. She clinched her hands together, and her voice seemed to catch in her throat. \"You are not serious, Dorian?\" she murmured. \"You are acting.\" \"Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well,\" he answered, bitterly. She rose from her knees, and, with a piteous expression of pain in her face, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm, and looked into his eyes. He thrust her back. \"Don\\'t touch me!\" he cried. A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet, and lay there like a trampled flower. \"Dorian, Dorian, don\\'t leave me!\" she whispered. \"I am so sorry I didn\\'t act well. I was thinking of you all the time. But I will try,--indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly across me, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if you had not kissed me,--if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again, my love. Don\\'t go away from me. I couldn\\'t bear it. Can\\'t you forgive me for to-night? I will work so hard, and try to [41] improve. Don\\'t be cruel to me because I love you better than anything in the world. After all, it is only once that I have not pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shown myself more of an artist. It was foolish of me; and yet I couldn\\'t help it. Oh, don\\'t leave me, don\\'t leave me.\" A fit of passionate sobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous about the passions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed him. \"I am going,\" he said at last, in his calm, clear voice. \"I don\\'t wish to be unkind, but I can\\'t see you again. You have disappointed me.\" She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer to him. Her little hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He turned on his heel, and left the room. In a few moments he was out of the theatre. Where he went to, he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through dimly-lit streets with gaunt black-shadowed archways and evil-looking houses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after him. Drunkards had reeled by cursing, and chattering to themselves like monstrous apes. He had seen grotesque children huddled upon door-steps, and had heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts. When the dawn was just breaking he found himself at Covent Garden. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies rumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The air was heavy with the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an anodyne for his pain. He followed into the market, and watched the men unloading their wagons. A white-smocked carter offered him some cherries. He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money for them, and began to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked at midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long line of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red roses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge jade-green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its gray sun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls, waiting for the auction to be over. After some time he hailed a hansom and drove home. The sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like silver against it. As he was passing through the library towards the door of his bedroom, his eye fell upon the portrait Basil Hallward had painted of him. He started back in surprise, and then went over to it and examined it. In the dim arrested light that struggled through the cream-colored silk blinds, the face seemed to him to be a little changed. The expression looked different. One would have said that there was a touch of cruelty in the mouth. It was certainly curious. He turned round, and, walking to the window, drew the blinds up. The bright dawn flooded the room, and swept the fantastic shadows [42] into dusky corners, where they lay shuddering. But the strange expression that he had noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there, to be more intensified even. The quivering, ardent sunlight showed him the lines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking into a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing. He winced, and, taking up from the table an oval glass framed in ivory Cupids, that Lord Henry had given him, he glanced hurriedly into it. No line like that warped his red lips. What did it mean? He rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined it again. There were no signs of any change when he looked into the actual painting, and yet there was no doubt that the whole expression had altered. It was not a mere fancy of his own. The thing was horribly apparent. He threw himself into a chair, and began to think. Suddenly there flashed across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward\\'s studio the day the picture had been finished. Yes, he remembered it perfectly. He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the portrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of his then just conscious boyhood. Surely his prayer had not been answered? Such things were impossible. It seemed monstrous even to think of them. And, yet, there was the picture before him, with the touch of cruelty in the mouth. Cruelty! Had he been cruel? It was the girl\\'s fault, not his. He had dreamed of her as a great artist, had given his love to her because he had thought her great. Then she had disappointed him. She had been shallow and unworthy. And, yet, a feeling of infinite regret came over him, as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a little child. He remembered with what callousness he had watched her. Why had he been made like that? Why had such a soul been given to him? But he had suffered also. During the three terrible hours that the play had lasted, he had lived centuries of pain, aeon upon aeon of torture. His life was well worth hers. She had marred him for a moment, if he had wounded her for an age. Besides, women were better suited to bear sorrow than men. They lived on their emotions. They only thought of their emotions. When they took lovers, it was merely to have some one with whom they could have scenes. Lord Henry had told him that, and Lord Henry knew what women were. Why should he trouble about Sibyl Vane? She was nothing to him now. But the picture? What was he to say of that? It held the secret of his life, and told his story. It had taught him to love his own beauty. Would it teach him to loathe his own soul? Would he ever look at it again? No; it was merely an illusion wrought on the troubled senses. The horrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it. Suddenly there had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that [43] makes men mad. The picture had not changed. It was folly to think so. Yet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruel smile. Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. Its blue eyes met his own. A sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for the painted image of himself, came over him. It had altered already, and would alter more. Its gold would wither into gray. Its red and white roses would die. For every sin that he committed, a stain would fleck and wreck its fairness. But he would not sin. The picture, changed or unchanged, would be to him the visible emblem of conscience. He would resist temptation. He would not see Lord Henry any more,--would not, at any rate, listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in Basil Hallward\\'s garden had first stirred within him the passion for impossible things. He would go back to Sibyl Vane, make her amends, marry her, try to love her again. Yes, it was his duty to do so. She must have suffered more than he had. Poor child! He had been selfish and cruel to her. The fascination that she had exercised over him would return. They would be happy together. His life with her would be beautiful and pure. He got up from his chair, and drew a large screen right in front of the portrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. \"How horrible!\" he murmured to himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it. When he stepped out on the grass, he drew a deep breath. The fresh morning air seemed to drive away all his sombre passions. He thought only of Sibyl Vane. A faint echo of his love came back to him. He repeated her name over and over again. The birds that were singing in the dew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her. CHAPTER VI [...43] It was long past noon when he awoke. His valet had crept several times into the room on tiptoe to see if he was stirring, and had wondered what made his young master sleep so late. Finally his bell sounded, and Victor came in softly with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, on a small tray of old Sèvres china, and drew back the olive-satin curtains, with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the three tall windows. \"Monsieur has well slept this morning,\" he said, smiling. \"What o\\'clock is it, Victor?\" asked Dorian Gray, sleepily. \"One hour and a quarter, monsieur.\" How late it was! He sat up, and, having sipped some tea, turned over his letters. One of them was from Lord Henry, and had been brought by hand that morning. He hesitated for a moment, and then put it aside. The others he opened listlessly. They contained the usual collection of cards, invitations to dinner, tickets for private views, programmes of charity concerts, and the like, that are showered on fashionable young men every morning during the season. There was a [44] rather heavy bill, for a chased silver Louis-Quinze toilet-set, that he had not yet had the courage to send on to his guardians, who were extremely old-fashioned people and did not realize that we live in an age when only unnecessary things are absolutely necessary to us; and there were several very courteously worded communications from Jermyn Street money-lenders offering to advance any sum of money at a moment\\'s notice and at the most reasonable rates of interest. After about ten minutes he got up, and, throwing on an elaborate dressing-gown, passed into the onyx-paved bath-room. The cool water refreshed him after his long sleep. He seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone through. A dim sense of having taken part in some strange tragedy came to him once or twice, but there was the unreality of a dream about it. As soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down to a light French breakfast, that had been laid out for him on a small round table close to an open window. It was an exquisite day. The warm air seemed laden with spices. A bee flew in, and buzzed round the blue-dragon bowl, filled with sulphur-yellow roses, that stood in front of him. He felt perfectly happy. Suddenly his eye fell on the screen that he had placed in front of the portrait, and he started. \"Too cold for Monsieur?\" asked his valet, putting an omelette on the table. \"I shut the window?\" Dorian shook his head. \"I am not cold,\" he murmured. Was it all true? Had the portrait really changed? Or had it been simply his own imagination that had made him see a look of evil where there had been a look of joy? Surely a painted canvas could not alter? The thing was absurd. It would serve as a tale to tell Basil some day. It would make him smile. And, yet, how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing! First in the dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had seen the touch of cruelty in the warped lips. He almost dreaded his valet leaving the room. He knew that when he was alone he would have to examine the portrait. He was afraid of certainty. When the coffee and cigarettes had been brought and the man turned to go, he felt a mad desire to tell him to remain. As the door closed behind him he called him back. The man stood waiting for his orders. Dorian looked at him for a moment. \"I am not at home to any one, Victor,\" he said, with a sigh. The man bowed and retired. He rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on a luxuriously-cushioned couch that stood facing the screen. The screen was an old one of gilt Spanish leather, stamped and wrought with a rather florid Louis-Quatorze pattern. He scanned it curiously, wondering if it had ever before concealed the secret of a man\\'s life. Should he move it aside, after all? Why not let it stay there? What was the use of knowing? If the thing was true, it was terrible. If it was not true, why trouble about it? But what if, by some fate or deadlier chance, other eyes than his spied behind, and saw the horrible change? What should he do if Basil Hallward came and asked to look at his own picture? He would be sure to do that. No; the [45] thing had to be examined, and at once. Anything would be better than this dreadful state of doubt. He got up, and locked both doors. At least he would be alone when he looked upon the mask of his shame. Then he drew the screen aside, and saw himself face to face. It was perfectly true. The portrait had altered. As he often remembered afterwards, and always with no small wonder, he found himself at first gazing at the portrait with a feeling of almost scientific interest. That such a change should have taken place was incredible to him. And yet it was a fact. Was there some subtle affinity between the chemical atoms, that shaped themselves into form and color on the canvas, and the soul that was within him? Could it be that what that soul thought, they realized?--that what it dreamed, they made true? Or was there some other, more terrible reason? He shuddered, and felt afraid, and, going back to the couch, lay there, gazing at the picture in sickened horror. One thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. It had made him conscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to Sibyl Vane. It was not too late to make reparation for that. She could still be his wife. His unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would be to him what holiness was to some, and conscience to others, and the fear of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of the degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls. Three o\\'clock struck, and four, and half-past four, but he did not stir. He was trying to gather up the scarlet threads of life, and to weave them into a pattern; to find his way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was wandering. He did not know what to do, or what to think. Finally, he went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved, imploring her forgiveness, and accusing himself of madness. He covered page after page with wild words of sorrow, and wilder words of pain. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. When Dorian Gray had finished the letter, he felt that he had been forgiven. Suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry\\'s voice outside. \"My dear Dorian, I must see you. Let me in at once. I can\\'t bear your shutting yourself up like this.\" He made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking still continued, and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was inevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture, and unlocked the door. \"I am so sorry for it all, my dear boy,\" said Lord Henry, coming in. \"But you must not think about it too much.\" [46] \"Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?\" asked Dorian. \"Yes, of course,\" answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair, and slowly pulling his gloves off. \"It is dreadful, from one point of view, but it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and see her after the play was over?\" \"Yes.\" \"I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?\" \"I was brutal, Harry,--perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am not sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know myself better.\" \"Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse, and tearing your nice hair.\" \"I have got through all that,\" said Dorian, shaking his head, and smiling. \"I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us. Don\\'t sneer at it, Harry, any more,--at least not before me. I want to be good. I can\\'t bear the idea of my soul being hideous.\" \"A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?\" \"By marrying Sibyl Vane.\" \"Marrying Sibyl Vane!\" cried Lord Henry, standing up, and looking at him in perplexed amazement. \"But, my dear Dorian--\" \"Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don\\'t say it. Don\\'t ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife.\" \"Your wife! Dorian! . . . Didn\\'t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down, by my own man.\" \"Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn\\'t like.\" Lord Henry walked across the room, and, sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his, and held them tightly. \"Dorian,\" he said, \"my letter--don\\'t be frightened--was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead.\" A cry of pain rose from the lad\\'s lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry\\'s grasp. \"Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie!\" \"It is quite true, Dorian,\" said Lord Henry, gravely. \"It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one\\'s début with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to one\\'s old age. I don\\'t suppose they know your name at the theatre. If they don\\'t, it is all right. Did any one see you going round to her room? That is an important point.\" Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. Finally he murmured, in a stifled voice, \"Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl--? Oh, [47] Harry, I can\\'t bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once.\" \"I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. As she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something up-stairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don\\'t know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously. It is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. I see by the Standard that she was seventeen. I should have thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn\\'t let this thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the Opera. It is a Patti night, and everybody will be there. You can come to my sister\\'s box. She has got some smart women with her.\" \"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,\" said Dorian Gray, half to himself,--\"murdered her as certainly as if I had cut her little throat with a knife. And the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go on to the Opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How extraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? Oh, Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was everything to me. Then came that dreadful night--was it really only last night?--when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. She explained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But I was not moved a bit. I thought her shallow. Then something happened that made me afraid. I can\\'t tell you what it was, but it was awful. I said I would go back to her. I felt I had done wrong. And now she is dead. My God! my God! Harry, what shall I do? You don\\'t know the danger I am in, and there is nothing to keep me straight. She would have done that for me. She had no right to kill herself. It was selfish of her.\" \"My dear Dorian, the only way a woman can ever reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible interest in life. If you had married this girl you would have been wretched. Of course you would have treated her kindly. One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing. But she would have soon found out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And when a woman finds that out about her husband, she either becomes dreadfully dowdy, or wears very smart bonnets that some other woman\\'s husband has to [48] pay for. I say nothing about the social mistake, but I assure you that in any case the whole thing would have been an absolute failure.\" \"I suppose it would,\" muttered the lad, walking up and down the room, and looking horribly pale. \"But I thought it was my duty. It is not my fault that this terrible tragedy has prevented my doing what was right. I remember your saying once that there is a fatality about good resolutions,--that they are always made too late. Mine certainly were.\" \"Good resolutions are simply a useless attempt to interfere with scientific laws. Their origin is pure vanity. Their result is absolutely nil. They give us, now and then, some of those luxurious sterile emotions that have a certain charm for us. That is all that can be said for them.\" \"Harry,\" cried Dorian Gray, coming over and sitting down beside him, \"why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as much as I want to? I don\\'t think I am heartless. Do you?\" \"You have done too many foolish things in your life to be entitled to give yourself that name, Dorian,\" answered Lord Henry, with his sweet, melancholy smile. The lad frowned. \"I don\\'t like that explanation, Harry,\" he rejoined, \"but I am glad you don\\'t think I am heartless. I am nothing of the kind. I know I am not. And yet I must admit that this thing that has happened does not affect me as it should. It seems to me to be simply like a wonderful ending to a wonderful play. It has all the terrible beauty of a great tragedy, a tragedy in which I took part, but by which I have not been wounded.\" \"It is an interesting question,\" said Lord Henry, who found an exquisite pleasure in playing on the lad\\'s unconscious egotism,--\"an extremely interesting question. I fancy that the explanation is this. It often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack of style. They affect us just as vulgarity affects us. They give us an impression of sheer brute force, and we revolt against that. Sometimes, however, a tragedy that has artistic elements of beauty crosses our lives. If these elements of beauty are real, the whole thing simply appeals to our sense of dramatic effect. Suddenly we find that we are no longer the actors, but the spectators of the play. Or rather we are both. We watch ourselves, and the mere wonder of the spectacle enthralls us. In the present case, what is it that has really happened? Some one has killed herself for love of you. I wish I had ever had such an experience. It would have made me in love with love for the rest of my life. The people who have adored me--there have not been very many, but there have been some--have always insisted on living on, long after I had ceased to care for them, or they to care for me. They have become stout and tedious, and when I meet them they go in at once for reminiscences. That awful memory of woman! What a fearful thing it is! And what an utter intellectual stagnation it reveals! One should absorb the color of life, but one should never remember its details. Details are always vulgar. [49] \"Of course, now and then things linger. I once wore nothing but violets all through one season, as mourning for a romance that would not die. Ultimately, however, it did die. I forget what killed it. I think it was her proposing to sacrifice the whole world for me. That is always a dreadful moment. It fills one with the terror of eternity. Well,--would you believe it?--a week ago, at Lady Hampshire\\'s, I found myself seated at dinner next the lady in question, and she insisted on going over the whole thing again, and digging up the past, and raking up the future. I had buried my romance in a bed of poppies. She dragged it out again, and assured me that I had spoiled her life. I am bound to state that she ate an enormous dinner, so I did not feel any anxiety. But what a lack of taste she showed! The one charm of the past is that it is the past. But women never know when the curtain has fallen. They always want a sixth act, and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over they propose to continue it. If they were allowed to have their way, every comedy would have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in a farce. They are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art. You are more fortunate than I am. I assure you, Dorian, that not one of the women I have known would have done for me what Sibyl Vane did for you. Ordinary women always console themselves. Some of them do it by going in for sentimental colors. Never trust a woman who wears mauve, whatever her age may be, or a woman over thirty-five who is fond of pink ribbons. It always means that they have a history. Others find a great consolation in suddenly discovering the good qualities of their husbands. They flaunt their conjugal felicity in one\\'s face, as if it was the most fascinating of sins. Religion consoles some. Its mysteries have all the charm of a flirtation, a woman once told me; and I can quite understand it. Besides, nothing makes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner. There is really no end to the consolations that women find in modern life. Indeed, I have not mentioned the most important one of all.\" \"What is that, Harry?\" said Dorian Gray, listlessly. \"Oh, the obvious one. Taking some one else\\'s admirer when one loses one\\'s own. In good society that always whitewashes a woman. But really, Dorian, how different Sibyl Vane must have been from all the women one meets! There is something to me quite beautiful about her death. I am glad I am living in a century when such wonders happen. They make one believe in the reality of the things that shallow, fashionable people play with, such as romance, passion, and love.\" \"I was terribly cruel to her. You forget that.\" \"I believe that women appreciate cruelty more than anything else. They have wonderfully primitive instincts. We have emancipated them, but they remain slaves looking for their masters, all the same. They love being dominated. I am sure you were splendid. I have never seen you angry, but I can fancy how delightful you looked. And, after all, you said something to me the day before yesterday that seemed to me at the time to be merely fanciful, but that I see now was absolutely true, and it explains everything.\" [50] \"What was that, Harry?\" \"You said to me that Sibyl Vane represented to you all the heroines of romance--that she was Desdemona one night, and Ophelia the other; that if she died as Juliet, she came to life as Imogen.\" \"She will never come to life again now,\" murmured the lad, burying his face in his hands. \"No, she will never come to life. She has played her last part. But you must think of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing-room simply as a strange lurid fragment from some Jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful scene from Webster, or Ford, or Cyril Tourneur. The girl never really lived, and so she has never really died. To you at least she was always a dream, a phantom that flitted through Shakespeare\\'s plays and left them lovelier for its presence, a reed through which Shakespeare\\'s music sounded richer and more full of joy. The moment she touched actual life, she marred it, and it marred her, and so she passed away. Mourn for Ophelia, if you like. Put ashes on your head because Cordelia was strangled. Cry out against Heaven because the daughter of Brabantio died. But don\\'t waste your tears over Sibyl Vane. She was less real than they are.\" There was a silence. The evening darkened in the room. Noiselessly, and with silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden. The colors faded wearily out of things. After some time Dorian Gray looked up. \"You have explained me to myself, Harry,\" he murmured, with something of a sigh of relief. \"I felt all that you have said, but somehow I was afraid of it, and I could not express it to myself. How well you know me! But we will not talk again of what has happened. It has been a marvellous experience. That is all. I wonder if life has still in store for me anything as marvellous.\" \"Life has everything in store for you, Dorian. There is nothing that you, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do.\" \"But suppose, Harry, I became haggard, and gray, and wrinkled? What then?\" \"Ah, then,\" said Lord Henry, rising to go,--\"then, my dear Dorian, you would have to fight for your victories. As it is, they are brought to you. No, you must keep your good looks. We live in an age that reads too much to be wise, and that thinks too much to be beautiful. We cannot spare you. And now you had better dress, and drive down to the club. We are rather late, as it is.\" \"I think I shall join you at the Opera, Harry. I feel too tired to eat anything. What is the number of your sister\\'s box?\" \"Twenty-seven, I believe. It is on the grand tier. You will see her name on the door. But I am sorry you won\\'t come and dine.\" \"I don\\'t feel up to it,\" said Dorian, wearily. \"But I am awfully obliged to you for all that you have said to me. You are certainly my best friend. No one has ever understood me as you have.\" \"We are only at the beginning of our friendship, Dorian,\" answered Lord Henry, shaking him by the hand. \"Good-by. I shall see you before nine-thirty, I hope. Remember, Patti is singing.\" As he closed the door behind him, Dorian Gray touched the bell, [51] and in a few minutes Victor appeared with the lamps and drew the blinds down. He waited impatiently for him to go. The man seemed to take an interminable time about everything. As soon as he had left, he rushed to the screen, and drew it back. No; there was no further change in the picture. It had received the news of Sibyl Vane\\'s death before he had known of it himself. It was conscious of the events of life as they occurred. The vicious cruelty that marred the fine lines of the mouth had, no doubt, appeared at the very moment that the girl had drunk the poison, whatever it was. Or was it indifferent to results? Did it merely take cognizance of what passed within the soul? he wondered, and hoped that some day he would see the change taking place before his very eyes, shuddering as he hoped it. Poor Sibyl! what a romance it had all been! She had often mimicked death on the stage, and at last Death himself had touched her, and brought her with him. How had she played that dreadful scene? Had she cursed him, as she died? No; she had died for love of him, and love would always be a sacrament to him now. She had atoned for everything, by the sacrifice she had made of her life. He would not think any more of what she had made him go through, that horrible night at the theatre. When he thought of her, it would be as a wonderful tragic figure to show Love had been a great reality. A wonderful tragic figure? Tears came to his eyes as he remembered her child-like look and winsome fanciful ways and shy tremulous grace. He wiped them away hastily, and looked again at the picture. He felt that the time had really come for making his choice. Or had his choice already been made? Yes, life had decided that for him,--life, and his own infinite curiosity about life. Eternal youth, infinite passion, pleasures subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder sins,--he was to have all these things. The portrait was to bear the burden of his shame: that was all. A feeling of pain came over him as he thought of the desecration that was in store for the fair face on the canvas. Once, in boyish mockery of Narcissus, he had kissed, or feigned to kiss, those painted lips that now smiled so cruelly at him. Morning after morning he had sat before the portrait wondering at its beauty, almost enamoured of it, as it seemed to him at times. Was it to alter now with every mood to which he yielded? Was it to become a hideous and loathsome thing, to be hidden away in a locked room, to be shut out from the sunlight that had so often touched to brighter gold the waving wonder of the hair? The pity of it! the pity of it! For a moment he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy that existed between him and the picture might cease. It had changed in answer to a prayer; perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remain unchanged. And, yet, who, that knew anything about Life, would surrender the chance of remaining always young, however fantastic that chance might be, or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught? Besides, was it really under his control? Had it indeed been prayer that had produced the substitution? Might there not be some curious scientific reason for it all? If thought could exercise its [52] influence upon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upon dead and inorganic things? Nay, without thought or conscious desire, might not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods and passions, atom calling to atom, in secret love or strange affinity? But the reason was of no importance. He would never again tempt by a prayer any terrible power. If the picture was to alter, it was to alter. That was all. Why inquire too closely into it? For there would be a real pleasure in watching it. He would be able to follow his mind into its secret places. This portrait would be to him the most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own body, so it would reveal to him his own soul. And when winter came upon it, he would still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of summer. When the blood crept from its face, and left behind a pallid mask of chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood. Not one blossom of his loveliness would ever fade. Not one pulse of his life would ever weaken. Like the gods of the Greeks, he would be strong, and fleet, and joyous. What did it matter what happened to the colored image on the canvas? He would be safe. That was everything. He drew the screen back into its former place in front of the picture, smiling as he did so, and passed into his bedroom, where his valet was already waiting for him. An hour later he was at the Opera, and Lord Henry was leaning over his chair. CHAPTER VII [...52] As he was sitting at breakfast next morning, Basil Hallward was shown into the room. \"I am so glad I have found you, Dorian,\" he said, gravely. \"I called last night, and they told me you were at the Opera. Of course I knew that was impossible. But I wish you had left word where you had really gone to. I passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy might be followed by another. I think you might have telegraphed for me when you heard of it first. I read of it quite by chance in a late edition of the Globe, that I picked up at the club. I came here at once, and was miserable at not finding you. I can\\'t tell you how heart-broken I am about the whole thing. I know what you must suffer. But where were you? Did you go down and see the girl\\'s mother? For a moment I thought of following you there. They gave the address in the paper. Somewhere in the Euston Road, isn\\'t it? But I was afraid of intruding upon a sorrow that I could not lighten. Poor woman! What a state she must be in! And her only child, too! What did she say about it all?\" \"My dear Basil, how do I know?\" murmured Dorian, sipping some pale-yellow wine from a delicate gold-beaded bubble of Venetian glass, and looking dreadfully bored. \"I was at the Opera. You should have come on there. I met Lady Gwendolen, Harry\\'s sister, for the first time. We were in her box. She is perfectly charming; and Patti sang divinely. Don\\'t talk about horrid subjects. If one doesn\\'t [53] talk about a thing, it has never happened. It is simply expression, as Harry says, that gives reality to things. Tell me about yourself and what you are painting.\" \"You went to the Opera?\" said Hallward, speaking very slowly, and with a strained touch of pain in his voice. \"You went to the Opera while Sibyl Vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? You can talk to me of other women being charming, and of Patti singing divinely, before the girl you loved has even the quiet of a grave to sleep in? Why, man, there are horrors in store for that little white body of hers!\" \"Stop, Basil! I won\\'t hear it!\" cried Dorian, leaping to his feet. \"You must not tell me about things. What is done is done. What is past is past.\" \"You call yesterday the past?\" \"What has the actual lapse of time got to do with it? It is only shallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion. A man who is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure. I don\\'t want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them.\" \"Dorian, this is horrible! Something has changed you completely. You look exactly the same wonderful boy who used to come down to my studio, day after day, to sit for his picture. But you were simple, natural, and affectionate then. You were the most unspoiled creature in the whole world. Now, I don\\'t know what has come over you. You talk as if you had no heart, no pity in you. It is all Harry\\'s influence. I see that.\" The lad flushed up, and, going to the window, looked out on the green, flickering garden for a few moments. \"I owe a great deal to Harry, Basil,\" he said, at last,--\"more than I owe to you. You only taught me to be vain.\" \"Well, I am punished for that, Dorian,--or shall be some day.\" \"I don\\'t know what you mean, Basil,\" he exclaimed, turning round. \"I don\\'t know what you want. What do you want?\" \"I want the Dorian Gray I used to know.\" \"Basil,\" said the lad, going over to him, and putting his hand on his shoulder, \"you have come too late. Yesterday when I heard that Sibyl Vane had killed herself--\" \"Killed herself! Good heavens! is there no doubt about that?\" cried Hallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror. \"My dear Basil! Surely you don\\'t think it was a vulgar accident? Of course she killed herself It is one of the great romantic tragedies of the age. As a rule, people who act lead the most commonplace lives. They are good husbands, or faithful wives, or something tedious. You know what I mean,--middle-class virtue, and all that kind of thing. How different Sibyl was! She lived her finest tragedy. She was always a heroine. The last night she played--the night you saw her--she acted badly because she had known the reality of love. When she knew its unreality, she died, as Juliet might have died. She passed again into the sphere of art. There is something of the martyr about her. Her death has all the pathetic uselessness of [54] martyrdom, all its wasted beauty. But, as I was saying, you must not think I have not suffered. If you had come in yesterday at a particular moment,--about half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to six,--you would have found me in tears. Even Harry, who was here, who brought me the news, in fact, had no idea what I was going through. I suffered immensely, then it passed away. I cannot repeat an emotion. No one can, except sentimentalists. And you are awfully unjust, Basil. You come down here to console me. That is charming of you. You find me consoled, and you are furious. How like a sympathetic person! You remind me of a story Harry told me about a certain philanthropist who spent twenty years of his life in trying to get some grievance redressed, or some unjust law altered,--I forget exactly what it was. Finally he succeeded, and nothing could exceed his disappointment. He had absolutely nothing to do, almost died of ennui, and became a confirmed misanthrope. And besides, my dear old Basil, if you really want to console me, teach me rather to forget what has happened, or to see it from a proper artistic point of view. Was it not Gautier who used to write about la consolation des arts? I remember picking up a little vellum-covered book in your studio one day and chancing on that delightful phrase. Well, I am not like that young man you told me of when we were down at Marlowe together, the young man who used to say that yellow satin could console one for all the miseries of life. I love beautiful things that one can touch and handle. Old brocades, green bronzes, lacquer-work, carved ivories, exquisite surroundings, luxury, pomp,--there is much to be got from all these. But the artistic temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is still more to me. To become the spectator of one\\'s own life, as Harry says, is to escape the suffering of life. I know you are surprised at my talking to you like this. You have not realized how I have developed. I was a school-boy when you knew me. I am a man now. I have new passions, new thoughts, new ideas. I am different, but you must not like me less. I am changed, but you must always be my friend. Of course I am very fond of Harry. But I know that you are better than he is. You are not stronger,--you are too much afraid of life,--but you are better. And how happy we used to be together! Don\\'t leave me, Basil, and don\\'t quarrel with me. I am what I am. There is nothing more to be said.\" Hallward felt strangely moved. Rugged and straightforward as he was, there was something in his nature that was purely feminine in its tenderness. The lad was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning-point in his art. He could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble. \"Well, Dorian,\" he said, at length, with a sad smile, \"I won\\'t speak to you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your name won\\'t be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take place this afternoon. Have they summoned you?\" Dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at the mention of the word \"inquest.\" There was something so [55] crude and vulgar about everything of the kind. \"They don\\'t know my name,\" he answered. \"But surely she did?\" \"Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned to any one. She told me once that they were all rather curious to learn who I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince Charming. It was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of her, Basil. I should like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and some broken pathetic words.\" \"I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you must come and sit to me yourself again. I can\\'t get on without you.\" \"I will never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!\" he exclaimed, starting back. Hallward stared at him, \"My dear boy, what nonsense!\" he cried. \"Do you mean to say you don\\'t like what I did of you? Where is it? Why have you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It is the best thing I have ever painted. Do take that screen away, Dorian. It is simply horrid of your servant hiding my work like that. I felt the room looked different as I came in.\" \"My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don\\'t imagine I let him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes,--that is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait.\" \"Too strong! Impossible, my dear fellow! It is an admirable place for it. Let me see it.\" And Hallward walked towards the corner of the room. A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray\\'s lips, and he rushed between Hallward and the screen. \"Basil,\" he said, looking very pale, \"you must not look at it. I don\\'t wish you to.\" \"Not look at my own work! you are not serious. Why shouldn\\'t I look at it?\" exclaimed Hallward, laughing. \"If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honor I will never speak to you again as long as I live. I am quite serious. I don\\'t offer any explanation, and you are not to ask for any. But, remember, if you touch this screen, everything is over between us.\" Hallward was thunderstruck. He looked at Dorian Gray in absolute amazement. He had never seen him like this before. The lad was absolutely pallid with rage. His hands were clinched, and the pupils of his eyes were like disks of blue fire. He was trembling all over. \"Dorian!\" \"Don\\'t speak!\" \"But what is the matter? Of course I won\\'t look at it if you don\\'t want me to,\" he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel, and going over towards the window. \"But, really, it seems rather absurd that I shouldn\\'t see my own work, especially as I am going to exhibit it in Paris in the autumn. I shall probably have to give it another coat of varnish before that, so I must see it some day, and why not to-day?\" \"To exhibit it! You want to exhibit it?\" exclaimed Dorian Gray, a strange sense of terror creeping over him. Was the world going [56] to be shown his secret? Were people to gape at the mystery of his life? That was impossible. Something--he did not know what--had to be done at once. \"Yes: I don\\'t suppose you will object to that. Georges Petit is going to collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the Rue de Sèze, which will open the first week in October. The portrait will only be away a month. I should think you could easily spare it for that time. In fact, you are sure to be out of town. And if you hide it always behind a screen, you can\\'t care much about it.\" Dorian Gray passed his hand over his forehead. There were beads of perspiration there. He felt that he was on the brink of a horrible danger. \"You told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it,\" he said. \"Why have you changed your mind? You people who go in for being consistent have just as many moods as others. The only difference is that your moods are rather meaningless. You can\\'t have forgotten that you assured me most solemnly that nothing in the world would induce you to send it to any exhibition. You told Harry exactly the same thing.\" He stopped suddenly, and a gleam of light came into his eyes. He remembered that Lord Henry had said to him once, half seriously and half in jest, \"If you want to have an interesting quarter of an hour, get Basil to tell you why he won\\'t exhibit your picture. He told me why he wouldn\\'t, and it was a revelation to me.\" Yes, perhaps Basil, too, had his secret. He would ask him and try. \"Basil,\" he said, coming over quite close, and looking him straight in the face, \"we have each of us a secret. Let me know yours, and I will tell you mine. What was your reason for refusing to exhibit my picture?\" Hallward shuddered in spite of himself. \"Dorian, if I told you, you might like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me. I could not bear your doing either of those two things. If you wish me never to look at your picture again, I am content. I have always you to look at. If you wish the best work I have ever done to be hidden from the world, I am satisfied. Your friendship is dearer to me than any fame or reputation.\" \"No, Basil, you must tell me,\" murmured Dorian Gray. \"I think I have a right to know.\" His feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity had taken its place. He was determined to find out Basil Hallward\\'s mystery. \"Let us sit down, Dorian,\" said Hallward, looking pale and pained. \"Let us sit down. I will sit in the shadow, and you shall sit in the sunlight. Our lives are like that. Just answer me one question. Have you noticed in the picture something that you did not like?--something that probably at first did not strike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly?\" \"Basil!\" cried the lad, clutching the arms of his chair with trembling hands, and gazing at him with wild, startled eyes. \"I see you did. Don\\'t speak. Wait till you hear what I have to say. It is quite true that I have worshipped you with far more romance of feeling than a man usually gives to a friend. Somehow, I had never loved a woman. I suppose I never had time. Perhaps, as [57] Harry says, a really \\'grande passion\\' is the privilege of those who have nothing to do, and that is the use of the idle classes in a country. Well, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. I quite admit that I adored you madly, extravagantly, absurdly. I was jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I wanted to have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with you. When I was away from you, you were still present in my art. It was all wrong and foolish. It is all wrong and foolish still. Of course I never let you know anything about this. It would have been impossible. You would not have understood it; I did not understand it myself. One day I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you. It was to have been my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece. But, as I worked at it, every flake and film of color seemed to me to reveal my secret. I grew afraid that the world would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that I had told too much. Then it was that I resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. You were a little annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant to me. Harry, to whom I talked about it, laughed at me. But I did not mind that. When the picture was finished, and I sat alone with it, I felt that I was right. Well, after a few days the portrait left my studio, and as soon as I had got rid of the intolerable fascination of its presence it seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that I had said anything in it, more than that you were extremely good-looking and that I could paint. Even now I cannot help feeling that it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever really shown in the work one creates. Art is more abstract than we fancy. Form and color tell us of form and color,--that is all. It often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely than it ever reveals him. And so when I got this offer from Paris I determined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition. It never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see now that you were right. The picture must not be shown. You must not be angry with me, Dorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are made to be worshipped.\" Dorian Gray drew a long breath. The color came back to his cheeks, and a smile played about his lips. The peril was over. He was safe for the time. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the young man who had just made this strange confession to him. He wondered if he would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord Harry had the charm of being very dangerous. But that was all. He was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. Would there ever be some one who would fill him with a strange idolatry? Was that one of the things that life had in store? \"It is extraordinary to me, Dorian,\" said Hallward, \"that you should have seen this in the picture. Did you really see it?\" \"Of course I did.\" \"Well, you don\\'t mind my looking at it now?\" Dorian shook his head. \"You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not possibly let you stand in front of that picture.\" \"You will some day, surely?\" [58] \"Never.\" \"Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-by, Dorian. You have been the one person in my life of whom I have been really fond. I don\\'t suppose I shall often see you again. You don\\'t know what it cost me to tell you all that I have told you.\" \"My dear Basil,\" cried Dorian, \"what have you told me? Simply that you felt that you liked me too much. That is not even a compliment.\" \"It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession.\" \"A very disappointing one.\" \"Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn\\'t see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?\" \"No: there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn\\'t talk about not meeting me again, or anything of that kind. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so.\" \"You have got Harry,\" said Hallward, sadly. \"Oh, Harry!\" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. \"Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible, and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don\\'t think I would go to Harry if I was in trouble. I would sooner go to you, Basil.\" \"But you won\\'t sit to me again?\" \"Impossible!\" \"You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes across two ideal things. Few come across one.\" \"I can\\'t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again. I will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant.\" \"Pleasanter for you, I am afraid,\" murmured Hallward, regretfully. \"And now good-by. I am sorry you won\\'t let me look at the picture once again. But that can\\'t be helped. I quite understand what you feel about it.\" As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! how little he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that, instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had succeeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! How much that strange confession explained to him! Basil\\'s absurd fits of jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious reticences,--he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. There was something tragic in a friendship so colored by romance. He sighed, and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away at all costs. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It had been mad of him to have the thing remain, even for an hour, in a room to which any of his friends had access. CHAPTER VIII [...58] When his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly, and wondered if he had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quite impassive, and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette, [59] and walked over to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of Victor\\'s face perfectly. It was like a placid mask of servility. There was nothing to be afraid of, there. Yet he thought it best to be on his guard. Speaking very slowly, he told him to tell the housekeeper that he wanted to see her, and then to go to the frame-maker\\'s and ask him to send two of his men round at once. It seemed to him that as the man left the room he peered in the direction of the screen. Or was that only his fancy? After a few moments, Mrs. Leaf, a dear old lady in a black silk dress, with a photograph of the late Mr. Leaf framed in a large gold brooch at her neck, and old-fashioned thread mittens on her wrinkled hands, bustled into the room. \"Well, Master Dorian,\" she said, \"what can I do for you? I beg your pardon, sir,\"--here came a courtesy,--\"I shouldn\\'t call you Master Dorian any more. But, Lord bless you, sir, I have known you since you were a baby, and many\\'s the trick you\\'ve played on poor old Leaf. Not that you were not always a good boy, sir; but boys will be boys, Master Dorian, and jam is a temptation to the young, isn\\'t it, sir?\" He laughed. \"You must always call me Master Dorian, Leaf. I will be very angry with you if you don\\'t. And I assure you I am quite as fond of jam now as I used to be. Only when I am asked out to tea I am never offered any. I want you to give me the key of the room at the top of the house.\" \"The old school-room, Master Dorian? Why, it\\'s full of dust. I must get it arranged and put straight before you go into it. It\\'s not fit for you to see, Master Dorian. It is not, indeed.\" \"I don\\'t want it put straight, Leaf. I only want the key.\" \"Well, Master Dorian, you\\'ll be covered with cobwebs if you goes into it. Why, it hasn\\'t been opened for nearly five years,--not since his lordship died.\" He winced at the mention of his dead uncle\\'s name. He had hateful memories of him. \"That does not matter, Leaf,\" he replied. \"All I want is the key.\" \"And here is the key, Master Dorian,\" said the old lady, after going over the contents of her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands. \"Here is the key. I\\'ll have it off the ring in a moment. But you don\\'t think of living up there, Master Dorian, and you so comfortable here?\" \"No, Leaf, I don\\'t. I merely want to see the place, and perhaps store something in it,--that is all. Thank you, Leaf. I hope your rheumatism is better; and mind you send me up jam for breakfast.\" Mrs. Leaf shook her head. \"Them foreigners doesn\\'t understand jam, Master Dorian. They calls it \\'compot.\\' But I\\'ll bring it to you myself some morning, if you lets me.\" \"That will be very kind of you, Leaf,\" he answered, looking at the key; and, having made him an elaborate courtesy, the old lady left the room, her face wreathed in smiles. She had a strong objection to the French valet. It was a poor thing, she felt, for any one to be born a foreigner. [60] As the door closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket, and looked round the room. His eye fell on a large purple satin coverlet heavily embroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century Venetian work that his uncle had found in a convent near Bologna. Yes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. It had perhaps served often as a pall for the dead. Now it was to hide something that had a corruption of its own, worse than the corruption of death itself,--something that would breed horrors and yet would never die. What the worm was to the corpse, his sins would be to the painted image on the canvas. They would mar its beauty, and eat away its grace. They would defile it, and make it shameful. And yet the thing would still live on. It would be always alive. He shuddered, and for a moment he regretted that he had not told Basil the true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away. Basil would have helped him to resist Lord Henry\\'s influence, and the still more poisonous influences that came from his own temperament. The love that he bore him--for it was really love--had something noble and intellectual in it. It was not that mere physical admiration of beauty that is born of the senses, and that dies when the senses tire. It was such love as Michael Angelo had known, and Montaigne, and Winckelmann, and Shakespeare himself. Yes, Basil could have saved him. But it was too late now. The past could always be annihilated. Regret, denial, or forgetfulness could do that. But the future was inevitable. There were passions in him that would find their terrible outlet, dreams that would make the shadow of their evil real. He took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture that covered it, and, holding it in his hands, passed behind the screen. Was the face on the canvas viler than before? It seemed to him that it was unchanged; and yet his loathing of it was intensified. Gold hair, blue eyes, and rose-red lips,--they all were there. It was simply the expression that had altered. That was horrible in its cruelty. Compared to what he saw in it of censure or rebuke, how shallow Basil\\'s reproaches about Sibyl Vane had been!--how shallow, and of what little account! His own soul was looking out at him from the canvas and calling him to judgment. A look of pain came across him, and he flung the rich pall over the picture. As he did so, a knock came to the door. He passed out as his servant entered. \"The persons are here, monsieur.\" He felt that the man must be got rid of at once. He must not be allowed to know where the picture was being taken to. There was something sly about him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous eyes. Sitting down at the writing-table, he scribbled a note to Lord Henry, asking him to send him round something to read, and reminding him that they were to meet at eight-fifteen that evening. \"Wait for an answer,\" he said, handing it to him, \"and show the men in here.\" In two or three minutes there was another knock, and Mr. Ashton himself, the celebrated frame-maker of South Audley Street, came in with a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. Mr. Ashton was a florid, red-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art was considerably [61] tempered by the inveterate impecuniosity of most of the artists who dealt with him. As a rule, he never left his shop. He waited for people to come to him. But he always made an exception in favor of Dorian Gray. There was something about Dorian that charmed everybody. It was a pleasure even to see him. \"What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?\" he said, rubbing his fat freckled hands. \"I thought I would do myself the honor of coming round in person. I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. Picked it up at a sale. Old Florentine. Came from Fonthill, I believe. Admirably suited for a religious picture, Mr. Gray.\" \"I am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, Mr. Ashton. I will certainly drop in and look at the frame,--though I don\\'t go in much for religious art,--but to-day I only want a picture carried to the top of the house for me. It is rather heavy, so I thought I would ask you to lend me a couple of your men.\" \"No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I am delighted to be of any service to you. Which is the work of art, sir?\" \"This,\" replied Dorian, moving the screen back. \"Can you move it, covering and all, just as it is? I don\\'t want it to get scratched going up-stairs.\" \"There will be no difficulty, sir,\" said the genial frame-maker, beginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from the long brass chains by which it was suspended. \"And, now, where shall we carry it to, Mr. Gray?\" \"I will show you the way, Mr. Ashton, if you will kindly follow me. Or perhaps you had better go in front. I am afraid it is right at the top of the house. We will go up by the front staircase, as it is wider.\" He held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall and began the ascent. The elaborate character of the frame had made the picture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious protests of Mr. Ashton, who had a true tradesman\\'s dislike of seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, Dorian put his hand to it so as to help them. \"Something of a load to carry, sir,\" gasped the little man, when they reached the top landing. And he wiped his shiny forehead. \"A terrible load to carry,\" murmured Dorian, as he unlocked the door that opened into the room that was to keep for him the curious secret of his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men. He had not entered the place for more than four years,--not, indeed, since he had used it first as a play-room when he was a child and then as a study when he grew somewhat older. It was a large, well-proportioned room, which had been specially built by the last Lord Sherard for the use of the little nephew whom, being himself childless, and perhaps for other reasons, he had always hated and desired to keep at a distance. It did not appear to Dorian to have much changed. There was the huge Italian cassone, with its fantastically-painted panels and its tarnished gilt mouldings, in which he had so often hidden himself as a boy. There was the satinwood bookcase filled with his dog-eared school-books. On the wall behind it was hanging the same [62] ragged Flemish tapestry where a faded king and queen were playing chess in a garden, while a company of hawkers rode by, carrying hooded birds on their gauntleted wrists. How well he recalled it all! Every moment of his lonely childhood came back to him, as he looked round. He remembered the stainless purity of his boyish life, and it seemed horrible to him that it was here that the fatal portrait was to be hidden away. How little he had thought, in those dead days, of all that was in store for him! But there was no other place in the house so secure from prying eyes as this. He had the key, and no one else could enter it. Beneath its purple pall, the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial, sodden, and unclean. What did it matter? No one could see it. He himself would not see it. Why should he watch the hideous corruption of his soul? He kept his youth,--that was enough. And, besides, might not his nature grow finer, after all? There was no reason that the future should be so full of shame. Some love might come across his life, and purify him, and shield him from those sins that seemed to be already stirring in spirit and in flesh,--those curious unpictured sins whose very mystery lent them their subtlety and their charm. Perhaps, some day, the cruel look would have passed away from the scarlet sensitive mouth, and he might show to the world Basil Hallward\\'s masterpiece. No; that was impossible. The thing upon the canvas was growing old, hour by hour, and week by week. Even if it escaped the hideousness of sin, the hideousness of age was in store for it. The cheeks would become hollow or flaccid. Yellow crow\\'s-feet would creep round the fading eyes and make them horrible. The hair would lose its brightness, the mouth would gape or droop, would be foolish or gross, as the mouths of old men are. There would be the wrinkled throat, the cold blue-veined hands, the twisted body, that he remembered in the uncle who had been so stern to him in his boyhood. The picture had to be concealed. There was no help for it. \"Bring it in, Mr. Ashton, please,\" he said, wearily, turning round. \"I am sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something else.\" \"Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray,\" answered the frame-maker, who was still gasping for breath. \"Where shall we put it, sir?\" \"Oh, anywhere, Here, this will do. I don\\'t want to have it hung up. Just lean it against the wall. Thanks.\" \"Might one look at the work of art, sir?\" Dorian started. \"It would not interest you, Mr. Ashton,\" he said, keeping his eye on the man. He felt ready to leap upon him and fling him to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging that concealed the secret of his life. \"I won\\'t trouble you any more now. I am much obliged for your kindness in coming round.\" \"Not at all, not at all, Mr. Gray. Ever ready to do anything for you, sir.\" And Mr. Ashton tramped down-stairs, followed by the assistant, who glanced back at Dorian with a look of shy wonder in his rough, uncomely face. He had never seen any one so marvellous. When the sound of their footsteps had died away, Dorian locked [63] the door, and put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would ever look on the horrible thing. No eye but his would ever see his shame. On reaching the library he found that it was just after five o\\'clock, and that the tea had been already brought up. On a little table of dark perfumed wood thickly incrusted with nacre, a present from his guardian\\'s wife, Lady Radley, who had spent the preceding winter in Cairo, was lying a note from Lord Henry, and beside it was a book bound in yellow paper, the cover slightly torn and the edges soiled. A copy of the third edition of the St. James\\'s Gazette had been placed on the tea-tray. It was evident that Victor had returned. He wondered if he had met the men in the hall as they were leaving the house and had wormed out of them what they had been doing. He would be sure to miss the picture,--had no doubt missed it already, while he had been laying the tea-things. The screen had not been replaced, and the blank space on the wall was visible. Perhaps some night he might find him creeping up-stairs and trying to force the door of the room. It was a horrible thing to have a spy in one\\'s house. He had heard of rich men who had been blackmailed all their lives by some servant who had read a letter, or overheard a conversation, or picked up a card with an address, or found beneath a pillow a withered flower or a bit of crumpled lace. He sighed, and, having poured himself out some tea, opened Lord Henry\\'s note. It was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper, and a book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club at eight-fifteen. He opened the St. James\\'s languidly, and looked through it. A red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. He read the following paragraph: \"INQUEST ON AN ACTRESS.--An inquest was held this morning at the Bell Tavern, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Danby, the District Coroner, on the body of Sibyl Vane, a young actress recently engaged at the Royal Theatre, Holborn. A verdict of death by misadventure was returned. Considerable sympathy was expressed for the mother of the deceased, who was greatly affected during the giving of her own evidence, and that of Dr. Birrell, who had made the post-mortem examination of the deceased.\" He frowned slightly, and, tearing the paper in two, went across the room and flung the pieces into a gilt basket. How ugly it all was! And how horribly real ugliness made things! He felt a little annoyed with Lord Henry for having sent him the account. And it was certainly stupid of him to have marked it with red pencil. Victor might have read it. The man knew more than enough English for that. Perhaps he had read it, and had begun to suspect something. And, yet, what did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sibyl Vane\\'s death? There was nothing to fear. Dorian Gray had not killed her. His eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. What was it, he wondered. He went towards the little pearl-colored octagonal stand, that had always looked to him like the work of some [64] strange Egyptian bees who wrought in silver, and took the volume up. He flung himself into an arm-chair, and began to turn over the leaves. After a few minutes, he became absorbed. It was the strangest book he had ever read. It seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to the delicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb show before him. Things that he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly made real to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually revealed. It was a novel without a plot, and with only one character, being, indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian, who spent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through which the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere artificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue, as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. The style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid and obscure at once, full of argot and of archaisms, of technical expressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work of some of the finest artists of the French school of Décadents. There were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids, and as evil in color. The life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical philosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was reading the spiritual ecstasies of some mediaeval saint or the morbid confessions of a modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odor of incense seemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. The mere cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so full as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated, produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter, a form of revery, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of the falling day and the creeping shadows. Cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamed through the windows. He read on by its wan light till he could read no more. Then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the lateness of the hour, he got up, and, going into the next room, placed the book on the little Florentine table that always stood at his bedside, and began to dress for dinner. It was almost nine o\\'clock before he reached the club, where he found Lord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very bored. \"I am so sorry, Harry,\" he cried, \"but really it is entirely your fault. That book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot what the time was.\" \"I thought you would like it,\" replied his host, rising from his chair. \"I didn\\'t say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is a great difference.\" \"Ah, if you have discovered that, you have discovered a great deal,\" murmured Lord Henry, with his curious smile. \"Come, let us go in to dinner. It is dreadfully late, and I am afraid the champagne will be too much iced.\" CHAPTER IX [65] For years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the memory of this book. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never sought to free himself from it. He procured from Paris no less than five large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in different colors, so that they might suit his various moods and the changing fancies of a nature over which he seemed, at times, to have almost entirely lost control. The hero, the wonderful young Parisian, in whom the romantic temperament and the scientific temperament were so strangely blended, became to him a kind of prefiguring type of himself. And, indeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own life, written before he had lived it. In one point he was more fortunate than the book\\'s fantastic hero. He never knew--never, indeed, had any cause to know--that somewhat grotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still water, which came upon the young Parisian so early in his life, and was occasioned by the sudden decay of a beauty that had once, apparently, been so remarkable. It was with an almost cruel joy--and perhaps in nearly every joy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its place--that he used to read the latter part of the book, with its really tragic, if somewhat over-emphasized, account of the sorrow and despair of one who had himself lost what in others, and in the world, he had most valued. He, at any rate, had no cause to fear that. The boyish beauty that had so fascinated Basil Hallward, and many others besides him, seemed never to leave him. Even those who had heard the most evil things against him (and from time to time strange rumors about his mode of life crept through London and became the chatter of the clubs) could not believe anything to his dishonor when they saw him. He had always the look of one who had kept himself unspotted from the world. Men who talked grossly became silent when Dorian Gray entered the room. There was something in the purity of his face that rebuked them. His mere presence seemed to recall to them the innocence that they had tarnished. They wondered how one so charming and graceful as he was could have escaped the stain of an age that was at once sordid and sensuous. He himself, on returning home from one of those mysterious and prolonged absences that gave rise to such strange conjecture among those who were his friends, or thought that they were so, would creep up-stairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left him, and stand, with a mirror, in front of the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him, looking now at the evil and aging face on the canvas, and now at the fair young face that laughed back at him from the polished glass. The very sharpness of the contrast used to quicken his sense of pleasure. He grew more and more enamoured of his own beauty, more and more interested in the corruption of his own soul. He would examine with minute care, and often with a monstrous and terrible delight, the hideous lines that seared the wrinkling forehead or crawled around the heavy sensual mouth, [66] wondering sometimes which were the more horrible, the signs of sin or the signs of age. He would place his white hands beside the coarse bloated hands of the picture, and smile. He mocked the misshapen body and the failing limbs. There were moments, indeed, at night, when, lying sleepless in his own delicately-scented chamber, or in the sordid room of the little ill-famed tavern near the Docks, which, under an assumed name, and in disguise, it was his habit to frequent, he would think of the ruin he had brought upon his soul, with a pity that was all the more poignant because it was purely selfish. But moments such as these were rare. That curiosity about life that, many years before, Lord Henry had first stirred in him, as they sat together in the garden of their friend, seemed to increase with gratification. The more he knew, the more he desired to know. He had mad hungers that grew more ravenous as he fed them. Yet he was not really reckless, at any rate in his relations to society. Once or twice every month during the winter, and on each Wednesday evening while the season lasted, he would throw open to the world his beautiful house and have the most celebrated musicians of the day to charm his guests with the wonders of their art. His little dinners, in the settling of which Lord Henry always assisted him, were noted as much for the careful selection and placing of those invited, as for the exquisite taste shown in the decoration of the table, with its subtle symphonic arrangements of exotic flowers, and embroidered cloths, and antique plate of gold and silver. Indeed, there were many, especially among the very young men, who saw, or fancied that they saw, in Dorian Gray the true realization of a type of which they had often dreamed in Eton or Oxford days, a type that was to combine something of the real culture of the scholar with all the grace and distinction and perfect manner of a citizen of the world. To them he seemed to belong to those whom Dante describes as having sought to \"make themselves perfect by the worship of beauty.\" Like Gautier, he was one for whom \"the visible world existed.\" And, certainly, to him life itself was the first, the greatest, of the arts, and for it all the other arts seemed to be but a preparation. Fashion, by which what is really fantastic becomes for a moment universal, and Dandyism, which, in its own way, is an attempt to assert the absolute modernity of beauty, had, of course, their fascination for him. His mode of dressing, and the particular styles that he affected from time to time, had their marked influence on the young exquisites of the Mayfair balls and Pall Mall club windows, who copied him in everything that he did, and tried to reproduce the accidental charm of his graceful, though to him only half-serious, fopperies. For, while he was but too ready to accept the position that was almost immediately offered to him on his coming of age, and found, indeed, a subtle pleasure in the thought that he might really become to the London of his own day what to imperial Neronian Rome the author of the \"Satyricon\" had once been, yet in his inmost heart he desired to be something more than a mere arbiter elegantiarum, to be consulted on the wearing of a jewel, or the knotting of a necktie, or [67] the conduct of a cane. He sought to elaborate some new scheme of life that would have its reasoned philosophy and its ordered principles and find in the spiritualizing of the senses its highest realization. The worship of the senses has often, and with much justice, been decried, men feeling a natural instinct of terror about passions and sensations that seem stronger than ourselves, and that we are conscious of sharing with the less highly organized forms of existence. But it appeared to Dorian Gray that the true nature of the senses had never been understood, and that they had remained savage and animal merely because the world had sought to starve them into submission or to kill them by pain, instead of aiming at making them elements of a new spirituality, of which a fine instinct for beauty was to be the dominant characteristic. As he looked back upon man moving through History, he was haunted by a feeling of loss. So much had been surrendered! and to such little purpose! There had been mad wilful rejections, monstrous forms of self-torture and self-denial, whose origin was fear, and whose result was a degradation infinitely more terrible than that fancied degradation from which, in their ignorance, they had sought to escape, Nature in her wonderful irony driving the anchorite out to herd with the wild animals of the desert and giving to the hermit the beasts of the field as his companions. Yes, there was to be, as Lord Henry had prophesied, a new hedonism that was to re-create life, and to save it from that harsh, uncomely puritanism that is having, in our own day, its curious revival. It was to have its service of the intellect, certainly; yet it was never to accept any theory or system that would involve the sacrifice of any mode of passionate experience. Its aim, indeed, was to be experience itself, and not the fruits of experience, sweet or bitter as they might be. Of the asceticism that deadens the senses, as of the vulgar profligacy that dulls them, it was to know nothing. But it was to teach man to concentrate himself upon the moments of a life that is itself but a moment. There are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either after one of those dreamless nights that make one almost enamoured of death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through the chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality itself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques, and that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one might fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled with the malady of revery. Gradually white fingers creep through the curtains, and they appear to tremble. Black fantastic shadows crawl into the corners of the room, and crouch there. Outside, there is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down from the hills, and wandering round the silent house, as though it feared to wake the sleepers. Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colors of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan mirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where we have left them, and beside them [68] lies the half-read book that we had been studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the letter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often. Nothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where we had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a world that had been re-fashioned anew for our pleasure in the darkness, a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colors, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of joy having its bitterness, and the memories of pleasure their pain. It was the creation of such worlds as these that seemed to Dorian Gray to be the true object, or among the true objects, of life; and in his search for sensations that would be at once new and delightful, and possess that element of strangeness that is so essential to romance, he would often adopt certain modes of thought that he knew to be really alien to his nature, abandon himself to their subtle influences, and then, having, as it were, caught their color and satisfied his intellectual curiosity, leave them with that curious indifference that is not incompatible with a real ardor of temperament, and that indeed, according to certain modern psychologists, is often a condition of it. It was rumored of him once that he was about to join the Roman Catholic communion; and certainly the Roman ritual had always a great attraction for him. The daily sacrifice, more awful really than all the sacrifices of the antique world, stirred him as much by its superb rejection of the evidence of the senses as by the primitive simplicity of its elements and the eternal pathos of the human tragedy that it sought to symbolize. He loved to kneel down on the cold marble pavement, and with the priest, in his stiff flowered cope, slowly and with white hands moving aside the veil of the tabernacle, and raising aloft the jewelled lantern-shaped monstrance with that pallid wafer that at times, one would fain think, is indeed the \"panis caelestis,\" the bread of angels, or, robed in the garments of the Passion of Christ, breaking the Host into the chalice, and smiting his breast for his sins. The fuming censers, that the grave boys, in their lace and scarlet, tossed into the air like great gilt flowers, had their subtle fascination for him. As he passed out, he used to look with wonder at the black confessionals, and long to sit in the dim shadow of one of them and listen to men and women whispering through the tarnished grating the true story of their lives. But he never fell into the error of arresting his intellectual development by any formal acceptance of creed or system, or of mistaking, for a house in which to live, an inn that is but suitable for the sojourn of a night, or for a few hours of a night in which there are no stars and the moon is in travail. Mysticism, with its marvellous power of making common things strange to us, and the subtle antinomianism that always seems to accompany it, moved him for a season; and for a [69] season he inclined to the materialistic doctrines of the Darwinismus movement in Germany, and found a curious pleasure in tracing the thoughts and passions of men to some pearly cell in the brain, or some white nerve in the body, delighting in the conception of the absolute dependence of the spirit on certain physical conditions, morbid or healthy, normal or diseased. Yet, as has been said of him before, no theory of life seemed to him to be of any importance compared with life itself. He felt keenly conscious of how barren all intellectual speculation is when separated from action and experiment. He knew that the senses, no less than the soul, have their mysteries to reveal. And so he would now study perfumes, and the secrets of their manufacture, distilling heavily-scented oils, and burning odorous gums from the East. He saw that there was no mood of the mind that had not its counterpart in the sensuous life, and set himself to discover their true relations, wondering what there was in frankincense that made one mystical, and in ambergris that stirred one\\'s passions, and in violets that woke the memory of dead romances, and in musk that troubled the brain, and in champak that stained the imagination; and seeking often to elaborate a real psychology of perfumes, and to estimate the several influences of sweet-smelling roots, and scented pollen-laden flowers, of aromatic balms, and of dark and fragrant woods, of spikenard that sickens, of hovenia that makes men mad, and of aloes that are said to be able to expel melancholy from the soul. At another time he devoted himself entirely to music, and in a long latticed room, with a vermilion-and-gold ceiling and walls of olive-green lacquer, he used to give curious concerts in which mad gypsies tore wild music from little zithers, or grave yellow-shawled Tunisians plucked at the strained strings of monstrous lutes, while grinning negroes beat monotonously upon copper drums, or turbaned Indians, crouching upon scarlet mats, blew through long pipes of reed or brass, and charmed, or feigned to charm, great hooded snakes and horrible horned adders. The harsh intervals and shrill discords of barbaric music stirred him at times when Schubert\\'s grace, and Chopin\\'s beautiful sorrows, and the mighty harmonies of Beethoven himself, fell unheeded on his ear. He collected together from all parts of the world the strangest instruments that could be found, either in the tombs of dead nations or among the few savage tribes that have survived contact with Western civilizations, and loved to touch and try them. He had the mysterious juruparis of the Rio Negro Indians, that women are not allowed to look at, and that even youths may not see till they have been subjected to fasting and scourging, and the earthen jars of the Peruvians that have the shrill cries of birds, and flutes of human bones such as Alfonso de Ovalle heard in Chili, and the sonorous green stones that are found near Cuzco and give forth a note of singular sweetness. He had painted gourds filled with pebbles that rattled when they were shaken; the long clarin of the Mexicans, into which the performer does not blow, but through which he inhales the air; the harsh turé of the Amazon tribes, that is sounded by the sentinels who sit all day long in trees, and that can be heard, it is said, at a distance of three leagues; the teponaztli, that [70] has two vibrating tongues of wood, and is beaten with sticks that are smeared with an elastic gum obtained from the milky juice of plants; the yotl-bells of the Aztecs, that are hung in clusters like grapes; and a huge cylindrical drum, covered with the skins of great serpents, like the one that Bernal Diaz saw when he went with Cortes into the Mexican temple, and of whose doleful sound he has left us so vivid a description. The fantastic character of these instruments fascinated him, and he felt a curious delight in the thought that Art, like Nature, has her monsters, things of bestial shape and with hideous voices. Yet, after some time, he wearied of them, and would sit in his box at the Opera, either alone or with Lord Henry, listening in rapt pleasure to \"Tannhäuser,\" and seeing in that great work of art a presentation of the tragedy of his own soul. On another occasion he took up the study of jewels, and appeared at a costume ball as Anne de Joyeuse, Admiral of France, in a dress covered with five hundred and sixty pearls. He would often spend a whole day settling and resettling in their cases the various stones that he had collected, such as the olive-green chrysoberyl that turns red by lamplight, the cymophane with its wire-like line of silver, the pistachio-colored peridot, rose-pink and wine-yellow topazes, carbuncles of fiery scarlet with tremulous four-rayed stars, flame-red cinnamon-stones, orange and violet spinels, and amethysts with their alternate layers of ruby and sapphire. He loved the red gold of the sunstone, and the moonstone\\'s pearly whiteness, and the broken rainbow of the milky opal. He procured from Amsterdam three emeralds of extraordinary size and richness of color, and had a turquoise de la vieille roche that was the envy of all the connoisseurs. He discovered wonderful stories, also, about jewels. In Alphonso\\'s \"Clericalis Disciplina\" a serpent was mentioned with eyes of real jacinth, and in the romantic history of Alexander he was said to have found snakes in the vale of Jordan \"with collars of real emeralds growing on their backs.\" There was a gem in the brain of the dragon, Philostratus told us, and \"by the exhibition of golden letters and a scarlet robe\" the monster could be thrown into a magical sleep, and slain. According to the great alchemist Pierre de Boniface, the diamond rendered a man invisible, and the agate of India made him eloquent. The cornelian appeased anger, and the hyacinth provoked sleep, and the amethyst drove away the fumes of wine. The garnet cast out demons, and the hydropicus deprived the moon of her color. The selenite waxed and waned with the moon, and the meloceus, that discovers thieves, could be affected only by the blood of kids. Leonardus Camillus had seen a white stone taken from the brain of a newly-killed toad, that was a certain antidote against poison. The bezoar, that was found in the heart of the Arabian deer, was a charm that could cure the plague. In the nests of Arabian birds was the aspilates, that, according to Democritus, kept the wearer from any danger by fire. The King of Ceilan rode through his city with a large ruby in his hand, as the ceremony of his coronation. The gates of the palace of John the Priest were \"made of sardius, with the horn of the horned [71] snake inwrought, so that no man might bring poison within.\" Over the gable were \"two golden apples, in which were two carbuncles,\" so that the gold might shine by day, and the carbuncles by night. In Lodge\\'s strange romance \"A Margarite of America\" it was stated that in the chamber of Margarite were seen \"all the chaste ladies of the world, inchased out of silver, looking through fair mirrours of chrysolites, carbuncles, sapphires, and greene emeraults.\" Marco Polo had watched the inhabitants of Zipangu place a rose-colored pearl in the mouth of the dead. A sea-monster had been enamoured of the pearl that the diver brought to King Perozes, and had slain the thief, and mourned for seven moons over his loss. When the Huns lured the king into the great pit, he flung it away,--Procopius tells the story,--nor was it ever found again, though the Emperor Anastasius offered five hundred-weight of gold pieces for it. The King of Malabar had shown a Venetian a rosary of one hundred and four pearls, one for every god that he worshipped. When the Duke de Valentinois, son of Alexander VI., visited Louis XII. of France, his horse was loaded with gold leaves, according to Brantôme, and his cap had double rows of rubies that threw out a great light. Charles of England had ridden in stirrups hung with three hundred and twenty-one diamonds. Richard II. had a coat, valued at thirty thousand marks, which was covered with balas rubies. Hall described Henry VIII., on his way to the Tower previous to his coronation, as wearing \"a jacket of raised gold, the placard embroidered with diamonds and other rich stones, and a great bauderike about his neck of large balasses.\" The favorites of James I. wore ear-rings of emeralds set in gold filigrane. Edward II. gave to Piers Gaveston a suit of red-gold armor studded with jacinths, and a collar of gold roses set with turquoise-stones, and a skull-cap parsemé with pearls. Henry II. wore jewelled gloves reaching to the elbow, and had a hawk-glove set with twelve rubies and fifty-two great pearls. The ducal hat of Charles the Rash, the last Duke of Burgundy of his race, was studded with sapphires and hung with pear-shaped pearls. How exquisite life had once been! How gorgeous in its pomp and decoration! Even to read of the luxury of the dead was wonderful. Then he turned his attention to embroideries, and to the tapestries that performed the office of frescos in the chill rooms of the Northern nations of Europe. As he investigated the subject,--and he always had an extraordinary faculty of becoming absolutely absorbed for the moment in whatever he took up,--he was almost saddened by the reflection of the ruin that time brought on beautiful and wonderful things. He, at any rate, had escaped that. Summer followed summer, and the yellow jonquils bloomed and died many times, and nights of horror repeated the story of their shame, but he was unchanged. No winter marred his face or stained his flower-like bloom. How different it was with material things! Where had they gone to? Where was the great crocus-colored robe, on which the gods fought against the giants, that had been worked for Athena? Where the huge velarium that Nero had stretched across the Colosseum at Rome, on which were represented the starry sky, and Apollo driving a chariot drawn by [72] white gilt-reined steeds? He longed to see the curious table-napkins wrought for Elagabalus, on which were displayed all the dainties and viands that could be wanted for a feast; the mortuary cloth of King Chilperic, with its three hundred golden bees; the fantastic robes that excited the indignation of the Bishop of Pontus, and were figured with \"lions, panthers, bears, dogs, forests, rocks, hunters,--all, in fact, that a painter can copy from nature;\" and the coat that Charles of Orleans once wore, on the sleeves of which were embroidered the verses of a song beginning \"Madame, je suis tout joyeux,\" the musical accompaniment of the words being wrought in gold thread, and each note, a square shape in those days, formed with four pearls. He read of the room that was prepared at the palace at Rheims for the use of Queen Joan of Burgundy, and was decorated with \"thirteen hundred and twenty-one parrots, made in broidery, and blazoned with the king\\'s arms, and five hundred and sixty-one butterflies, whose wings were similarly ornamented with the arms of the queen, the whole worked in gold.\" Catherine de Médicis had a mourning-bed made for her of black velvet powdered with crescents and suns. Its curtains were of damask, with leafy wreaths and garlands, figured upon a gold and silver ground, and fringed along the edges with broideries of pearls, and it stood in a room hung with rows of the queen\\'s devices in cut black velvet upon cloth of silver. Louis XIV. had gold-embroidered caryatides fifteen feet high in his apartment. The state bed of Sobieski, King of Poland, was made of Smyrna gold brocade embroidered in turquoises with verses from the Koran. Its supports were of silver gilt, beautifully chased, and profusely set with enamelled and jewelled medallions. It had been taken from the Turkish camp before Vienna, and the standard of Mohammed had stood under it. And so, for a whole year, he sought to accumulate the most exquisite specimens that he could find of textile and embroidered work, getting the dainty Delhi muslins, finely wrought, with gold-threat palmates, and stitched over with iridescent beetles\\' wings; the Dacca gauzes, that from their transparency are known in the East as \"woven air,\" and \"running water,\" and \"evening dew;\" strange figured cloths from Java; elaborate yellow Chinese hangings; books bound in tawny satins or fair blue silks and wrought with fleurs de lys, birds, and images; veils of lacis worked in Hungary point; Sicilian brocades, and stiff Spanish velvets; Georgian work with its gilt coins, and Japanese Foukousas with their green-toned golds and their marvellously-plumaged birds. He had a special passion, also, for ecclesiastical vestments, as indeed he had for everything connected with the service of the Church. In the long cedar chests that lined the west gallery of his house he had stored away many rare and beautiful specimens of what is really the raiment of the Bride of Christ, who must wear purple and jewels and fine linen that she may hide the pallid macerated body that is worn by the suffering that she seeks for, and wounded by self-inflicted pain. He had a gorgeous cope of crimson silk and gold-thread damask, figured with a repeating pattern of golden pomegranates set in six-petalled formal blossoms, beyond which on either side was the pine- [73] apple device wrought in seed-pearls. The orphreys were divided into panels representing scenes from the life of the Virgin, and the coronation of the Virgin was figured in colored silks upon the hood. This was Italian work of the fifteenth century. Another cope was of green velvet, embroidered with heart-shaped groups of acanthus-leaves, from which spread long-stemmed white blossoms, the details of which were picked out with silver thread and colored crystals. The morse bore a seraph\\'s head in gold-thread raised work. The orphreys were woven in a diaper of red and gold silk, and were starred with medallions of many saints and martyrs, among whom was St. Sebastian. He had chasubles, also, of amber-colored silk, and blue silk and gold brocade, and yellow silk damask and cloth of gold, figured with representations of the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ, and embroidered with lions and peacocks and other emblems; dalmatics of white satin and pink silk damask, decorated with tulips and dolphins and fleurs de lys; altar frontals of crimson velvet and blue linen; and many corporals, chalice-veils, and sudaria. In the mystic offices to which these things were put there was something that quickened his imagination. For these things, and everything that he collected in his lovely house, were to be to him means of forgetfulness, modes by which he could escape, for a season, from the fear that seemed to him at times to be almost too great to be borne. Upon the walls of the lonely locked room where he had spent so much of his boyhood, he had hung with his own hands the terrible portrait whose changing features showed him the real degradation of his life, and had draped the purple-and-gold pall in front of it as a curtain. For weeks he would not go there, would forget the hideous painted thing, and get back his light heart, his wonderful joyousness, his passionate pleasure in mere existence. Then, suddenly, some night he would creep out of the house, go down to dreadful places near Blue Gate Fields, and stay there, day after day, until he was driven away. On his return he would sit in front of the picture, sometimes loathing it and himself, but filled, at other times, with that pride of rebellion that is half the fascination of sin, and smiling, with secret pleasure, at the misshapen shadow that had to bear the burden that should have been his own. After a few years he could not endure to be long out of England, and gave up the villa that he had shared at Trouville with Lord Henry, as well as the little white walled-in house at Algiers where he had more than once spent his winter. He hated to be separated from the picture that was such a part of his life, and he was also afraid that during his absence some one might gain access to the room, in spite of the elaborate bolts and bars that he had caused to be placed upon the door. He was quite conscious that this would tell them nothing. It was true that the portrait still preserved, under all the foulness and ugliness of the face, its marked likeness to himself; but what could they learn from that? He would laugh at any one who tried to taunt him. He had not painted it. What was it to him how vile and full of shame it looked? Even if he told them, would they believe it? Yet he was afraid. Sometimes when he was down at his great [74] house in Nottinghamshire, entertaining the fashionable young men of his own rank who were his chief companions, and astounding the county by the wanton luxury and gorgeous splendor of his mode of life, he would suddenly leave his guests and rush back to town to see that the door had not been tampered with and that the picture was still there. What if it should be stolen? The mere thought made him cold with horror. Surely the world would know his secret then. Perhaps the world already suspected it. For, while he fascinated many, there were not a few who distrusted him. He was blackballed at a West End club of which his birth and social position fully entitled him to become a member, and on one occasion, when he was brought by a friend into the smoking-room of the Carlton, the Duke of Berwick and another gentleman got up in a marked manner and went out. Curious stories became current about him after he had passed his twenty-fifth year. It was said that he had been seen brawling with foreign sailors in a low den in the distant parts of Whitechapel, and that he consorted with thieves and coiners and knew the mysteries of their trade. His extraordinary absences became notorious, and, when he used to reappear again in society, men would whisper to each other in corners, or pass him with a sneer, or look at him with cold searching eyes, as if they were determined to discover his secret. Of such insolences and attempted slights he, of course, took no notice, and in the opinion of most people his frank debonair manner, his charming boyish smile, and the infinite grace of that wonderful youth that seemed never to leave him, were in themselves a sufficient answer to the calumnies (for so they called them) that were circulated about him. It was remarked, however, that those who had been most intimate with him appeared, after a time, to shun him. Of all his friends, or so-called friends, Lord Henry Wotton was the only one who remained loyal to him. Women who had wildly adored him, and for his sake had braved all social censure and set convention at defiance, were seen to grow pallid with shame or horror if Dorian Gray entered the room. Yet these whispered scandals only lent him, in the eyes of many, his strange and dangerous charm. His great wealth was a certain element of security. Society, civilized society at least, is never very ready to believe anything to the detriment of those who are both rich and charming. It feels instinctively that manners are of more importance than morals, and the highest respectability is of less value in its opinion than the possession of a good chef. And, after all, it is a very poor consolation to be told that the man who has given one a bad dinner, or poor wine, is irreproachable in his private life. Even the cardinal virtues cannot atone for cold entrées, as Lord Henry remarked once, in a discussion on the subject; and there is possibly a good deal to be said for his view. For the canons of good society are, or should be, the same as the canons of art. Form is absolutely essential to it. It should have the dignity of a ceremony, as well as its unreality, and should combine the insincere character of a romantic play with the wit and beauty that make such plays charming. Is insincerity such a [75] terrible thing? I think not. It is merely a method by which we can multiply our personalities. Such, at any rate, was Dorian Gray\\'s opinion. He used to wonder at the shallow psychology of those who conceive the Ego in man as a thing simple, permanent, reliable, and of one essence. To him, man was a being with myriad lives and myriad sensations, a complex multiform creature that bore within itself strange legacies of thought and passion, and whose very flesh was tainted with the monstrous maladies of the dead. He loved to stroll through the gaunt cold picture-gallery of his country-house and look at the various portraits of those whose blood flowed in his veins. Here was Philip Herbert, described by Francis Osborne, in his \"Memoires on the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth and King James,\" as one who was \"caressed by the court for his handsome face, which kept him not long company.\" Was it young Herbert\\'s life that he sometimes led? Had some strange poisonous germ crept from body to body till it had reached his own? Was it some dim sense of that ruined grace that had made him so suddenly, and almost without cause, give utterance, in Basil Hallward\\'s studio, to that mad prayer that had so changed his life? Here, in gold-embroidered red doublet, jewelled surcoat, and gilt-edged ruff and wrist-bands, stood Sir Anthony Sherard, with his silver-and-black armor piled at his feet. What had this man\\'s legacy been? Had the lover of Giovanna of Naples bequeathed him some inheritance of sin and shame? Were his own actions merely the dreams that the dead man had not dared to realize? Here, from the fading canvas, smiled Lady Elizabeth Devereux, in her gauze hood, pearl stomacher, and pink slashed sleeves. A flower was in her right hand, and her left clasped an enamelled collar of white and damask roses. On a table by her side lay a mandolin and an apple. There were large green rosettes upon her little pointed shoes. He knew her life, and the strange stories that were told about her lovers. Had he something of her temperament in him? Those oval heavy-lidded eyes seemed to look curiously at him. What of George Willoughby, with his powdered hair and fantastic patches? How evil he looked! The face was saturnine and swarthy, and the sensual lips seemed to be twisted with disdain. Delicate lace ruffles fell over the lean yellow hands that were so overladen with rings. He had been a macaroni of the eighteenth century, and the friend, in his youth, of Lord Ferrars. What of the second Lord Sherard, the companion of the Prince Regent in his wildest days, and one of the witnesses at the secret marriage with Mrs. Fitzherbert? How proud and handsome he was, with his chestnut curls and insolent pose! What passions had he bequeathed? The world had looked upon him as infamous. He had led the orgies at Carlton House. The star of the Garter glittered upon his breast. Beside him hung the portrait of his wife, a pallid, thin-lipped woman in black. Her blood, also, stirred within him. How curious it all seemed! Yet one had ancestors in literature, as well as in one\\'s own race, nearer perhaps in type and temperament, many of them, and certainly with an influence of which one was more absolutely conscious. There [76] were times when it seemed to Dorian Gray that the whole of history was merely the record of his own life, not as he had lived it in act and circumstance, but as his imagination had created it for him, as it had been in his brain and in his passions. He felt that he had known them all, those strange terrible figures that had passed across the stage of the world and made sin so marvellous and evil so full of wonder. It seemed to him that in some mysterious way their lives had been his own. The hero of the dangerous novel that had so influenced his life had himself had this curious fancy. In a chapter of the book he tells how, crowned with laurel, lest lightning might strike him, he had sat, as Tiberius, in a garden at Capri, reading the shameful books of Elephantis, while dwarfs and peacocks strutted round him and the flute-player mocked the swinger of the censer; and, as Caligula, had caroused with the green-shirted jockeys in their stables, and supped in an ivory manger with a jewel-frontleted horse; and, as Domitian, had wandered through a corridor lined with marble mirrors, looking round with haggard eyes for the reflection of the dagger that was to end his days, and sick with that ennui, that taedium vitae, that comes on those to whom life denies nothing; and had peered through a clear emerald at the red shambles of the Circus, and then, in a litter of pearl and purple drawn by silver-shod mules, been carried through the Street of Pomegranates to a House of Gold, and heard men cry on Nero Caesar as he passed by; and, as Elagabalus, had painted his face with colors, and plied the distaff among the women, and brought the Moon from Carthage, and given her in mystic marriage to the Sun. Over and over again Dorian used to read this fantastic chapter, and the chapter immediately following, in which the hero describes the curious tapestries that he had had woven for him from Gustave Moreau\\'s designs, and on which were pictured the awful and beautiful forms of those whom Vice and Blood and Weariness had made monstrous or mad: Filippo, Duke of Milan, who slew his wife, and painted her lips with a scarlet poison; Pietro Barbi, the Venetian, known as Paul the Second, who sought in his vanity to assume the title of Formosus, and whose tiara, valued at two hundred thousand florins, was bought at the price of a terrible sin; Gian Maria Visconti, who used hounds to chase living men, and whose murdered body was covered with roses by a harlot who had loved him; the Borgia on his white horse, with Fratricide riding beside him, and his mantle stained with the blood of Perotto; Pietro Riario, the young Cardinal Archbishop of Florence, child and minion of Sixtus IV., whose beauty was equalled only by his debauchery, and who received Leonora of Aragon in a pavilion of white and crimson silk, filled with nymphs and centaurs, and gilded a boy that he might serve her at the feast as Ganymede or Hylas; Ezzelin, whose melancholy could be cured only by the spectacle of death, and who had a passion for red blood, as other men have for red wine,--the son of the Fiend, as was reported, and one who had cheated his father at dice when gambling with him for his own soul; Giambattista Cibo, who in mockery took the name of Innocent, and into whose torpid veins the blood of three lads was infused by a [77] Jewish doctor; Sigismondo Malatesta, the lover of Isotta, and the lord of Rimini, whose effigy was burned at Rome as the enemy of God and man, who strangled Polyssena with a napkin, and gave poison to Ginevra d\\'Este in a cup of emerald, and in honor of a shameful passion built a pagan church for Christian worship; Charles VI., who had so wildly adored his brother\\'s wife that a leper had warned him of the insanity that was coming on him, and who could only be soothed by Saracen cards painted with the images of Love and Death and Madness; and, in his trimmed jerkin and jewelled cap and acanthus-like curls, Grifonetto Baglioni, who slew Astorre with his bride, and Simonetto with his page, and whose comeliness was such that, as he lay dying in the yellow piazza of Perugia, those who had hated him could not choose but weep, and Atalanta, who had cursed him, blessed him. There was a horrible fascination in them all. He saw them at night, and they troubled his imagination in the day. The Renaissance knew of strange manners of poisoning,--poisoning by a helmet and a lighted torch, by an embroidered glove and a jewelled fan, by a gilded pomander and by an amber chain. Dorian Gray had been poisoned by a book. There were moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could realize his conception of the beautiful. CHAPTER X [...77] It was on the 7th of November, the eve of his own thirty-second birthday, as he often remembered afterwards. He was walking home about eleven o\\'clock from Lord Henry\\'s, where he had been dining, and was wrapped in heavy furs, as the night was cold and foggy. At the corner of Grosvenor Square and South Audley Street a man passed him in the mist, walking very fast, and with the collar of his gray ulster turned up. He had a bag in his hand. He recognized him. It was Basil Hallward. A strange sense of fear, for which he could not account, came over him. He made no sign of recognition, and went on slowly, in the direction of his own house. But Hallward had seen him. Dorian heard him first stopping, and then hurrying after him. In a few moments his hand was on his arm. \"Dorian! What an extraordinary piece of luck! I have been waiting for you ever since nine o\\'clock in your library. Finally I took pity on your tired servant, and told him to go to bed, as he let me out. I am off to Paris by the midnight train, and I wanted particularly to see you before I left. I thought it was you, or rather your fur coat, as you passed me. But I wasn\\'t quite sure. Didn\\'t you recognize me?\" \"In this fog, my dear Basil? Why, I can\\'t even recognize Grosvenor Square. I believe my house is somewhere about here, but I don\\'t feel at all certain about it. I am sorry you are going away, as I have not seen you for ages. But I suppose you will be back soon?\" \"No: I am going to be out of England for six months. I intend [78] to take a studio in Paris, and shut myself up till I have finished a great picture I have in my head. However, it wasn\\'t about myself I wanted to talk. Here we are at your door. Let me come in for a moment. I have something to say to you.\" \"I shall be charmed. But won\\'t you miss your train?\" said Dorian Gray, languidly, as he passed up the steps and opened the door with his latch-key. The lamp-light struggled out through the fog, and Hallward looked at his watch. \"I have heaps of time,\" he answered. \"The train doesn\\'t go till twelve-fifteen, and it is only just eleven. In fact, I was on my way to the club to look for you, when I met you. You see, I shan\\'t have any delay about luggage, as I have sent on my heavy things. All I have with me is in this bag, and I can easily get to Victoria in twenty minutes.\" Dorian looked at him and smiled. \"What a way for a fashionable painter to travel! A Gladstone bag, and an ulster! Come in, or the fog will get into the house. And mind you don\\'t talk about anything serious. Nothing is serious nowadays. At least nothing should be.\" Hallward shook his head, as he entered, and followed Dorian into the library. There was a bright wood fire blazing in the large open hearth. The lamps were lit, and an open Dutch silver spirit-case stood, with some siphons of soda-water and large cut-glass tumblers, on a little table. \"You see your servant made me quite at home, Dorian. He gave me everything I wanted, including your best cigarettes. He is a most hospitable creature. I like him much better than the Frenchman you used to have. What has become of the Frenchman, by the bye?\" Dorian shrugged his shoulders. \"I believe he married Lady Ashton\\'s maid, and has established her in Paris as an English dressmaker. Anglomanie is very fashionable over there now, I hear. It seems silly of the French, doesn\\'t it? But--do you know?--he was not at all a bad servant. I never liked him, but I had nothing to complain about. One often imagines things that are quite absurd. He was really very devoted to me, and seemed quite sorry when he went away. Have another brandy-and-soda? Or would you like hock-and-seltzer? I always take hock-and-seltzer myself. There is sure to be some in the next room.\" \"Thanks, I won\\'t have anything more,\" said Hallward, taking his cap and coat off, and throwing them on the bag that he had placed in the corner. \"And now, my dear fellow, I want to speak to you seriously. Don\\'t frown like that. You make it so much more difficult for me.\" \"What is it all about?\" cried Dorian, in his petulant way, flinging himself down on the sofa. \"I hope it is not about myself. I am tired of myself to-night. I should like to be somebody else.\" \"It is about yourself,\" answered Hallward, in his grave, deep voice, \"and I must say it to you. I shall only keep you half an hour.\" Dorian sighed, and lit a cigarette. \"Half an hour!\" he murmured. [79] \"It is not much to ask of you, Dorian, and it is entirely for your own sake that I am speaking. I think it right that you should know that the most dreadful things are being said about you in London,--things that I could hardly repeat to you.\" \"I don\\'t wish to know anything about them. I love scandals about other people, but scandals about myself don\\'t interest me. They have not got the charm of novelty.\" \"They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his good name. You don\\'t want people to talk of you as something vile and degraded. Of course you have your position, and your wealth, and all that kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mind you, I don\\'t believe these rumors at all. At least, I can\\'t believe them when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man\\'s face. It cannot be concealed. People talk of secret vices. There are no such things as secret vices. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of his hands even. Somebody--I won\\'t mention his name, but you know him--came to me last year to have his portrait done. I had never seen him before, and had never heard anything about him at the time, though I have heard a good deal since. He offered an extravagant price. I refused him. There was something in the shape of his fingers that I hated. I know now that I was quite right in what I fancied about him. His life is dreadful. But you, Dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth,--I can\\'t believe anything against you. And yet I see you very seldom, and you never come down to the studio now, and when I am away from you, and I hear all these hideous things that people are whispering about you, I don\\'t know what to say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of Berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so many gentlemen in London will neither go to your house nor invite you to theirs? You used to be a friend of Lord Cawdor. I met him at dinner last week. Your name happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the Dudley. Cawdor curled his lip, and said that you might have the most artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. I reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant. He told me. He told me right out before everybody. It was horrible! Why is your friendship so fateful to young men? There was that wretched boy in the Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England, with a tarnished name. You and he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton, and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent\\'s only son, and his career? I met his father yesterday in St. James Street. He seemed broken with shame and sorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentleman would associate with him? Dorian, Dorian, your reputation is infamous. I know you and Harry are great friends. I say nothing about that now, but [80] surely you need not have made his sister\\'s name a by-word. When you met Lady Gwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. Is there a single decent woman in London now who would drive with her in the Park? Why, even her children are not allowed to live with her. Then there are other stories,--stories that you have been seen creeping at dawn out of dreadful houses and slinking in disguise into the foulest dens in London. Are they true? Can they be true? When I first heard them, I laughed. I hear them now, and they make me shudder. What about your country-house, and the life that is led there? Dorian, you don\\'t know what is said about you. I won\\'t tell you that I don\\'t want to preach to you. I remember Harry saying once that every man who turned himself into an amateur curate for the moment always said that, and then broke his word. I do want to preach to you. I want you to lead such a life as will make the world respect you. I want you to have a clean name and a fair record. I want you to get rid of the dreadful people you associate with. Don\\'t shrug your shoulders like that. Don\\'t be so indifferent. You have a wonderful influence. Let it be for good, not for evil. They say that you corrupt every one whom you become intimate with, and that it is quite sufficient for you to enter a house, for shame of some kind to follow after you. I don\\'t know whether it is so or not. How should I know? But it is said of you. I am told things that it seems impossible to doubt. Lord Gloucester was one of my greatest friends at Oxford. He showed me a letter that his wife had written to him when she was dying alone in her villa at Mentone. Your name was implicated in the most terrible confession I ever read. I told him that it was absurd,--that I knew you thoroughly, and that you were incapable of anything of the kind. Know you? I wonder do I know you? Before I could answer that, I should have to see your soul.\" \"To see my soul!\" muttered Dorian Gray, starting up from the sofa and turning almost white from fear. \"Yes,\" answered Hallward, gravely, and with infinite sorrow in his voice,--\"to see your soul. But only God can do that.\" A bitter laugh of mockery broke from the lips of the younger man. \"You shall see it yourself, to-night!\" he cried, seizing a lamp from the table. \"Come: it is your own handiwork. Why shouldn\\'t you look at it? You can tell the world all about it afterwards, if you choose. Nobody would believe you. If they did believe you, they\\'d like me all the better for it. I know the age better than you do, though you will prate about it so tediously. Come, I tell you. You have chattered enough about corruption. Now you shall look on it face to face.\" There was the madness of pride in every word he uttered. He stamped his foot upon the ground in his boyish insolent manner. He felt a terrible joy at the thought that some one else was to share his secret, and that the man who had painted the portrait that was the origin of all his shame was to be burdened for the rest of his life with the hideous memory of what he had done. \"Yes,\" he continued, coming closer to him, and looking steadfastly into his stern eyes, \"I will show you my soul. You shall see the thing that you fancy only God can see.\" [81] Hallward started back. \"This is blasphemy, Dorian!\" he cried. \"You must not say things like that. They are horrible, and they don\\'t mean anything.\" \"You think so?\" He laughed again. \"I know so. As for what I said to you to-night, I said it for your good. You know I have been always devoted to you.\" \"Don\\'t touch me. Finish what you have to say.\" A twisted flash of pain shot across Hallward\\'s face. He paused for a moment, and a wild feeling of pity came over him. After all, what right had he to pry into the life of Dorian Gray? If he had done a tithe of what was rumored about him, how much he must have suffered! Then he straightened himself up, and walked over to the fireplace, and stood there, looking at the burning logs with their frost-like ashes and their throbbing cores of flame. \"I am waiting, Basil,\" said the young man, in a hard, clear voice. He turned round. \"What I have to say is this,\" he cried. \"You must give me some answer to these horrible charges that are made against you. If you tell me that they are absolutely untrue from beginning to end, I will believe you. Deny them, Dorian, deny them! Can\\'t you see what I am going through? My God! don\\'t tell me that you are infamous!\" Dorian Gray smiled. There was a curl of contempt in his lips. \"Come up-stairs, Basil,\" he said, quietly. \"I keep a diary of my life from day to day, and it never leaves the room in which it is written. I will show it to you if you come with me.\" \"I will come with you, Dorian, if you wish it. I see I have missed my train. That makes no matter. I can go to-morrow. But don\\'t ask me to read anything to-night. All I want is a plain answer to my question.\" \"That will be given to you up-stairs. I could not give it here. You won\\'t have to read long. Don\\'t keep me waiting.\" CHAPTER XI [...81] He passed out of the room, and began the ascent, Basil Hallward following close behind. They walked softly, as men instinctively do at night. The lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase. A rising wind made some of the windows rattle. When they reached the top landing, Dorian set the lamp down on the floor, and taking out the key turned it in the lock. \"You insist on knowing, Basil?\" he asked, in a low voice. \"Yes.\" \"I am delighted,\" he murmured, smiling. Then he added, somewhat bitterly, \"You are the one man in the world who is entitled to know everything about me. You have had more to do with my life than you think.\" And, taking up the lamp, he opened the door and went in. A cold current of air passed them, and the light shot up for a moment in a flame of murky orange. He shuddered. \"Shut the door behind you,\" he said, as he placed the lamp on the table. [82] Hallward glanced round him, with a puzzled expression. The room looked as if it had not been lived in for years. A faded Flemish tapestry, a curtained picture, an old Italian cassone, and an almost empty bookcase,--that was all that it seemed to contain, besides a chair and a table. As Dorian Gray was lighting a half-burned candle that was standing on the mantel-shelf, he saw that the whole place was covered with dust, and that the carpet was in holes. A mouse ran scuffling behind the wainscoting. There was a damp odor of mildew. \"So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, Basil? Draw that curtain back, and you will see mine.\" The voice that spoke was cold and cruel. \"You are mad, Dorian, or playing a part,\" muttered Hallward, frowning. \"You won\\'t? Then I must do it myself,\" said the young man; and he tore the curtain from its rod, and flung it on the ground. An exclamation of horror broke from Hallward\\'s lips as he saw in the dim light the hideous thing on the canvas leering at him. There was something in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing. Good heavens! it was Dorian Gray\\'s own face that he was looking at! The horror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely marred that marvellous beauty. There was still some gold in the thinning hair and some scarlet on the sensual lips. The sodden eyes had kept something of the loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet passed entirely away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. Yes, it was Dorian himself. But who had done it? He seemed to recognize his own brush-work, and the frame was his own design. The idea was monstrous, yet he felt afraid. He seized the lighted candle, and held it to the picture. In the left-hand corner was his own name, traced in long letters of bright vermilion. It was some foul parody, some infamous, ignoble satire. He had never done that. Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt as if his blood had changed from fire to sluggish ice in a moment. His own picture! What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned, and looked at Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His mouth twitched, and his parched tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his hand across his forehead. It was dank with clammy sweat. The young man was leaning against the mantel-shelf, watching him with that strange expression that is on the faces of those who are absorbed in a play when a great artist is acting. There was neither real sorrow in it nor real joy. There was simply the passion of the spectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in the eyes. He had taken the flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do so. \"What does this mean?\" cried Hallward, at last. His own voice sounded shrill and curious in his ears. \"Years ago, when I was a boy,\" said Dorian Gray, \"you met me, devoted yourself to me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my good looks. One day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who explained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of me that revealed to me the wonder of beauty. In a mad moment, that [83] I don\\'t know, even now, whether I regret or not, I made a wish. Perhaps you would call it a prayer . . . .\" \"I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! the thing is impossible. The room is damp. The mildew has got into the canvas. The paints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the thing is impossible.\" \"Ah, what is impossible?\" murmured the young man, going over to the window, and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass. \"You told me you had destroyed it.\" \"I was wrong. It has destroyed me.\" \"I don\\'t believe it is my picture.\" \"Can\\'t you see your romance in it?\" said Dorian, bitterly. \"My romance, as you call it . . .\" \"As you called it.\" \"There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. This is the face of a satyr.\" \"It is the face of my soul.\" \"God! what a thing I must have worshipped! This has the eyes of a devil.\" \"Each of us has Heaven and Hell in him, Basil,\" cried Dorian, with a wild gesture of despair. Hallward turned again to the portrait, and gazed at it. \"My God! if it is true,\" he exclaimed, \"and this is what you have done with your life, why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!\" He held the light up again to the canvas, and examined it. The surface seemed to be quite undisturbed, and as he had left it. It was from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful. His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor, and lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his hands. \"Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! what an awful lesson!\" There was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. \"Pray, Dorian, pray,\" he murmured. \"What is it that one was taught to say in one\\'s boyhood? \\'Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities.\\' Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished.\" Dorian Gray turned slowly around, and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. \"It is too late, Basil,\" he murmured. \"It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we can remember a prayer. Isn\\'t there a verse somewhere, \\'Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow\\'?\" [84] \"Those words mean nothing to me now.\" \"Hush! don\\'t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! don\\'t you see that accursed thing leering at us?\" Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than he had ever loathed anything in his whole life. He glanced wildly around. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized it, and turned round. Hallward moved in his chair as if he was going to rise. He rushed at him, and dug the knife into the great vein that is behind the ear, crushing the man\\'s head down on the table, and stabbing again and again. There was a stifled groan, and the horrible sound of some one choking with blood. The outstretched arms shot up convulsively three times, waving grotesque stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him once more, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on the floor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then he threw the knife on the table, and listened. He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. He opened the door, and went out on the landing. The house was quite quiet. No one was stirring. He took out the key, and returned to the room, locking himself in as he did so. The thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with bowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it not been for the red jagged tear in the neck, and the clotted black pool that slowly widened on the table, one would have said that the man was simply asleep. How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and, walking over to the window, opened it, and stepped out on the balcony. The wind had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock\\'s tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. He looked down, and saw the policeman going his rounds and flashing a bull\\'s-eye lantern on the doors of the silent houses. The crimson spot of a prowling hansom gleamed at the corner, and then vanished. A woman in a ragged shawl was creeping round by the railings, staggering as she went. Now and then she stopped, and peered back. Once, she began to sing in a hoarse voice. The policeman strolled over and said something to her. She stumbled away, laughing. A bitter blast swept across the Square. The gas-lamps flickered, and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their black iron branches as if in pain. He shivered, and went back, closing the window behind him. He passed to the door, turned the key, and opened it. He did not even glance at the murdered man. He felt that the secret of the whole thing was not to realize the situation. The friend who had painted [85] the fatal portrait, the portrait to which all his misery had been due, had gone out of his life. That was enough. Then he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of Moorish workmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished steel. Perhaps it might be missed by his servant, and questions would be asked. He turned back, and took it from the table. How still the man was! How horribly white the long hands looked! He was like a dreadful wax image. He locked the door behind him, and crept quietly down-stairs. The wood-work creaked, and seemed to cry out as if in pain. He stopped several times, and waited. No: everything was still. It was merely the sound of his own footsteps. When he reached the library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner. They must be hidden away somewhere. He unlocked a secret press that was in the wainscoting, and put them into it. He could easily burn them afterwards. Then he pulled out his watch. It was twenty minutes to two. He sat down, and began to think. Every year--every month, almost--men were strangled in England for what he had done. There had been a madness of murder in the air. Some red star had come too close to the earth. Evidence? What evidence was there against him? Basil Hallward had left the house at eleven. No one had seen him come in again. Most of the servants were at Selby Royal. His valet had gone to bed. Paris! Yes. It was to Paris that Basil had gone, by the midnight train, as he had intended. With his curious reserved habits, it would be months before any suspicions would be aroused. Months? Everything could be destroyed long before then. A sudden thought struck him. He put on his fur coat and hat, and went out into the hall. There he paused, hearing the slow heavy tread of the policeman outside on the pavement, and seeing the flash of the lantern reflected in the window. He waited, holding his breath. After a few moments he opened the front door, and slipped out, shutting it very gently behind him. Then he began ringing the bell. In about ten minutes his valet appeared, half dressed, and looking very drowsy. \"I am sorry to have had to wake you up, Francis,\" he said, stepping in; \"but I had forgotten my latch-key. What time is it?\" \"Five minutes past two, sir,\" answered the man, looking at the clock and yawning. \"Five minutes past two? How horribly late! You must wake me at nine to-morrow. I have some work to do.\" \"All right, sir.\" \"Did any one call this evening?\" \"Mr. Hallward, sir. He stayed here till eleven, and then he went away to catch his train.\" \"Oh! I am sorry I didn\\'t see him. Did he leave any message?\" \"No, sir, except that he would write to you.\" [86] \"That will do, Francis. Don\\'t forget to call me at nine tomorrow.\" \"No, sir.\" The man shambled down the passage in his slippers. Dorian Gray threw his hat and coat upon the yellow marble table, and passed into the library. He walked up and down the room for a quarter of an hour, biting his lip, and thinking. Then he took the Blue Book down from one of the shelves, and began to turn over the leaves. \"Alan Campbell, 152, Hertford Street, Mayfair.\" Yes; that was the man he wanted. CHAPTER XII [...86] At nine o\\'clock the next morning his servant came in with a cup of chocolate on a tray, and opened the shutters. Dorian was sleeping quite peacefully, lying on his right side, with one hand underneath his cheek. He looked like a boy who had been tired out with play, or study. The man had to touch him twice on the shoulder before he woke, and as he opened his eyes a faint smile passed across his lips, as though he had been having some delightful dream. Yet he had not dreamed at all. His night had been untroubled by any images of pleasure or of pain. But youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms. He turned round, and, leaning on his elbow, began to drink his chocolate. The mellow November sun was streaming into the room. The sky was bright blue, and there was a genial warmth in the air. It was almost like a morning in May. Gradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent blood-stained feet into his brain, and reconstructed themselves there with terrible distinctness. He winced at the memory of all that he had suffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing for Basil Hallward, that had made him kill him as he sat in the chair, came back to him, and he grew cold with passion. The dead man was still sitting there, too, and in the sunlight now. How horrible that was! Such hideous things were for the darkness, not for the day. He felt that if he brooded on what he had gone through he would sicken or grow mad. There were sins whose fascination was more in the memory than in the doing of them, strange triumphs that gratified the pride more than the passions, and gave to the intellect a quickened sense of joy, greater than any joy they brought, or could ever bring, to the senses. But this was not one of them. It was a thing to be driven out of the mind, to be drugged with poppies, to be strangled lest it might strangle one itself. He passed his hand across his forehead, and then got up hastily, and dressed himself with even more than his usual attention, giving a good deal of care to the selection of his necktie and scarf-pin, and changing his rings more than once. He spent a long time over breakfast, tasting the various dishes, talking to his valet about some new liveries that he was thinking of [87] getting made for the servants at Selby, and going through his correspondence. Over some of the letters he smiled. Three of them bored him. One he read several times over, and then tore up with a slight look of annoyance in his face. \"That awful thing, a woman\\'s memory!\" as Lord Henry had once said. When he had drunk his coffee, he sat down at the table, and wrote two letters. One he put in his pocket, the other he handed to the valet. \"Take this round to 152, Hertford Street, Francis, and if Mr. Campbell is out of town, get his address.\" As soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette, and began sketching upon a piece of paper, drawing flowers, and bits of architecture, first, and then faces. Suddenly he remarked that every face that he drew seemed to have an extraordinary likeness to Basil Hallward. He frowned, and, getting up, went over to the bookcase and took out a volume at hazard. He was determined that he would not think about what had happened, till it became absolutely necessary to do so. When he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the title-page of the book. It was Gautier\\'s \"Emaux et Camées,\" Charpentier\\'s Japanese-paper edition, with the Jacquemart etching. The binding was of citron-green leather with a design of gilt trellis-work and dotted pomegranates. It had been given to him by Adrian Singleton. As he turned over the pages his eye fell on the poem about the hand of Lacenaire, the cold yellow hand \"du supplice encore mal lavée,\" with its downy red hairs and its \"doigts de faune.\" He glanced at his own white taper fingers, and passed on, till he came to those lovely verses upon Venice: Sur une gamme chromatique, Le sein de perles ruisselant, La Vénus de l\\'Adriatique Sort de l\\'eau son corps rose et blanc. Les dômes, sur l\\'azur des ondes Suivant la phrase au pur contour, S\\'enflent comme des gorges rondes Que soulève un soupir d\\'amour. L\\'esquif aborde et me dépose, Jetant son amarre au pilier, Devant une façade rose, Sur le marbre d\\'un escalier. How exquisite they were! As one read them, one seemed to be floating down the green water-ways of the pink and pearl city, lying in a black gondola with silver prow and trailing curtains. The mere lines looked to him like those straight lines of turquoise-blue that follow one as one pushes out to the Lido. The sudden flashes of color reminded him of the gleam of the opal-and-iris-throated birds that flutter round the tall honey-combed Campanile, or stalk, with such stately grace, through the dim arcades. Leaning back with half-closed eyes, he kept saying over and over to himself,-- Devant une façade rose, Sur le marbre d\\'un escalier. [88] The whole of Venice was in those two lines. He remembered the autumn that he had passed there, and a wonderful love that had stirred him to delightful fantastic follies. There was romance in every place. But Venice, like Oxford, had kept the background for romance, and background was everything, or almost everything. Basil had been with him part of the time, and had gone wild over Tintoret. Poor Basil! what a horrible way for a man to die! He sighed, and took up the book again, and tried to forget. He read of the swallows that fly in and out of the little café at Smyrna where the Hadjis sit counting their amber beads and the turbaned merchants smoke their long tasselled pipes and talk gravely to each other; of the Obelisk in the Place de la Concorde that weeps tears of granite in its lonely sunless exile, and longs to be back by the hot lotus-covered Nile, where there are Sphinxes, and rose-red ibises, and white vultures with gilded claws, and crocodiles, with small beryl eyes, that crawl over the green steaming mud; and of that curious statue that Gautier compares to a contralto voice, the \"monstre charmant\" that couches in the porphyry-room of the Louvre. But after a time the book fell from his hand. He grew nervous, and a horrible fit of terror came over him. What if Alan Campbell should be out of England? Days would elapse before he could come back. Perhaps he might refuse to come. What could he do then? Every moment was of vital importance. They had been great friends once, five years before,--almost inseparable, indeed. Then the intimacy had come suddenly to an end. When they met in society now, it was only Dorian Gray who smiled: Alan Campbell never did. He was an extremely clever young man, though he had no real appreciation of the visible arts, and whatever little sense of the beauty of poetry he possessed he had gained entirely from Dorian. His dominant intellectual passion was for science. At Cambridge he had spent a great deal of his time working in the Laboratory, and had taken a good class in the Natural Science tripos of his year. Indeed, he was still devoted to the study of chemistry, and had a laboratory of his own, in which he used to shut himself up all day long, greatly to the annoyance of his mother, who had set her heart on his standing for Parliament and had a vague idea that a chemist was a person who made up prescriptions. He was an excellent musician, however, as well, and played both the violin and the piano better than most amateurs. In fact, it was music that had first brought him and Dorian Gray together,--music and that indefinable attraction that Dorian seemed to be able to exercise whenever he wished, and indeed exercised often without being conscious of it. They had met at Lady Berkshire\\'s the night that Rubinstein played there, and after that used to be always seen together at the Opera, and wherever good music was going on. For eighteen months their intimacy lasted. Campbell was always either at Selby Royal or in Grosvenor Square. To him, as to many others, Dorian Gray was the type of everything that is wonderful and fascinating in life. Whether or not a quarrel had taken place between them no one ever knew. But suddenly people remarked that they scarcely spoke when [89] they met, and that Campbell seemed always to go away early from any party at which Dorian Gray was present. He had changed, too,--was strangely melancholy at times, appeared almost to dislike hearing music of any passionate character, and would never himself play, giving as his excuse, when he was called upon, that he was so absorbed in science that he had no time left in which to practise. And this was certainly true. Every day he seemed to become more interested in biology, and his name appeared once or twice in some of the scientific reviews, in connection with certain curious experiments. This was the man that Dorian Gray was waiting for, pacing up and down the room, glancing every moment at the clock, and becoming horribly agitated as the minutes went by. At last the door opened, and his servant entered. \"Mr. Alan Campbell, sir.\" A sigh of relief broke from his parched lips, and the color came back to his cheeks. \"Ask him to come in at once, Francis.\" The man bowed, and retired. In a few moments Alan Campbell walked in, looking very stern and rather pale, his pallor being intensified by his coal-black hair and dark eyebrows. \"Alan! this is kind of you. I thank you for coming.\" \"I had intended never to enter your house again, Gray. But you said it was a matter of life and death.\" His voice was hard and cold. He spoke with slow deliberation. There was a look of contempt in the steady searching gaze that he turned on Dorian. He kept his hands in the pockets of his Astrakhan coat, and appeared not to have noticed the gesture with which he had been greeted. \"It is a matter of life and death, Alan, and to more than one person. Sit down.\" Campbell took a chair by the table, and Dorian sat opposite to him. The two men\\'s eyes met. In Dorian\\'s there was infinite pity. He knew that what he was going to do was dreadful. After a strained moment of silence, he leaned across and said, very quietly, but watching the effect of each word upon the face of the man he had sent for, \"Alan, in a locked room at the top of this house, a room to which nobody but myself has access, a dead man is seated at a table. He has been dead ten hours now. Don\\'t stir, and don\\'t look at me like that. Who the man is, why he died, how he died, are matters that do not concern you. What you have to do is this--\" \"Stop, Gray. I don\\'t want to know anything further. Whether what you have told me is true or not true, doesn\\'t concern me. I entirely decline to be mixed up in your life. Keep your horrible secrets to yourself. They don\\'t interest me any more.\" \"Alan, they will have to interest you. This one will have to interest you. I am awfully sorry for you, Alan. But I can\\'t help myself. You are the one man who is able to save me. I am forced to bring you into the matter. I have no option. Alan, you are a scientist. You know about chemistry, and things of that kind. You have made experiments. What you have got to do is to destroy the [90] thing that is up-stairs,--to destroy it so that not a vestige will be left of it. Nobody saw this person come into the house. Indeed, at the present moment he is supposed to be in Paris. He will not be missed for months. When he is missed, there must be no trace of him found here. You, Alan, you must change him, and everything that belongs to him, into a handful of ashes that I may scatter in the air.\" \"You are mad, Dorian.\" \"Ah! I was waiting for you to call me Dorian.\" \"You are mad, I tell you,--mad to imagine that I would raise a finger to help you, mad to make this monstrous confession. I will have nothing to do with this matter, whatever it is. Do you think I am going to peril my reputation for you? What is it to me what devil\\'s work you are up to?\" \"It was a suicide, Alan.\" \"I am glad of that. But who drove him to it? You, I should fancy.\" \"Do you still refuse to do this, for me?\" \"Of course I refuse. I will have absolutely nothing to do with it. I don\\'t care what shame comes on you. You deserve it all. I should not be sorry to see you disgraced, publicly disgraced. How dare you ask me, of all men in the world, to mix myself up in this horror? I should have thought you knew more about people\\'s characters. Your friend Lord Henry Wotton can\\'t have taught you much about psychology, whatever else he has taught you. Nothing will induce me to stir a step to help you. You have come to the wrong man. Go to some of your friends. Don\\'t come to me.\" \"Alan, it was murder. I killed him. You don\\'t know what he had made me suffer. Whatever my life is, he had more to do with the making or the marring of it than poor Harry has had. He may not have intended it, the result was the same.\" \"Murder! Good God, Dorian, is that what you have come to? I shall not inform upon you. It is not my business. Besides, you are certain to be arrested, without my stirring in the matter. Nobody ever commits a murder without doing something stupid. But I will have nothing to do with it.\" \"All I ask of you is to perform a certain scientific experiment. You go to hospitals and dead-houses, and the horrors that you do there don\\'t affect you. If in some hideous dissecting-room or fetid laboratory you found this man lying on a leaden table with red gutters scooped out in it, you would simply look upon him as an admirable subject. You would not turn a hair. You would not believe that you were doing anything wrong. On the contrary, you would probably feel that you were benefiting the human race, or increasing the sum of knowledge in the world, or gratifying intellectual curiosity, or something of that kind. What I want you to do is simply what you have often done before. Indeed, to destroy a body must be less horrible than what you are accustomed to work at. And, remember, it is the only piece of evidence against me. If it is discovered, I am lost; and it is sure to be discovered unless you help me.\" [91] \"I have no desire to help you. You forget that. I am simply indifferent to the whole thing. It has nothing to do with me.\" \"Alan, I entreat you. Think of the position I am in. Just before you came I almost fainted with terror. No! don\\'t think of that. Look at the matter purely from the scientific point of view. You don\\'t inquire where the dead things on which you experiment come from. Don\\'t inquire now. I have told you too much as it is. But I beg of you to do this. We were friends once, Alan.\" \"Don\\'t speak about those days, Dorian: they are dead.\" \"The dead linger sometimes. The man up-stairs will not go away. He is sitting at the table with bowed head and outstretched arms. Alan! Alan! if you don\\'t come to my assistance I am ruined. Why, they will hang me, Alan! Don\\'t you understand? They will hang me for what I have done.\" \"There is no good in prolonging this scene. I refuse absolutely to do anything in the matter. It is insane of you to ask me.\" \"You refuse absolutely?\" \"Yes.\" The same look of pity came into Dorian\\'s eyes, then he stretched out his hand, took a piece of paper, and wrote something on it. He read it over twice, folded it carefully, and pushed it across the table. Having done this, he got up, and went over to the window. Campbell looked at him in surprise, and then took up the paper, and opened it. As he read it, his face became ghastly pale, and he fell back in his chair. A horrible sense of sickness came over him. He felt as if his heart was beating itself to death in some empty hollow. After two or three minutes of terrible silence, Dorian turned round, and came and stood behind him, putting his hand upon his shoulder. \"I am so sorry, Alan,\" he murmured, \"but you leave me no alternative. I have a letter written already. Here it is. You see the address. If you don\\'t help me, I must send it. You know what the result will be. But you are going to help me. It is impossible for you to refuse now. I tried to spare you. You will do me the justice to admit that. You were stern, harsh, offensive. You treated me as no man has ever dared to treat me,--no living man, at any rate. I bore it all. Now it is for me to dictate terms.\" Campbell buried his face in his hands, and a shudder passed through him. \"Yes, it is my turn to dictate terms, Alan. You know what they are. The thing is quite simple. Come, don\\'t work yourself into this fever. The thing has to be done. Face it, and do it.\" A groan broke from Campbell\\'s lips, and he shivered all over. The ticking of the clock on the mantel-piece seemed to him to be dividing time into separate atoms of agony, each of which was too terrible to be borne. He felt as if an iron ring was being slowly tightened round his forehead, and as if the disgrace with which he was threatened had already come upon him. The hand upon his shoulder weighed like a hand of lead. It was intolerable. It seemed to crush him. \"Come, Alan, you must decide at once.\" [92] He hesitated a moment. \"Is there a fire in the room up-stairs?\" he murmured. \"Yes, there is a gas-fire with asbestos.\" \"I will have to go home and get some things from the laboratory.\" \"No, Alan, you need not leave the house. Write on a sheet of note-paper what you want, and my servant will take a cab and bring the things back to you.\" Campbell wrote a few lines, blotted them, and addressed an envelope to his assistant. Dorian took the note up and read it carefully. Then he rang the bell, and gave it to his valet, with orders to return as soon as possible, and to bring the things with him. When the hall door shut, Campbell started, and, having got up from the chair, went over to the chimney-piece. He was shivering with a sort of ague. For nearly twenty minutes, neither of the men spoke. A fly buzzed noisily about the room, and the ticking of the clock was like the beat of a hammer. As the chime struck one, Campbell turned around, and, looking at Dorian Gray, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. There was something in the purity and refinement of that sad face that seemed to enrage him. \"You are infamous, absolutely infamous!\" he muttered. \"Hush, Alan: you have saved my life,\" said Dorian. \"Your life? Good heavens! what a life that is! You have gone from corruption to corruption, and now you have culminated in crime. In doing what I am going to do, what you force me to do, it is not of your life that I am thinking.\" \"Ah, Alan,\" murmured Dorian, with a sigh, \"I wish you had a thousandth part of the pity for me that I have for you.\" He turned away, as he spoke, and stood looking out at the garden. Campbell made no answer. After about ten minutes a knock came to the door, and the servant entered, carrying a mahogany chest of chemicals, with a small electric battery set on top of it. He placed it on the table, and went out again, returning with a long coil of steel and platinum wire and two rather curiously-shaped iron clamps. \"Shall I leave the things here, sir?\" he asked Campbell. \"Yes,\" said Dorian. \"And I am afraid, Francis, that I have another errand for you. What is the name of the man at Richmond who supplies Selby with orchids?\" \"Harden, sir.\" \"Yes,--Harden. You must go down to Richmond at once, see Harden personally, and tell him to send twice as many orchids as I ordered, and to have as few white ones as possible. In fact, I don\\'t want any white ones. It is a lovely day, Francis, and Richmond is a very pretty place, otherwise I wouldn\\'t bother you about it.\" \"No trouble, sir. At what time shall I be back?\" Dorian looked at Campbell. \"How long will your experiment take, Alan?\" he said, in a calm, indifferent voice. The presence of a third person in the room seemed to give him extraordinary courage. Campbell frowned, and bit his lip. \"It will take about five hours,\" he answered. [93] \"It will be time enough, then, if you are back at half-past seven, Francis. Or stay: just leave my things out for dressing. You can have the evening to yourself. I am not dining at home, so I shall not want you.\" \"Thank you, sir,\" said the man, leaving the room. \"Now, Alan, there is not a moment to be lost. How heavy this chest is! I\\'ll take it for you. You bring the other things.\" He spoke rapidly, and in an authoritative manner. Campbell felt dominated by him. They left the room together. When they reached the top landing, Dorian took out the key and turned it in the lock. Then he stopped, and a troubled look came into his eyes. He shuddered. \"I don\\'t think I can go in, Alan,\" he murmured. \"It is nothing to me. I don\\'t require you,\" said Campbell, coldly. Dorian half opened the door. As he did so, he saw the face of the portrait grinning in the sunlight. On the floor in front of it the torn curtain was lying. He remembered that the night before, for the first time in his life, he had forgotten to hide it, when he crept out of the room. But what was that loathsome red dew that gleamed, wet and glistening, on one of the hands, as though the canvas had sweated blood? How horrible it was!--more horrible, it seemed to him for the moment, than the silent thing that he knew was stretched across the table, the thing whose grotesque misshapen shadow on the spotted carpet showed him that it had not stirred, but was still there, as he had left it. He opened the door a little wider, and walked quickly in, with half-closed eyes and averted head, determined that he would not look even once upon the dead man. Then, stooping down, and taking up the gold-and-purple hanging, he flung it over the picture. He stopped, feeling afraid to turn round, and his eyes fixed themselves on the intricacies of the pattern before him. He heard Campbell bringing in the heavy chest, and the irons, and the other things that he had required for his dreadful work. He began to wonder if he and Basil Hallward had ever met, and, if so, what they had thought of each other. \"Leave me now,\" said Campbell. He turned and hurried out, just conscious that the dead man had been thrust back into the chair and was sitting up in it, with Campbell gazing into the glistening yellow face. As he was going downstairs he heard the key being turned in the lock. It was long after seven o\\'clock when Campbell came back into the library. He was pale, but absolutely calm. \"I have done what you asked me to do,\" he muttered. \"And now, good-by. Let us never see each other again.\" \"You have saved me from ruin, Alan. I cannot forget that,\" said Dorian, simply. As soon as Campbell had left, he went up-stairs. There was a horrible smell of chemicals in the room. But the thing that had been sitting at the table was gone. CHAPTER XIII [94] \"There is no good telling me you are going to be good, Dorian,\" cried Lord Henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl filled with rose-water. \"You are quite perfect. Pray don\\'t change.\" Dorian shook his head. \"No, Harry, I have done too many dreadful things in my life. I am not going to do any more. I began my good actions yesterday.\" \"Where were you yesterday?\" \"In the country, Harry. I was staying at a little inn by myself.\" \"My dear boy,\" said Lord Henry smiling, \"anybody can be good in the country. There are no temptations there. That is the reason why people who live out of town are so uncivilized. There are only two ways, as you know, of becoming civilized. One is by being cultured, the other is by being corrupt. Country-people have no opportunity of being either, so they stagnate.\" \"Culture and corruption,\" murmured Dorian. \"I have known something of both. It seems to me curious now that they should ever be found together. For I have a new ideal, Harry. I am going to alter. I think I have altered.\" \"You have not told me yet what your good action was. Or did you say you had done more than one?\" \"I can tell you, Harry. It is not a story I could tell to any one else. I spared somebody. It sounds vain, but you understand what I mean. She was quite beautiful, and wonderfully like Sibyl Vane. I think it was that which first attracted me to her. You remember Sibyl, don\\'t you? How long ago that seems! Well, Hetty was not one of our own class, of course. She was simply a girl in a village. But I really loved her. I am quite sure that I loved her. All during this wonderful May that we have been having, I used to run down and see her two or three times a week. Yesterday she met me in a little orchard. The apple-blossoms kept tumbling down on her hair, and she was laughing. We were to have gone away together this morning at dawn. Suddenly I determined to leave her as flower-like as I had found her.\" \"I should think the novelty of the emotion must have given you a thrill of real pleasure, Dorian,\" interrupted Lord Henry. \"But I can finish your idyl for you. You gave her good advice, and broke her heart. That was the beginning of your reformation.\" \"Harry, you are horrible! You mustn\\'t say these dreadful things. Hetty\\'s heart is not broken. Of course she cried, and all that. But there is no disgrace upon her. She can live, like Perdita, in her garden.\" \"And weep over a faithless Florizel,\" said Lord Henry, laughing. \"My dear Dorian, you have the most curious boyish moods. Do you think this girl will ever be really contented now with any one of her own rank? I suppose she will be married some day to a rough carter or a grinning ploughman. Well, having met you, and loved you, will teach her to despise her husband, and she will be wretched. From a moral point of view I really don\\'t think much of your great renunciation. [95] Even as a beginning, it is poor. Besides, how do you know that Hetty isn\\'t floating at the present moment in some mill-pond, with water-lilies round her, like Ophelia?\" \"I can\\'t bear this, Harry! You mock at everything, and then suggest the most serious tragedies. I am sorry I told you now. I don\\'t care what you say to me, I know I was right in acting as I did. Poor Hetty! As I rode past the farm this morning, I saw her white face at the window, like a spray of jasmine. Don\\'t let me talk about it any more, and don\\'t try to persuade me that the first good action I have done for years, the first little bit of self-sacrifice I have ever known, is really a sort of sin. I want to be better. I am going to be better. Tell me something about yourself. What is going on in town? I have not been to the club for days.\" \"The people are still discussing poor Basil\\'s disappearance.\" \"I should have thought they had got tired of that by this time,\" said Dorian, pouring himself out some wine, and frowning slightly. \"My dear boy, they have only been talking about it for six weeks, and the public are really not equal to the mental strain of having more than one topic every three months. They have been very fortunate lately, however. They have had my own divorce-case, and Alan Campbell\\'s suicide. Now they have got the mysterious disappearance of an artist. Scotland Yard still insists that the man in the gray ulster who left Victoria by the midnight train on the 7th of November was poor Basil, and the French police declare that Basil never arrived in Paris at all. I suppose in about a fortnight we will be told that he has been seen in San Francisco. It is an odd thing, but every one who disappears is said to be seen at San Francisco. It must be a delightful city, and possess all the attractions of the next world.\" \"What do you think has happened to Basil?\" asked Dorian, holding up his Burgundy against the light, and wondering how it was that he could discuss the matter so calmly. \"I have not the slightest idea. If Basil chooses to hide himself, it is no business of mine. If he is dead, I don\\'t want to think about him. Death is the only thing that ever terrifies me. I hate it. One can survive everything nowadays except that. Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the nineteenth century that one cannot explain away. Let us have our coffee in the music-room, Dorian. You must play Chopin to me. The man with whom my wife ran away played Chopin exquisitely. Poor Victoria! I was very fond of her. The house is rather lonely without her.\" Dorian said nothing, but rose from the table, and, passing into the next room, sat down to the piano and let his fingers stray across the keys. After the coffee had been brought in, he stopped, and, looking over at Lord Henry, said, \"Harry, did it ever occur to you that Basil was murdered?\" Lord Henry yawned. \"Basil had no enemies, and always wore a Waterbury watch. Why should he be murdered? He was not clever enough to have enemies. Of course he had a wonderful genius for painting. But a man can paint like Velasquez and yet be as dull as possible. Basil was really rather dull. He only interested me once, [96] and that was when he told me, years ago, that he had a wild adoration for you.\" \"I was very fond of Basil,\" said Dorian, with a sad look in his eyes. \"But don\\'t people say that he was murdered?\" \"Oh, some of the papers do. It does not seem to be probable. I know there are dreadful places in Paris, but Basil was not the sort of man to have gone to them. He had no curiosity. It was his chief defect. Play me a nocturne, Dorian, and, as you play, tell me, in a low voice, how you have kept your youth. You must have some secret. I am only ten years older than you are, and I am wrinkled, and bald, and yellow. You are really wonderful, Dorian. You have never looked more charming than you do to-night. You remind me of the day I saw you first. You were rather cheeky, very shy, and absolutely extraordinary. You have changed, of course, but not in appearance. I wish you would tell me your secret. To get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable. Youth! There is nothing like it. It\\'s absurd to talk of the ignorance of youth. The only people whose opinions I listen to now with any respect are people much younger than myself. They seem in front of me. Life has revealed to them her last wonder. As for the aged, I always contradict the aged. I do it on principle. If you ask them their opinion on something that happened yesterday, they solemnly give you the opinions current in 1820, when people wore high stocks and knew absolutely nothing. How lovely that thing you are playing is! I wonder did Chopin write it at Majorca, with the sea weeping round the villa, and the salt spray dashing against the panes? It is marvelously romantic. What a blessing it is that there is one art left to us that is not imitative! Don\\'t stop. I want music to-night. It seems to me that you are the young Apollo, and that I am Marsyas listening to you. I have sorrows, Dorian, of my own, that even you know nothing of. The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young. I am amazed sometimes at my own sincerity. Ah, Dorian, how happy you are! What an exquisite life you have had! You have drunk deeply of everything. You have crushed the grapes against your palate. Nothing has been hidden from you. But it has all been to you no more than the sound of music. It has not marred you. You are still the same. \"I wonder what the rest of your life will be. Don\\'t spoil it by renunciations. At present you are a perfect type. Don\\'t make yourself incomplete. You are quite flawless now. You need not shake your head: you know you are. Besides, Dorian, don\\'t deceive yourself. Life is not governed by will or intention. Life is a question of nerves, and fibres, and slowly-built-up cells in which thought hides itself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy yourself safe, and think yourself strong. But a chance tone of color in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings strange memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play,--I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend. Browning writes about that somewhere; but our [97] own senses will imagine them for us. There are moments when the odor of heliotrope passes suddenly across me, and I have to live the strangest year of my life over again. \"I wish I could change places with you, Dorian. The world has cried out against us both, but it has always worshipped you. It always will worship you. You are the type of what the age is searching for, and what it is afraid it has found. I am so glad that you have never done anything, never carved a statue, or painted a picture, or produced anything outside of yourself! Life has been your art. You have set yourself to music. Your days have been your sonnets.\" Dorian rose up from the piano, and passed his hand through his hair. \"Yes, life has been exquisite,\" he murmured, \"but I am not going to have the same life, Harry. And you must not say these extravagant things to me. You don\\'t know everything about me. I think that if you did, even you would turn from me. You laugh. Don\\'t laugh.\" \"Why have you stopped playing, Dorian? Go back and play the nocturne over again. Look at that great honey-colored moon that hangs in the dusky air. She is waiting for you to charm her, and if you play she will come closer to the earth. You won\\'t? Let us go to the club, then. It has been a charming evening, and we must end it charmingly. There is some one at the club who wants immensely to know you,--young Lord Poole, Bournmouth\\'s eldest son. He has already copied your neckties, and has begged me to introduce him to you. He is quite delightful, and rather reminds me of you.\" \"I hope not,\" said Dorian, with a touch of pathos in his voice. \"But I am tired to-night, Harry. I won\\'t go to the club. It is nearly eleven, and I want to go to bed early.\" \"Do stay. You have never played so well as to-night. There was something in your touch that was wonderful. It had more expression than I had ever heard from it before.\" \"It is because I am going to be good,\" he answered, smiling. \"I am a little changed already.\" \"Don\\'t change, Dorian; at any rate, don\\'t change to me. We must always be friends.\" \"Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that. Harry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one. It does harm.\" \"My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize. You will soon be going about warning people against all the sins of which you have grown tired. You are much too delightful to do that. Besides, it is no use. You and I are what we are, and will be what we will be. Come round tomorrow. I am going to ride at eleven, and we might go together. The Park is quite lovely now. I don\\'t think there have been such lilacs since the year I met you.\" \"Very well. I will be here at eleven,\" said Dorian. \"Good-night, Harry.\" As he reached the door he hesitated for a moment, as if he had something more to say. Then he sighed and went out. It was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm, and did not even put his silk scarf round his throat. As he strolled [98] home, smoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. He heard one of them whisper to the other, \"That is Dorian Gray.\" He remembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or stared at, or talked about. He was tired of hearing his own name now. Half the charm of the little village where he had been so often lately was that no one knew who he was. He had told the girl whom he had made love him that he was poor, and she had believed him. He had told her once that he was wicked, and she had laughed at him, and told him that wicked people were always very old and very ugly. What a laugh she had!--just like a thrush singing. And how pretty she had been in her cotton dresses and her large hats! She knew nothing, but she had everything that he had lost. When he reached home, he found his servant waiting up for him. He sent him to bed, and threw himself down on the sofa in the library, and began to think over some of the things that Lord Henry had said to him. Was it really true that one could never change? He felt a wild longing for the unstained purity of his boyhood,--his rose-white boyhood, as Lord Henry had once called it. He knew that he had tarnished himself, filled his mind with corruption, and given horror to his fancy; that he had been an evil influence to others, and had experienced a terrible joy in being so; and that of the lives that had crossed his own it had been the fairest and the most full of promise that he had brought to shame. But was it all irretrievable? Was there no hope for him? It was better not to think of the past. Nothing could alter that. It was of himself, and of his own future, that he had to think. Alan Campbell had shot himself one night in his laboratory, but had not revealed the secret that he had been forced to know. The excitement, such as it was, over Basil Hallward\\'s disappearance would soon pass away. It was already waning. He was perfectly safe there. Nor, indeed, was it the death of Basil Hallward that weighed most upon his mind. It was the living death of his own soul that troubled him. Basil had painted the portrait that had marred his life. He could not forgive him that. It was the portrait that had done everything. Basil had said things to him that were unbearable, and that he had yet borne with patience. The murder had been simply the madness of a moment. As for Alan Campbell, his suicide had been his own act. He had chosen to do it. It was nothing to him. A new life! That was what he wanted. That was what he was waiting for. Surely he had begun it already. He had spared one innocent thing, at any rate. He would never again tempt innocence. He would be good. As he thought of Hetty Merton, he began to wonder if the portrait in the locked room had changed. Surely it was not still so horrible as it had been? Perhaps if his life became pure, he would be able to expel every sign of evil passion from the face. Perhaps the signs of evil had already gone away. He would go and look. He took the lamp from the table and crept up-stairs. As he unlocked the door, a smile of joy flitted across his young face and [99] lingered for a moment about his lips. Yes, he would be good, and the hideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a terror to him. He felt as if the load had been lifted from him already. He went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and dragged the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry of pain and indignation broke from him. He could see no change, unless that in the eyes there was a look of cunning, and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite. The thing was still loathsome,--more loathsome, if possible, than before,--and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed brighter, and more like blood newly spilt. Had it been merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or the desire of a new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mocking laugh? Or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things finer than we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these? Why was the red stain larger than it had been? It seemed to have crept like a horrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. There was blood on the painted feet, as though the thing had dripped,--blood even on the hand that had not held the knife. Confess? Did it mean that he was to confess? To give himself up, and be put to death? He laughed. He felt that the idea was monstrous. Besides, who would believe him, even if he did confess? There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere. Everything belonging to him had been destroyed. He himself had burned what had been below-stairs. The world would simply say he was mad. They would shut him up if he persisted in his story. Yet it was his duty to confess, to suffer public shame, and to make public atonement. There was a God who called upon men to tell their sins to earth as well as to heaven. Nothing that he could do would cleanse him till he had told his own sin. His sin? He shrugged his shoulders. The death of Basil Hallward seemed very little to him. He was thinking of Hetty Merton. It was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his soul that he was looking at. Vanity? Curiosity? Hypocrisy? Had there been nothing more in his renunciation than that? There had been something more. At least he thought so. But who could tell? And this murder,--was it to dog him all his life? Was he never to get rid of the past? Was he really to confess? No. There was only one bit of evidence left against him. The picture itself,--that was evidence. He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? It had given him pleasure once to watch it changing and growing old. Of late he had felt no such pleasure. It had kept him awake at night. When he had been away, he had been filled with terror lest other eyes should look upon it. It had brought melancholy across his passions. Its mere memory had marred many moments of joy. It had been like conscience to him. Yes, it had been conscience. He would destroy it. He looked round, and saw the knife that had stabbed Basil Hallward. He had cleaned it many times, till there was no stain left upon it. It was bright, and glistened. As it had killed the painter, so it [100] would kill the painter\\'s work, and all that that meant. It would kill the past, and when that was dead he would be free. He seized it, and stabbed the canvas with it, ripping the thing right up from top to bottom. There was a cry heard, and a crash. The cry was so horrible in its agony that the frightened servants woke, and crept out of their rooms. Two gentlemen, who were passing in the Square below, stopped, and looked up at the great house. They walked on till they met a policeman, and brought him back. The man rang the bell several times, but there was no answer. The house was all dark, except for a light in one of the top windows. After a time, he went away, and stood in the portico of the next house and watched. \"Whose house is that, constable?\" asked the elder of the two gentlemen. \"Mr. Dorian Gray\\'s, sir,\" answered the policeman. They looked at each other, as they walked away, and sneered. One of them was Sir Henry Ashton\\'s uncle. Inside, in the servants\\' part of the house, the half-clad domestics were talking in low whispers to each other. Old Mrs. Leaf was crying, and wringing her hands. Francis was as pale as death. After about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the footmen and crept up-stairs. They knocked, but there was no reply. They called out. Everything was still. Finally, after vainly trying to force the door, they got on the roof, and dropped down on to the balcony. The windows yielded easily: the bolts were old. When they entered, they found hanging upon the wall a splendid portrait of their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his exquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in evening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled, and loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined the rings that they recognized who it was. End of Project Gutenberg\\'s The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY *** ***** This file should be named 4078-8.txt or 4078-8.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/7/4078/ Produced by Alfred J. Drake. HTML version by Al Haines. Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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+       "            <th>Dorian</th> <th>Painting</th> <th>Lydia</th> <th>Catherine</th> <th>Darcy</th> <th>Georgiana</th>\n",
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+       "    <tbody>\n",
+       "        <tr>\n",
+       "            <td>0     </td> <td>0       </td> <td>0    </td> <td>0        </td> <td>0    </td> <td>0        </td>\n",
+       "        </tr>\n",
+       "        <tr>\n",
+       "            <td>0     </td> <td>0       </td> <td>2    </td> <td>0        </td> <td>0    </td> <td>0        </td>\n",
+       "        </tr>\n",
+       "        <tr>\n",
+       "            <td>0     </td> <td>0       </td> <td>2    </td> <td>2        </td> <td>9    </td> <td>0        </td>\n",
+       "        </tr>\n",
+       "        <tr>\n",
+       "            <td>0     </td> <td>1       </td> <td>0    </td> <td>0        </td> <td>5    </td> <td>0        </td>\n",
+       "        </tr>\n",
+       "        <tr>\n",
+       "            <td>0     </td> <td>0       </td> <td>0    </td> <td>0        </td> <td>1    </td> <td>0        </td>\n",
+       "        </tr>\n",
+       "        <tr>\n",
+       "            <td>0     </td> <td>0       </td> <td>0    </td> <td>0        </td> <td>13   </td> <td>0        </td>\n",
+       "        </tr>\n",
+       "        <tr>\n",
+       "            <td>0     </td> <td>0       </td> <td>4    </td> <td>2        </td> <td>1    </td> <td>0        </td>\n",
+       "        </tr>\n",
+       "        <tr>\n",
+       "            <td>0     </td> <td>1       </td> <td>0    </td> <td>0        </td> <td>8    </td> <td>1        </td>\n",
+       "        </tr>\n",
+       "        <tr>\n",
+       "            <td>0     </td> <td>0       </td> <td>2    </td> <td>0        </td> <td>7    </td> <td>0        </td>\n",
+       "        </tr>\n",
+       "        <tr>\n",
+       "            <td>0     </td> <td>1       </td> <td>0    </td> <td>0        </td> <td>14   </td> <td>0        </td>\n",
+       "        </tr>\n",
+       "    </tbody>\n",
+       "</table>\n",
+       "<p>... (51 rows omitted)</p>"
+      ],
+      "text/plain": [
+       "Dorian | Painting | Lydia | Catherine | Darcy | Georgiana\n",
+       "0      | 0        | 0     | 0         | 0     | 0\n",
+       "0      | 0        | 2     | 0         | 0     | 0\n",
+       "0      | 0        | 2     | 2         | 9     | 0\n",
+       "0      | 1        | 0     | 0         | 5     | 0\n",
+       "0      | 0        | 0     | 0         | 1     | 0\n",
+       "0      | 0        | 0     | 0         | 13    | 0\n",
+       "0      | 0        | 4     | 2         | 1     | 0\n",
+       "0      | 1        | 0     | 0         | 8     | 1\n",
+       "0      | 0        | 2     | 0         | 7     | 0\n",
+       "0      | 1        | 0     | 0         | 14    | 0\n",
+       "... (51 rows omitted)"
+      ]
+     },
+     "execution_count": 10,
+     "metadata": {},
+     "output_type": "execute_result"
+    }
+   ],
+   "source": [
+    "table = Table().with_columns([\n",
+    "    \"Dorian\",   np.char.count(chapters, \"Dorian\"),\n",
+    "    \"Painting\",  np.char.count(chapters, \"painting\") + np.char.count(chapters, \"picture\"),\n",
+    "    \"Lydia\",  np.char.count(chapters, \"Lydia\"),\n",
+    "    \"Catherine\",  np.char.count(chapters, \"Catherine\"),\n",
+    "    \"Darcy\", np.char.count(chapters, \"Darcy\"),\n",
+    "    \"Georgiana\", np.char.count(chapters, \"Georgiana\")\n",
+    "])\n",
+    "table"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "## Data Visualization\n",
+    "\n",
+    "Visualization helps us quickly summarize and understand the data.\n",
+    "\n",
+    "In this example, who are the main characters?  Who are minor characters?"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": 11,
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [
+    {
+     "data": {
+      "image/png": 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\n",
+      "text/plain": [
+       "<Figure size 432x288 with 1 Axes>"
+      ]
+     },
+     "metadata": {},
+     "output_type": "display_data"
+    }
+   ],
+   "source": [
+    "table.plot(overlay=True)"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "Can we establish a trend over time?"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": 12,
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [
+    {
+     "data": {
+      "image/png": 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\n",
+      "text/plain": [
+       "<Figure size 432x288 with 1 Axes>"
+      ]
+     },
+     "metadata": {},
+     "output_type": "display_data"
+    }
+   ],
+   "source": [
+    "table.cumsum().plot(overlay=True)"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "markdown",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "source": [
+    "Each chapter is a different length in terms of words or characters.  How is this related to the number of period in a chapter?  What does this mean?"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": 13,
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [
+    {
+     "data": {
+      "image/png": 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\n",
+      "text/plain": [
+       "<Figure size 360x360 with 1 Axes>"
+      ]
+     },
+     "metadata": {},
+     "output_type": "display_data"
+    }
+   ],
+   "source": [
+    "Table().with_columns([\n",
+    "        \"Characters\", [len(c) for c in chapters],\n",
+    "        \"Periods\", np.char.count(chapters, \".\"),\n",
+    "    ]).scatter('Periods')"
+   ]
+  },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": []
+  }
+ ],
+ "metadata": {
+  "kernelspec": {
+   "display_name": "Python 3 (ipykernel)",
+   "language": "python",
+   "name": "python3"
+  },
+  "language_info": {
+   "codemirror_mode": {
+    "name": "ipython",
+    "version": 3
+   },
+   "file_extension": ".py",
+   "mimetype": "text/x-python",
+   "name": "python",
+   "nbconvert_exporter": "python",
+   "pygments_lexer": "ipython3",
+   "version": "3.9.12"
+  }
+ },
+ "nbformat": 4,
+ "nbformat_minor": 2
+}
diff --git a/Week 2/14111835.omcsettings.txt b/Week 2/14111835.omcsettings.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..276fa4b
--- /dev/null
+++ b/Week 2/14111835.omcsettings.txt	
@@ -0,0 +1,4710 @@
+Pride and Prejudice and Zombies
+
+
+
+
+
+“A FEW OF THE GUESTS, WHO HAD THE MISFORTUNE OF BEING TOO NEAR THE WINDOWS, WERE SEIZED AND FEASTED ON AT ONCE.”
+
+
+
+
+
+PRIDE AND PREJUDICE AND ZOMBIES
+
+
+
+
+
+THE CLASSIC REGENCY ROMANCE–NOW WITH ULTRAVIOLENT ZOMBIE MAYHEM
+
+
+
+
+BY JANE AUSTEN AND SETH GRAHAME-SMITH
+
+
+
+
+
+Copyright © 2009 by Quirk Productions, Inc.
+
+
+
+All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.
+
+
+
+Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Number: 2008937609
+
+eISBN: 978-1-59474-449-5
+
+
+
+Designed by Doogie Horner
+
+Production management by John J. McGurk
+
+
+
+Distributed in North America by Chronicle Books
+
+680 Second Street
+
+San Francisco, CA 94107
+
+
+
+Quirk Books
+
+215 Church Street
+
+Philadelphia, PA 19106
+
+www.quirkbooks.com
+
+
+
+
+
+LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
+
+
+
+
+A few of the guests, who had the misfortune of being too near the windows, were seized and feasted on at once.
+
+
+
+Frontispiece
+
+
+
+
+
+Mr. Darcy watched Elizabeth and her sisters work their way outward, beheading zombie after zombie as they went.
+
+
+
+page 15
+
+
+
+
+
+Elizabeth lifted her skirt, disregarding modesty, and delivered a swift kick to the creature’s head.
+
+
+
+page 29
+
+
+
+
+
+Two adult unmentionables—both of them male—busied themselves feasting upon the flesh of the household staff.
+
+
+
+page 81
+
+
+
+
+
+The wedding took place, and no one other than Elizabeth seemed to suspect the bride’s condition.
+
+
+
+page 111
+
+
+
+
+
+“My dear girl,” said her ladyship. “I suggest you take this contest seriously. My ninjas will show you no mercy.”
+
+
+
+page 131
+
+
+
+
+
+One of her kicks found its mark, and Darcy was sent into the mantelpiece with such force as to shatter its edge.
+
+
+
+page 150
+
+
+
+
+
+The rules were simple: Sneak up behind one of the large bucks grazing in the nearby woods, wrestle it to the ground, and kiss it on the nose before letting it go.
+
+
+
+page 183
+
+
+
+
+
+The smoke from Darcy’s musket hung in the air around him, wafting Heavenward through his thick mane of chestnut hair.
+
+
+
+page 200
+
+
+
+
+
+“Weak, silly girl! So long as there is life in this old body, you shall never again be in the company of my nephew!”
+
+
+
+page 291
+
+
+
+
+
+The creatures were crawling on their hands and knees, biting into ripe heads of cauliflower, which they had mistaken for stray brains.
+
+
+
+page 303
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 1
+
+
+
+
+IT IS A TRUTH universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains. Never was this truth more plain than during the recent attacks at Netherfield Park, in which a household of eighteen was slaughtered and consumed by a horde of the living dead.
+
+“My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that Netherfield Park is occupied again?”
+
+Mr. Bennet replied that he had not and went about his morning business of dagger sharpening and musket polishing—for attacks by the unmentionables had grown alarmingly frequent in recent weeks.
+
+“But it is,” returned she.
+
+Mr. Bennet made no answer.
+
+“Do you not want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife impatiently.
+
+“Woman, I am attending to my musket. Prattle on if you must, but leave me to the defense of my estate!”
+
+This was invitation enough.
+
+“Why, my dear, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune; that he escaped London in a chaise and four just as the strange plague broke through the Manchester line.”
+
+“What is his name?”
+
+“Bingley. A single man of four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!”
+
+“How so? Can he train them in the ways of swordsmanship and musketry?”
+
+“How can you be so tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them.”
+
+“Marriage? In times such as these? Surely this Bingley has no such designs.”
+
+“Designs! Nonsense, how can you talk so! It is very likely that he may fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as soon as he comes.”
+
+“I see no occasion for that. And besides, we mustn’t busy the roads more than is absolutely necessary, lest we lose more horses and carriages to the unfortunate scourge that has so troubled our beloved Hertfordshire of late.”
+
+“But consider your daughters!”
+
+“I am considering them, silly woman! I would much prefer their minds be engaged in the deadly arts than clouded with dreams of marriage and fortune, as your own so clearly is! Go and see this Bingley if you must, though I warn you that none of our girls has much to recommend them; they are all silly and ignorant like their mother, the exception being Lizzy, who has something more of the killer instinct than her sisters.”
+
+“Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves.”
+
+“You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard of little else these last twenty years at least.”
+
+Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and self-discipline, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. Her mind was less difficult to develop. She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous. And when she was nervous—as she was nearly all the time since the first outbreak of the strange plague in her youth—she sought solace in the comfort of the traditions which now seemed mere trifles to others.
+
+The business of Mr. Bennett’s life was to keep his daughters alive. The business of Mrs. Bennett’s was to get them married.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 2
+
+
+
+
+MR. BENNET WAS AMONG the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was paid she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following manner. Observing his second daughter employed in carving the Bennett crest in the handle of a new sword, he suddenly addressed her with:
+
+“I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.”
+
+“We are not in a way to know what Mr. Bingley likes,” said her mother resentfully, “since we are not to visit.”
+
+“But you forget, mamma,” said Elizabeth, “that we shall meet him at the next ball.”
+
+Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply, but, unable to contain herself, began scolding one of her daughters.
+
+“Don’t keep coughing so, Kitty, for Heaven’s sake! You sound as if you have been stricken!”
+
+“Mother! What a dreadful thing to say, with so many zombies about!” replied Kitty fretfully. “When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?”
+
+“To-morrow fortnight.”
+
+“Aye, so it is,” cried her mother, “and it will be impossible to introduce him, since we shall not know him ourselves. Oh, how I wish I had never heard the name Bingley!”
+
+“I am sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Bennett. “If I had known as much this morning I certainly would not have called on him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we cannot escape the acquaintance now.”
+
+The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of Mrs. Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though, when the first tumult of joy was over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the while.
+
+“How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! And it is such a good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning and never said a word about it till now.”
+
+“Do not mistake my indulgence for a relaxation in discipline,” said Mr. Bennett. “The girls shall continue their training as ever—Bingley or no Bingley.”
+
+“Of course, of course!” cried Mrs. Bennett. “They shall be as deadly as they are fetching!”
+
+“Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,” said Mr. Bennet; and, as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife.
+
+“What an excellent father you have, girls!” said she, when the door was shut. “Such joys are scarce since the good Lord saw fit to shut the gates of Hell and doom the dead to walk amongst us. Lydia, my love, though you are the youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next ball.”
+
+“Oh!” said Lydia stoutly, “I am not afraid; for though I am the youngest, I’m also the most proficient in the art of tempting the other sex.”
+
+The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon Mr. Bingley would return Mr. Bennet’s visit, and determining when they should ask him to dinner.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 3
+
+
+
+
+NOT ALL THAT Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him in various ways—with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all, and they were at last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next ball with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful!
+
+“If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,” said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, “and all the others equally well married, I shall have nothing to wish for.”
+
+“And if I can see all five of them survive England’s present difficulties, then neither shall I,” he replied.
+
+In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet’s visit, and sat about ten minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty and fighting skill he had heard much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more fortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining from an upper window that he wore a blue coat, rode a black horse, and carried a French carbine rifle upon his back—quite an exotic weapon for an Englishman. However, from his clumsy wielding of it, Elizabeth was quite certain that he had little training in musketry or any of the deadly arts.
+
+An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley was obliged to be in town the following day, and, consequently, unable to accept the honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to retrieve a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly. The girls grieved over such a number of ladies, but were comforted by hearing that instead of twelve he brought only six with him from London—his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party entered the ball, it consisted of only five altogether—Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and another young man.
+
+Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women, with an air of decided fashion, but little in the way of combat training. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien—and the report which was in general circulation within five minutes after his entrance, of his having slaughtered more than a thousand unmentionables since the fall of Cambridge. The gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he was much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great admiration, until his manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud, to be above his company, and above being pleased.
+
+Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal people in the room; he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance, was angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving one himself at Netherfield. And though he lacked Mr. Darcy’s proficiency with both sword and musket, such amiable qualities must speak for themselves. What a contrast! Mr. Darcy was the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there again. Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of his general behaviour was sharpened into particular resentment by his having slighted one of her daughters.
+
+Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been standing near enough for her to hear a conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes, to press his friend to join it.
+
+“Come, Darcy,” said he, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner.”
+
+“I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.”
+
+“Upon my honour!” cried Mr. Bingley, “I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see uncommonly pretty.”
+
+“You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.
+
+“Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable.”
+
+“Which do you mean?” and turning round he looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said, “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.”
+
+As Mr. Darcy walked off, Elizabeth felt her blood turn cold. She had never in her life been so insulted. The warrior code demanded she avenge her honour. Elizabeth reached down to her ankle, taking care not to draw attention. There, her hand met the dagger concealed beneath her dress. She meant to follow this proud Mr. Darcy outside and open his throat.
+
+But no sooner had she grabbed the handle of her weapon than a chorus of screams filled the assembly hall, immediately joined by the shattering of window panes. Unmentionables poured in, their movements clumsy yet swift; their burial clothing in a range of untidiness. Some wore gowns so tattered as to render them scandalous; other wore suits so filthy that one would assume they were assembled from little more than dirt and dried blood. Their flesh was in varying degrees of putrefaction; the freshly stricken were slightly green and pliant, whereas the longer dead were grey and brittle—their eyes and tongues long since turned to dust, and their lips pulled back into everlasting skeletal smiles.
+
+A few of the guests, who had the misfortune of being too near the windows, were seized and feasted on at once. When Elizabeth stood, she saw Mrs. Long struggle to free herself as two female dreadfuls bit into her head, cracking her skull like a walnut, and sending a shower of dark blood spouting as high as the chandeliers.
+
+As guests fled in every direction, Mr. Bennett’s voice cut through the commotion. “Girls! Pentagram of Death!”
+
+Elizabeth immediately joined her four sisters, Jane, Mary, Catherine, and Lydia in the center of the dance floor. Each girl produced a dagger from her ankle and stood at the tip of an imaginary five-pointed star. From the center of the room, they began stepping outward in unison—each thrusting a razor-sharp dagger with one hand, the other hand modestly tucked into the small of her back.
+
+From a corner of the room, Mr. Darcy watched Elizabeth and her sisters work their way outward, beheading zombie after zombie as they went. He knew of only one other woman in all of Great Britain who wielded a dagger with such skill, such grace, and deadly accuracy.
+
+By the time the girls reached the walls of the assembly hall, the last of the unmentionables lay still.
+
+
+
+“MR. DARCY WATCHED ELIZABETH AND HER SISTERS WORK THEIR WAY OUTWARD, BEHEADING ZOMBIE AFTER ZOMBIE AS THEY WENT.”
+
+Apart from the attack, the evening altogether passed off pleasantly for the whole family. Mrs. Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this as her mother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane’s pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most accomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been fortunate enough never to be without partners, which was all that they had yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they were the principal inhabitants.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 4
+
+
+
+
+WHEN JANE AND ELIZABETH WERE ALONE, the former, who had been cautious in her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister just how very much she admired him.
+
+“He is just what a young man ought to be,” said she, “sensible, good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners! So much ease, with such perfect good breeding!”
+
+“Yes,” replied Elizabeth, “but in the heat of battle, neither he nor Mr. Darcy were to be found with blade or bludgeon.”
+
+“Well, I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I did not expect such a compliment.”
+
+“He certainly is very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him, despite his lack of gallantry. You have liked many a stupider person.”
+
+“Dear Lizzy!”
+
+“Oh! You are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general. You never see a fault in anybody. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in your life.”
+
+“I would not wish to be hasty in censuring anyone.”
+
+“With your good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of others! You like this man’s sisters, too, do you? Their manners are not equal to his.”
+
+They were in fact very fine ladies; not deficient in the power of making themselves agreeable when they chose it, but proud and conceited. They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the first private seminaries in town, but knew little of the deadly arts in which she and her own sisters had been so thoroughly trained—both in England, and during their trips to the Orient.
+
+As for Mr. Bingley himself, between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of great opposition of character. Bingley was by no means deficient, but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and fastidious, and his manners, though well-bred, were not inviting. In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley was sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually giving offense.
+
+But what no one—not even Mr. Bingley—knew, was the reason behind Darcy’s cold demeanor. For until recently, he had been the very picture of pleasantry; a young man of merry disposition and utmost attentiveness. But his nature had been forever altered by a betrayal he had not the stomache to speak of.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 5
+
+
+
+
+WITHIN A SHORT THOUGH PERILOUS WALK of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been formerly a maker of fine burial gowns of such stately beauty that the King had seen fit to knight him. He had made a tolerable fortune, until the strange plague had rendered his services unnecessary. Few thought it worth the expense to dress the dead in finery when they would only soil it upon crawling out of their graves. He had removed with his family to a house about a mile from Meryton.
+
+Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The eldest of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven, was Elizabeth’s intimate friend.
+
+“You began the evening well, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Bennet with civil self-command to Miss Lucas. “You were Mr. Bingley’s first choice.”
+
+“Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.”
+
+“Oh! You mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice, and because she fought so valiantly against the unmentionables.”
+
+“Did not I mention what I heard between him and Mr. Robinson? Mr. Robinson’s asking Mr. Bingley how he liked our Meryton assemblies, and whether he did not think there were many pretty women in the room, and which he thought the prettiest? And his answering immediately to the last question, ‘Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet, beyond a doubt; there cannot be two opinions on that point.’”
+
+“Upon my word! Well, that is very decided indeed.”
+
+“Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend, is he,” said Charlotte. “Poor Eliza! To be called only tolerable.”
+
+“I beg you would not put it into Lizzy’s head to be vexed by his ill-treatment; for he is such a disagreeable man, that it would be quite a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night . . .” Mrs. Bennet’s voice failed her at the thought of poor Mrs. Long, her skull crushed betwixt the teeth of those wretched creatures. The ladies sat in silent contemplation for a few moments.
+
+“Miss Bingley told me,” said Jane, finally, “that he never speaks much, unless among his intimate acquaintances. With them he is remarkably agreeable.”
+
+“His pride,” said Miss Lucas, “does not offend me so much as pride often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so very fine a young man, with family, fortune, everything in his favour, should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a right to be proud.”
+
+“That is very true,” replied Elizabeth, “and I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine. I dare say I would’ve cut his throat had not the unmentionables distracted me from doing so.”
+
+“Pride,” observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her reflections, “is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed.”
+
+Elizabeth could not help but roll her eyes as Mary continued.
+
+“Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.”
+
+At this point, Elizabeth let out a most palpable yawn. Though she admired Mary’s bravery in battle, she had always found her a trifle dull in relaxed company.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 6
+
+
+
+
+THE LADIES OF LONGBOURN soon waited on those of Netherfield. Jane’s pleasing manners grew on the goodwill of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was found to be intolerable, and the younger sisters not worth speaking to, a wish of being better acquainted with them was expressed towards the two eldest. By Jane this attention was received with the greatest pleasure, but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment of everybody. It was generally evident whenever they met, that Mr. Bingley did admire her and to her it was equally evident that Jane was in a way to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it was not likely to be discovered by the world in general. Elizabeth mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas.
+
+“It may perhaps be pleasant,” replied Charlotte, “but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him. In nine cases out of ten a women had better show more affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.”
+
+“But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. Remember, Charlotte—she is a warrior first, and a woman second.”
+
+“Well,” said Charlotte, “I wish Jane success with all my heart; and if she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a chance of happiness as if she were to be studying his character for a twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance, and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.”
+
+“You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it is not sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself.”
+
+“Remember, Elizabeth—I am not a warrior as you are. I am merely a silly girl of seven-and-twenty years, and that without a husband.”
+
+Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley’s attentions to her sister, Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticize. But no sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she hardly had a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes, and her uncommon skill with a blade. To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had detected more than one failure of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and pleasing, and her arms surprisingly muscular, though not so much as to diminish her femininity.
+
+He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards conversing with her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas’s, where a large party were assembled.
+
+“What does Mr. Darcy mean,” said she to Charlotte, “by listening to my conversation with Colonel Forster?”
+
+“That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.”
+
+“Well if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see what he is about. I have not yet forgiven him for insulting my honour, and may yet have his head upon my mantle.”
+
+Mr. Darcy approached them soon afterwards. Elizabeth turned to him and said, “Did you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?”
+
+“With great energy; but balls are always a subject which makes a lady energetic.”
+
+“It depends on who’s throwing them, Mr. Darcy.”
+
+“Well,” said Miss Lucas, her faced suddenly flushed, “I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.”
+
+“You are a very strange creature by way of a friend! Always wanting me to play and sing before anybody and everybody!”
+
+Elizabeth’s performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song or two, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her sister Mary, who, at the end of a long concerto, joined eagerly in dancing with her younger sisters, some of the Lucases, and two or three officers at one end of the room.
+
+Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too much engrossed by his thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas stood beside him, till Sir William thus began:
+
+“What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy!”
+
+“Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world. Every savage can dance. Why, I imagine even zombies could do it with some degree of success.”
+
+Sir William only smiled, not sure of how to converse with so rude a gentleman. He was much relieved at the sight of Elizabeth approaching.
+
+“My dear Miss Eliza, why are you not dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you.” He took Miss Bennet’s hand and presented it to Mr. Darcy, who was not unwilling to receive it. But she instantly drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William, “Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.”
+
+Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested the honour of her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined. She looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not injured her with Mr. Darcy, for indeed he was thinking of her with some complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley:
+
+“I can guess the subject of your reverie.”
+
+“I should imagine not.”
+
+“You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this manner—the insipidity, the noise, the nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all those people! What would I give to hear your strictures on them!”
+
+“You conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.”
+
+Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy replied:
+
+“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
+
+“Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” repeated Miss Bingley. “Defender of Longbourn? Heroine of Hertfordshire? I am all astonishment. You will be having a charming mother-in-law, indeed; and, of course, the two of you would fell many an unmentionable with your combined proficiencies in the deadly arts.”
+
+He listened to her with perfect indifference while she chose to entertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced her that all was safe, her wit flowed long.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 7
+
+
+
+
+MR. BENNET’S PROPERTY consisted almost entirely in an estate of two thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed, in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and unfortunately for all, was surrounded on all sides by high ground, making it troublesome to defend. Their mother’s fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand pounds.
+
+She had a sister married to a Mr. Philips, who had been a clerk to their father and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in London, where he had earned his letters in science, and where he now owned a pair of factories dedicated to the war effort.
+
+The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted thither three or four times a week, despite the unmentionables which frequently beset travelers along the road, to pay their duty to their aunt and to a milliner’s shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions; their minds were more vacant than their sisters’, and when nothing better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours, and occasionally, practice their skills. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, wresting coffins from the hardened earth and setting fire to them. Meryton was to be the headquarters.
+
+Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge of the officers’ names and connections, and fresh news from the battlefields of Derbyshire, Cornwall, and Essex—where the fighting was at its fiercest. They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr. Bingley’s large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of an ensign, and the excited manner in which he spoke of beheading the stricken with a single touch of his sword.
+
+After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr. Bennet coolly observed, “From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but I am now convinced.”
+
+“I am astonished, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that you should be so ready to think your own children silly.”
+
+“If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of it.”
+
+“Yes—but as it happens, they are all of them very clever. You forget how quickly they became proficient in those Oriental tricks you insisted on bestowing them.”
+
+“Being practiced enough to kill a few of the sorry stricken does not make them sensible, particularly when their skills are most often applied for the amusement of handsome officers.”
+
+“Mamma,” cried Lydia, “my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson’s as they did when they first came; she sees them now very often burning the crypts in Shepherd’s Hill Cemetery.”
+
+Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with a note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited for an answer.
+
+“Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about?”
+
+“It is from Miss Bingley,” said Jane, and then read it aloud.
+
+
+MY DEAR FRIEND,
+
+If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives, for a whole day’s tête-à-tête between two women can never end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on receipt of this, provided the road is free of the unmentionable menace. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers.
+
+Yours ever,
+
+CAROLINE BINGLEY
+
+
+
+
+
+“Dining out,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that is very unlucky, given the troubles on the road to Netherfield.”
+
+“Can I have the carriage?” said Jane.
+
+“No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to rain; and they spring so easily from the wet earth. I should prefer you have speed at your disposal; besides, if it rains, you must stay all night.”
+
+“That would be a good scheme,” said Elizabeth, “if you were sure that they would not offer to send her home.”
+
+“I had much rather go in the coach,” said Jane, clearly troubled by the thought of riding alone.
+
+“But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are they not?”
+
+“They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them, and too many slaughtered upon the road already.”
+
+Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her mother attended her to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a bad day. Her hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone long before it rained hard, and the soft ground gave way to scores of the disagreeable creatures, still clad in their tattered finery, but possessing none of the good breeding that had served them so well in life.
+
+Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was delighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission; Jane certainly could not come back.
+
+“This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!” said Mrs. Bennet more than once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the next morning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield brought the following note for Elizabeth:
+
+
+MY DEAREST LIZZY,
+
+I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be imputed to my being set upon by several freshly unearthed unmentionables during my ride to Netherfield. My kind friends will not hear of my returning till I am better. They insist also on my seeing Mr. Jones—therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear of his having been to me—and, excepting a few bruises and a minor stab wound, there is not much the matter with me.
+
+YOURS, ETC.
+
+
+
+
+
+“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note aloud, “if your daughter should die—or worse, succumb to the strange plague, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of Mr. Bingley, and under your orders.”
+
+“Oh! I am not afraid of her dying. People do not die of cuts and bruises. She will be taken good care of.”
+
+Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her, though the carriage was not to be had; and as she was no horsewoman, walking was her only alternative. She declared her resolution.
+
+“How can you be so silly,” cried her mother, “as to think of such a thing, with so many of them about, and in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get there, assuming you make it alive!”
+
+“You forget that I am student of Pei Liu of Shaolin, mother. Besides, for every unmentionable one meets upon the road, one meets three soldiers. I shall be back by dinner.”
+
+“We will go as far as Meryton with you,” said Catherine and Lydia. Elizabeth accepted their company, and they set off together, armed only with their ankle daggers. Muskets and Katana swords were a more effective means of protecting one’s self, but they were considered unladylike; and, having no saddle in which to conceal them, the three sisters yielded to modesty.
+
+“If we make haste,” said Lydia, as they walked cautiously along, “perhaps we may see something of Captain Carter before he goes.”
+
+In Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one of the officers’ wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing over puddles. During this impatient activity, a bootlace came undone. Not wanting to appear unkempt upon her arrival at Netherfield, she knelt down to tie it.
+
+There was suddenly a terrible shriek, not unlike that which hogs make while being butchered. Elizabeth knew at once what it was, and reached for her ankle dagger most expeditiously. She turned, blade at the ready, and was met with the regrettable visage of three unmentionables, their arms outstretched and mouths agape. The closest seemed freshly dead, his burial suit not yet discolored and his eyes not yet dust. He lumbered toward Elizabeth at an impressive pace, and when he was but an arm’s length from her, she plunged the dagger into his chest and pulled it skyward. The blade continued upward, cutting through his neck and face until it burst through the very top of his skull. He fell to the ground and was still.
+
+The second unmentionable was a lady, and much longer dead than her companion. She rushed at Elizabeth, her clawed fingers swaying clumsily about. Elizabeth lifted her skirt, disregarding modesty, and delivered a swift kick to the creature’s head, which exploded in a cloud of brittle skin and bone. She, too, fell and was no more.
+
+The third was unusually tall, and though long dead, still possessed a great deal of strength and quickness. Elizabeth had not yet recovered from her kick when the creature seized her arm and forced the dagger from it. She pulled free before he could get his teeth on her, and took the crane position, which she thought appropriate for an opponent of such height. The creature advanced, and Elizabeth landed a devastating chop across its thighs. The limbs broke off, and the unmentionable fell to the ground, helpless. She retrieved her dagger and beheaded the last of her opponents, lifting its head by the hair and letting her battle cry be known for a mile in every direction.
+
+Elizabeth found herself at last within view of the house, with weary ankles, dirty stockings, and a face glowing with the warmth of exercise.
+
+She was shown into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of surprise. That she should have walked three miles with so many unmentionables about, in such dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in contempt for it. She was received, however, very politely by them; and in their brother’s manners there was something better than politeness; there was good humour and kindness. Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr. Hurst nothing at all. The former was divided between admiration of the brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as to the occasion’s justifying her to take the great risk of coming alone, with nothing but a dagger between her and death. The latter was thinking only of his breakfast.
+
+
+
+“ELIZABETH LIFTED HER SKIRT, DISREGARDING MODESTY, AND DELIVERED A SWIFT KICK TO THE CREATURE’S HEAD.”
+
+Her inquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered. Miss Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish and not well enough to leave her room. Elizabeth attended her, silently worrying that her beloved sister had caught the strange plague.
+
+When breakfast was over, they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth began to like them herself, when she saw how much affection and solicitude they showed for Jane. The apothecary came, and having examined his patient, said, much to the relief of all, that she had caught not the strange plague, but a violent cold, no doubt from doing battle in the rain.
+
+When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage. When Jane testified such concern in parting with her, Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer to an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the present. Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was dispatched to Longbourn to acquaint the family with her stay and bring back a supply of clothes, and at Elizabeth’s request, her favourite musket.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 8
+
+
+
+
+AT FIVE O’CLOCK Elizabeth retired to meditate and dress, and at half-past six she was summoned to dinner. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing this, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how shocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked being ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter. Their indifference towards Jane when not immediately before them restored Elizabeth to her former dislike.
+
+Their brother, Mr. Bingley, was the only one of the party whom she could regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his attentions to herself most pleasing, and they prevented her feeling herself so much an intruder as she believed she was considered by the others.
+
+When dinner was over, Elizabeth returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her manners were pronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence; she had no conversation, no style, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst thought the same, and added, “She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being well-schooled in the ways of combat. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really looked almost wild.”
+
+“She did, indeed, Louisa. Why must she be scampering about the country in such dangerous times, because her sister had a cold? Her hair, so untidy, so blowsy!”
+
+“Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain; and pieces of undead flesh upon her sleeve, no doubt from her attackers.”
+
+“Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,” said Bingley; “but this was all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably well when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice.”
+
+“You observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley; “and I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see your sister make such an exhibition.”
+
+“Certainly not.”
+
+“To walk three miles, or whatever it is, above her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! With the unmentionable menace dragging poor souls off the road and to their doom day and night? What could she mean by it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence, a most country-town indifference to decorum.”
+
+“It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,” said Bingley.
+
+“I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,” observed Miss Bingley in a half whisper, “that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes.”
+
+“Not at all,” he replied; “they were brightened by the exercise.” A short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again:
+
+“I have an excessive regard for Miss Jane Bennet, she is really a very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it.”
+
+“I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney on Meryton.”
+
+“Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.”
+
+“That is capital,” added her sister, and they both laughed heartily.
+
+“If they had uncles enough to fill all Cheapside,” cried Bingley, “it would not make them one jot less agreeable. Have you no regard for them as warriors? Indeed, I have never seen ladies so steady-handed in combat.”
+
+“But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any consideration in the world,” replied Darcy. To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their hearty assent.
+
+With a renewal of tenderness, however, they returned to Jane’s room on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee. She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her sleep, and when it seemed to her rather right than pleasant that she should go downstairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole party at cards, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting them to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the excuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay below, with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.
+
+“Do you prefer reading to cards?” said he; “that is rather singular.”
+
+“I prefer a great many things to cards, Mr. Hurst,” said Elizabeth; “Not the least of which is the sensation of a newly sharpened blade as it punctures the round belly of a man.”
+
+Mr. Hurst was silent for the remainder of the evening.
+
+“In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,” said Bingley; “and I hope it will be soon increased by seeing her quite well.”
+
+Elizabeth thanked him, and then walked towards the table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her others—all that his library afforded.
+
+“And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever looked into.”
+
+Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in the room.
+
+“I am astonished,” said Miss Bingley, “that my father should have left so small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!”
+
+“It ought to be good,” he replied, “it has been the work of many generations.”
+
+“And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books.”
+
+“I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these. What have we to do but stay indoors and read till the cure is at last discovered?”
+
+Elizabeth turned her attention away from her book and drew near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game.
+
+“Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?” said Miss Bingley; “will she be as tall as I am?”
+
+“I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s height, or rather taller.”
+
+“How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so extremely accomplished for her age!”
+
+“It is amazing to me,” said Bingley, “how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished as they all are.”
+
+“All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?”
+
+“They all paint tables, cover screens, and net purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished.”
+
+“The word is applied,” said Darcy, “to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. My sister Georgiana deserves the distinction, however, for she is not only master of the female arts, but the deadly as well. I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are thus accomplished.”
+
+“Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley.
+
+“Then, Mr. Darcy,” observed Elizabeth, “you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman.”
+
+“A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages; she must be well trained in the fighting styles of the Kyoto masters and the modern tactics and weaponry of Europe. And besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half-deserved. All this she must possess, and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.”
+
+“I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing any.”
+
+“Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility of all this?”
+
+“I never saw such a woman. In my experience, a woman is either highly trained or highly refined. One cannot afford the luxury of both in such times. As for my sisters and I, our dear father thought it best that we give less of our time to books and music, and more to protecting ourselves from the sorry stricken.”
+
+Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order. All conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room.
+
+“Elizabeth Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, “is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art.”
+
+“Undoubtedly,” replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed, “there is a meanness in all the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable.”
+
+Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to continue the subject.
+
+Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones being sent for immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most eminent physicians. This she would not hear of—it was too dangerous to dispatch a rider at night; but she was willing to comply with their brother’s proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness, however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 9
+
+
+
+
+ELIZABETH PASSED THE CHIEF of the night in her sister’s room, and in the morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the inquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid. She requested to have a note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her own judgment of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, but the rider was met with a group of freshly unearthed zombies on the road and dragged off to his presumable demise.
+
+The note was dispatched a second time with more success, and its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her two youngest girls and their longbows, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast.
+
+Had she found Jane in any apparent danger of having the strange plague, Mrs. Bennet would have been very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She would not listen, therefore, to her daughter’s proposal of being carried home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think it at all advisable. Bingley met them with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected.
+
+“Indeed I have, sir,” was her answer. “She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness.”
+
+“Removed!” cried Bingley. “It must not be thought of!”
+
+Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.
+
+“I am sure,” she added, “if it was not for such good friends I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, no doubt due to her many months under the tutelage of Master Liu.”
+
+“Might I expect to meet this gentleman here in Hertfordshire?” asked Bingley.
+
+“I rather think you shan’t,” she replied, “for he has never left the confines of the Shaolin Temple in Henan Province. It was there that our girls spent many a long day being trained to endure all manner of discomfort.”
+
+“May I inquire as to the nature of this discomfort?”
+
+“You may inquire,” said Elizabeth, “though I would much prefer to give you a demonstration.”
+
+“Lizzy,” cried her mother, “remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.”
+
+“I hardly knew you to possess such character,” said Bingley.
+
+“My own character is of little consequence,” replied Elizabeth. “It is the character of others which concerns me. I devote a great many hours to the study of it.”
+
+“The country,” said Darcy, “can in general supply but a few subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society.”
+
+“Excepting, of course, when the country is overrun with the same unmentionables as town.”
+
+“Yes, indeed,” cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood. “I assure you there is quite as much of that going on in the country as in town.” Everybody was surprised, and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment, turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete victory over him, continued her triumph.
+
+“I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, particularly since the wall was built. It may be a fortress replete with shops, but it is a fortress nonetheless—and hardly fit for the fragile nerves of a gentle lady. The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is it not, Mr. Bingley?”
+
+“When I am in the country,” he replied, “I never wish to leave it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their advantages, both in regards to the plague and otherwise. For while I sleep more soundly in the safety of town, I find my general disposition much improved by my present surroundings.”
+
+“Aye—that is because you have the right disposition. But that gentleman,” looking at Darcy, “seemed to think the country was nothing at all.”
+
+“Indeed, Mamma, you are mistaken,” said Elizabeth, blushing for her mother. “You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there was not such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in the town, which you must acknowledge to be true. Just as Mr. Darcy would surely acknowledge that the scarcity of graveyards makes the country altogether more agreeable in times such as these.”
+
+“Certainly, my dear; but as to not meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four-and-twenty families. Well, three-and-twenty, I suppose—God rest poor Mrs. Long’s soul.”
+
+Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth tremble. She longed to speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs. Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part indeed without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to each other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming into the country to give a ball at Netherfield.
+
+Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion and good-humoured countenance. She had every bit of Lizzy’s deadly nature, though little of her sense, and had vanquished her first unmentionable at the remarkable age of seven-and-one-half years. She was very equal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this sudden attack was delightful to their mother’s ear.
+
+“I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing when she is ill.”
+
+Lydia declared herself satisfied. “Oh! Yes—it would be much better to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given your ball,” she added, “I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not.”
+
+Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations’ behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of her, in spite of all Miss Bingley’s witticisms on fine eyes.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 10
+
+
+
+
+THE DAY PASSED much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing-room. The card table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing their game.
+
+Elizabeth took up the oiling of her musket stock, and was sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion.
+
+“How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!”
+
+He made no answer.
+
+“You write uncommonly fast.”
+
+“And you prattle uncommonly much.”
+
+“How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!”
+
+“And how odious indeed that I should so often suffer to write them in your company.”
+
+“Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.”
+
+“I have already told her so once, by your desire.”
+
+“How can you contrive to write so even?”
+
+He was silent.
+
+“Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp; and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table.”
+
+“Miss Bingley, the groans of a hundred unmentionables would be more pleasing to my ears than one more word from your mouth. Were you not otherwise agreeable, I should be forced to remove your tongue with my saber.”
+
+“Oh! It is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?”
+
+“They are generally long; but whether always charming it is not for me to determine.”
+
+“It is a rule with me that a person who can write a long letter with ease, cannot write ill.”
+
+“That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,” cried her brother, “because he does not write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?”
+
+Mr. Darcy continued to work on his letter in silence, though Elizabeth perceived him to be a great deal annoyed with his friends.
+
+When that business was over, Mr. Darcy applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth for an indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with some alacrity to the pianoforte; and, after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead the way, she seated herself.
+
+Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister as Elizabeth played.
+
+
+When once the earth was still and dead were silent,
+
+And London-town was for but living men,
+
+Came the plague upon us swift and violent,
+
+And so our dearest England we defend.
+
+
+While they were thus employed, Elizabeth could not help observing how frequently Mr. Darcy’s eyes were fixed on her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of admiration to so great a man; and yet that he should look at her because he disliked her, was still more strange. She could only imagine, however, that she drew his notice because there was something more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked him too little to care for his approbation.
+
+Miss Bingley played next, varying the charm by a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near Elizabeth, said to her:
+
+“Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?”
+
+She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some surprise at her silence.
+
+“Oh!” said she, “I heard you before, but I could not immediately determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say ‘Yes,’ that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all—and now despise me if you dare.”
+
+“Indeed I do not dare.”
+
+Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his gallantry; and Darcy had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really believed, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he should be in some danger of falling in love, and were it not for his considerable skill in the deadly arts, that he should be in danger of being bested by hers—for never had he seen a lady more gifted in the ways of vanquishing the undead.
+
+Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her great anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received some assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth. She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance.
+
+“I hope,” said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery the next day, “you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after officers. And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to check Miss Bennet’s unladylike affinity for guns, and swords, and exercise, and all those silly things best left to men or ladies of low breeding.”
+
+“Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?”
+
+At that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth herself.
+
+“I did not know that you intended to walk,” said Miss Bingley, in some confusion, lest she had been overheard.
+
+“You used us abominably ill,” answered Mrs. Hurst, “running away without telling us that you were coming out.”
+
+Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness, and immediately said:
+
+“This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the avenue.”
+
+But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them, laughingly answered:
+
+“No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a fourth. Besides, that path is most assuredly rife with zombies, and I have not the inclination to engage in fighting them off to-day. Good-bye.”
+
+She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the hope of being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 11
+
+
+
+
+WHEN THE LADIES REMOVED after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her sister, and seeing her well, attended her into the drawing-room, where she was welcomed by Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst with many professions of pleasure. Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable as they were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared. Despite their lack of fighting skill, she had to admit that their powers of conversation were considerable. “If only words were capable of beheading a zombie,” she thought, “I would presently find myself in the company of the world’s two greatest warriors.”
+
+But when the gentlemen entered, Miss Bingley’s eyes were instantly turned toward Darcy, and she had something to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed himself to Jane, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst also made her a slight bow, and said he was “very glad indeed that it had been but a cold, and not the strange plague.” But the greatest warmth remained for Bingley’s salutation. He was full of joy and attention. The first half-hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she should suffer from the change of room. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to anyone else. Elizabeth took to the small grinding wheel in the corner of the room and watched it all with great delight whilst sharpening the gentlemen’s swords—which she had found embarrassingly dull upon examination.
+
+When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the card-table—but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr. Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and the silence of the whole party on the subject seemed to justify her. Mr. Hurst had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch himself on one of the sofas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same; and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with one of Elizabeth’s throwing stars, joined now and then in her brother’s conversation with Miss Bennet.
+
+Miss Bingley’s attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr. Darcy’s progress through his book, as in reading her own; and she was perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her question, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, “How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading!”
+
+“Spoken like one who has never known the ecstasy of holding a still-beating heart in her hand,” said Darcy.
+
+Miss Bingley—who was quite used to having her lack of combat training impugned—made no reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest for some amusement; when hearing her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him and said:
+
+“By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield? I would advise you to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure.”
+
+“If you mean Darcy,” cried her brother, “he may go to bed, if he chooses, before it begins—but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and as soon as the ground has sufficiently hardened and the present increase in unmentionables has passed, I shall send round my cards.”
+
+“I should like balls infinitely better,” she replied, “if they were carried on in a different manner.”
+
+“You should like balls infinitely better,” said Darcy, “if you knew the first thing about them.”
+
+Elizabeth blushed and suppressed a smile—slightly shocked by his flirtation with impropriety, and slightly impressed that he should endeavor to flirt with it at all. Miss Bingley, ignorant of his meaning, made no answer, and soon afterwards she got up and walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well; but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation of her feelings, she resolved on one effort more, and, turning to Elizabeth, said:
+
+“Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude.”
+
+Elizabeth needed no such refreshment—she had once been ordered to maintain a handstand for six days in the blistering Beijing sun—but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked up and unconsciously closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing that he could imagine but two motives for their choosing to walk up and down the room together, either of which his joining them would upset. “What could he mean?” She was dying to know what could be his meaning—and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him?
+
+“Not at all,” was her answer; “but depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing about it.”
+
+Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of such self-discipline, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his two motives.
+
+“I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,” said he. “You either choose this method of passing the evening because you are incapable of sitting quietly, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking; if the first, you are but silly girls undeserving of my attention, and if the second, I can admire you much better from here. In fact, the glow of the fire casts quite a revealing silhouette against the fabric of your gowns.”
+
+“Oh! Shocking!” cried Miss Bingley, stepping away from the fireplace. “I never heard anything so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?”
+
+“I have several ideas on the subject,” said Elizabeth, “but I’m afraid none would meet with the approval of the present party. Have you no insight into his weaknesses, you and he being so intimately acquainted?”
+
+“Upon my honour, I do not. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me that. Mr. Darcy possesses calmness of manner, presence of mind, and bravery in battle.”
+
+“Yes, but does he not also possess vanity and pride?”
+
+“Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed, said Miss Bingley, “but pride—where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.”
+
+Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.
+
+“Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,” said Miss Bingley, “and pray what is the result?”
+
+“I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect.”
+
+“No,” said Darcy, “I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. I have taken many a life for offenses which would seem but trifles to other men.”
+
+“That is a failing indeed!” cried Elizabeth. “But you have chosen your fault well, for it is one which I share. I too live by the warrior code, and would gladly kill if my honour demanded it. You are safe from me.”
+
+“There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil—a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.”
+
+“And your defect, Mr. Darcy, is to hate everybody.”
+
+“And yours,” he replied with a smile, “is willfully to misunderstand them.”
+
+“Do let us have a little music,” cried Miss Bingley, tired of a conversation in which she had no share. “Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst?”
+
+Her sister had not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was opened; and Darcy was not sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 12
+
+
+
+
+IN CONSEQUENCE OF AN AGREEMENT between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the next morning to their mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which would exactly finish Jane’s week, could not bring herself to receive them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was disappointing. Mrs. Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage before Tuesday, for it had been badly damaged by errant musket balls during a skirmish between soldiers and a party of the sorry stricken near the encampment at Meryton.
+
+This was at least partially true—for the carriage had indeed been caught in a crossfire when Catherine and Lydia used it to visit with a group of officers; but the damage was in fact less severe than Mrs. Bennet suggested. In her postscript it was added that if Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them. Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley’s carriage immediately, and at length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning should be mentioned, and the request made.
+
+The request excited many professions of concern; and enough was said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to allow the ground to further harden; and till the morrow their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was then sorry that she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike of Elizabeth much exceeded her affection for Jane.
+
+Mr. Bingley heard with real sorrow that they were to go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be safe for her—that she was not enough recovered to fight if the carriage should meet with trouble; but Jane reminded him that Elizabeth was as capable a bodyguard as there was in all of England.
+
+To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence—Elizabeth had been at Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked—and Miss Bingley was uncivil to her, and more teasing than usual to himself. He resolved that no sign of admiration should now escape him. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke ten words to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were at one time left by themselves for half an hour, he adhered most conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her.
+
+On Sunday, after morning service, the separation took place. Miss Bingley’s civility to Elizabeth increased at last very rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted, after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her to see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield and embracing her most tenderly, she even shook hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of the whole party in the liveliest of spirits.
+
+The ride to Longbourn was altogether agreeable, save for a brief encounter with a small herd of zombie children, no doubt from Mrs. Beechman’s Home for Orphans, which had recently fallen along with the entire parish of St. Thomas. Mr. Bingley’s coachman could not help but vomit down the front of his cravat at the sight of the tiny devils grazing on sun-hardened corpses in a nearby field. Elizabeth kept her musket close, lest they advance. But luck was on their side, and the cursed children took no notice of the carriage.
+
+They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet thought them very wrong to give so much trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again. Her protests were inflamed by the sight of vomit on the coachman’s cravat—a sure sign that they had encountered unmentionables en route. But their father was truly glad to see them, for the evening sparring sessions had lost much of their animation by the absence of Jane and Elizabeth.
+
+They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of human nature; Catherine and Lydia had information for them of a different sort. Much had been done and much had been said in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers had dined lately with their uncle, a private had been flogged for engaging in base acts with a headless corpse, and it had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 13
+
+
+
+
+I HOPE, MY DEAR,” said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at breakfast the next morning, “that you have ordered a good dinner to-day, because I have reason to expect an addition to our family party.”
+
+“Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am sure, unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in—and I am sure my dinners are good enough for her, since she is an unmarried woman of seven-and-twenty, and as such should expect little more than a crust of bread washed down with a cup of loneliness.”
+
+“The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a stranger.”
+
+Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled. “A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr. Bingley, I am sure! I shall be extremely glad to see Mr. Bingley. But—good Lord! How unlucky! There is not a bit of fish to be got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell—I must speak to Hill this moment.”
+
+“It is not Mr. Bingley, you senseless old cur,” said her husband; “it is a person whom I never saw in the whole course of my life.”
+
+After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus explained:
+
+“About a month ago I received this letter; and about a fortnight ago I answered it. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases.”
+
+“Oh! My dear,” cried his wife, “Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing in the world that your estate should be entailed away from your own children!”
+
+Jane and Elizabeth tried to explain that all five of them were capable of fending for themselves; that they could make tolerable fortunes as bodyguards, assassins, or mercenaries if need be. But it was a subject on which Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of reason, and she continued to rail bitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of five daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.
+
+“It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,” said Mr. Bennet, “and nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn. But if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps be a little softened by his manner of expressing himself.”
+
+
+Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent,
+
+15th October
+
+DEAR SIR,
+
+The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured father always gave me much uneasiness. He was a great warrior, as you once were, and I know he looked with fondness upon the days when both of you fought side by side—back when the strange plague was but an isolated inconvenience. Since his passing, I have frequently wished to heal the breach; but for some time I was kept back by my own doubts, fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be on good terms with anyone with whom my father had once vowed to castrate. My mind, however, is now made up on the subject, for having entered the priesthood, I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh . . .
+
+“Heavens!” cried Elizabeth, “He works for Lady Catherine!” “Let me finish,” said Mr. Bennet, sternly.
+
+
+
+. . . whose skill with blade and musket are unmatched, and who has slain more unmentionables than any woman known. As a clergyman, I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of peace in all families. If you should have no objection to receive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o’clock, and shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday following. I remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your well-wisher and friend,
+
+WILLIAM COLLINS
+
+
+
+
+
+“At four o’clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman,” said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. “He seems to be a most conscientious and polite young man, and I doubt not will prove a valuable acquaintance, especially in light of his association with Lady Catherine.
+
+Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a short, fat young man of five-and-twenty. His air was grave and stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated before he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of daughters; said he had heard much of their beauty, but that in this instance fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he could hardly wait to see a display of their legendary fighting skill.
+
+“You are very kind, I am sure; but I should rather see them with husbands than muskets, for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so oddly.”
+
+“You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.”
+
+“Ah! Sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you must confess.”
+
+“I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins, and could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies that I come prepared to admire them. At present I will not say more; but, perhaps, when we are better acquainted—”
+
+He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins’s admiration. The hall, the dining-room, and all its furniture, were examined and praised; and his commendation of everything would have touched Mrs. Bennet’s heart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his own future property. The dinner too was highly admired; and he begged to know to which of his fair cousins the excellency of its cookery was owing.
+
+Briefly forgetting her manners, Mary grabbed her fork and leapt from her chair onto the table. Lydia, who was seated nearest her, grabbed her ankle before she could dive at Mr. Collins and, presumably, stab him about the head and neck for such an insult. Jane and Elizabeth turned away so Mr. Collins would not see them laughing.
+
+He was set right by Mrs. Bennet, who assured him with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a good cook, and that her daughters were too busy training to be bothered with the kitchen. He begged pardon for having displeased Mary. In a softened tone she declared herself not at all offended; but he continued to apologise for about a quarter of an hour.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 14
+
+
+
+
+DURING DINNER, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to shine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady Catherine de Bourgh was not only one of the King’s richest servants, but also one of his deadliest. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise, offering that he had never in his life witnessed such self-discipline in a person of rank. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many people he knew, but he had never seen anything but a singular dedication to the art of killing zombies. She had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she made not the smallest objection to his watching her spar nor to his leaving the parish occasionally for a week or two, to visit his relations. She had even advised him to marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion.
+
+“I have oft dreamt of watching Lady Catherine spar,” said Elizabeth. “Does she live near you, sir?”
+
+“The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane from Rosings Park, her ladyship’s residence.”
+
+“I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any family?”
+
+“She has only one daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very extensive property.”
+
+“Ah!” said Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, “then she is better off than many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she handsome?”
+
+“She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says that, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far superior to the handsomest of her sex, because there is that in her features which marks the young lady of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has prevented her from following her mother’s example in regards to the deadly arts. I fear can she hardly lift a saber, let alone wield one with such skill as Her Ladyship.”
+
+“Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at court.”
+
+“Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine one day, has deprived the British court of its brightest ornament. You may imagine that I am happy to offer these little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to ladies.”
+
+“You judge very properly,” said Mr. Bennet. “May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?”
+
+“They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible.”
+
+Mr. Bennet’s expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance.
+
+When tea was over, Mr. Bennet was glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but, on beholding it (for everything announced it to be from a circulating library), he started back, and begging pardon, protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at him, and Lydia exclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he chose Fordyce’s Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she interrupted him with:
+
+“Do you know, mamma, that my Uncle Philips talks of an additional battalion coming to join Colonel Forster’s? My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about it, assuming one of my sisters is willing to join me.”
+
+Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said:
+
+“I have often observed how little young ladies are uninterested by books of a serious stamp. I will no longer importune my young cousin.”
+
+Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised for Lydia’s interruption, which, claimed Mrs. Bennet, would have earned her ten wet bamboo lashes had she still been under the tutelage of Master Liu. They promised that it should not occur again, if he would resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his young cousin no ill-will, and should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for backgammon.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 15
+
+
+
+
+MR. COLLINS WAS NOT a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of his life having been spent under the guidance of a brave but illiterate father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he had oft borne the condemnation of his peers for a perceived lack of bloodlust. The subjection in which his father had brought him up had given him much knowledge of the art of combat; but it was a good deal counteracted by his weak head, fleshy figure, and now, the ease of his current patronage. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who had been forced to behead her previous rector when he succumbed to the walking death.
+
+Having now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended to marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had a wife in view, as he meant to choose one of the daughters, if he found them as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report. This was his plan of amends—of atonement—for inheriting their father’s estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and suitableness, and excessively generous on his own part.
+
+His plan did not vary on seeing them. The eldest daughter’s lovely face and striking muscle tone confirmed his views, and for the first evening she was his settled choice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a quarter of an hour’s tête-à-tête with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a conversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally to the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress might be found for it at Longbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on. As to her younger daughters, she could not take upon her to say—she could not positively answer—but she did not know of any prepossession; her eldest daughter, she must just mention—she felt it incumbent on her to hint, was likely to be very soon engaged.
+
+Elizabeth, equally next to Jane in birth and beauty, and perhaps surpassing her in skill, succeeded her of course. Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have two daughters married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of the day before was now high in her good graces.
+
+Lydia’s intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every sister except Mary agreed to go with her, determined that she survive the trip. Mr. Collins was to attend them, at the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him, and have his library to himself.
+
+Mr. Collins used the walk to Meryton to his advantage, spending most of it at the side of Elizabeth—who was watching the surrounding woods, prepared to meet to first sign of trouble with her Brown Bess. Jane and the others followed behind, their muskets also thus engaged. Mr. Collins, who fancied himself a man of peace, carried neither barrel nor blade; he happily puffed away on his ivory and chestnut pipe—“a gift from her ladyship,” he boasted at every opportunity.
+
+They were scarcely a quarter mile past the old croquet grounds, when Elizabeth first caught the scent of death. Seeing her body tense, the other girls raised their muskets and closed ranks, ready to meet an attack from any direction.
+
+“Is . . . is there some sort of trouble?” asked Mr. Collins, who suddenly looked as if he might faint.
+
+Elizabeth pressed a finger to her lips, and motioned for her sisters to follow. She led them along a set of carriage tracks, her footsteps so light as to leave even the smallest grain of sand undisturbed. The tracks continued for a few yards before suddenly veering toward the woods, where broken branches signaled the very spot it had left its wheels and plummeted into the ravine that paralleled one side of the road. Elizabeth peered over the side. Some twenty yards below, eight or nine blood-soaked zombies crawled over a shattered wagon and its leaking barrels. Most of them were busy picking at the innards of the carriage horse; but one happy dreadful was scooping the last morsels from the broken skull of the driver—a young girl the sisters recognized at once.
+
+“Good Heavens!” whispered Jane. “Penny McGregor! Oh! Poor, miserable girl! How often we warned her not to ride alone!”
+
+Penny McGregor had delivered lamp oil to Longbourn, and most of the estates within thirty miles of Meryton, since she was scarcely old enough to talk. The McGregors owned a modest home not far from town, where they daily received cartfuls of whale blubber, and processed it into lamp oil and fine perfumes. The smell was unbearable, especially during summer; but their goods were desperately needed, and the McGregors were known to be among the most pleasant people in all of Hertfordshire.
+
+“God have mercy on that wretched girl,” said Mr. Collins, who had joined them.
+
+“Can’t we just be on our way?” asked Lydia. “There’s no helping her now. Besides, think of how dirty our dresses will get if we have to fight in that awful ravine.” As Jane expressed her shock at such a sentiment, and Kitty argued in favor of it, Elizabeth took the pipe from Mr. Collins’ mouth, blew on the glowing tobacco, and threw it over the side.
+
+“That was a gift from her ladyship!” he cried, loud enough to draw the attention of the zombies below. They looked up and let loose their terrible roars, which were cut short by a violent, fiery explosion as pipe and oil met. Suddenly engulfed, the zombies staggered about, flailing wildly and screaming as they cooked. Jane raised her Brown Bess, but Elizabeth pushed the barrel aside.
+
+“Let them burn,” she said. “Let them have a taste of eternity.”
+
+Turning to her cousin, who had averted his eyes, she added, “You see, Mr. Collins . . . God has no mercy. And neither must we.”
+
+Though angered by her blasphemy, he thought better of saying anything on the matter, for he saw in Elizabeth’s eyes a kind of darkness; a kind of absence—as if her soul had taken leave, so that compassion and warmth could not interfere.
+
+Upon entering Meryton, after stopping at the McGregors to deliver the unhappy news, the eyes of the younger ones were immediately wandering up in the street in quest of the officers, and nothing less than a very smart bonnet indeed, or the wail of the undead, could recall them.
+
+But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom they had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking with another officer on the other side of the way. The other officer, Mr. Denny, was known to Lydia, and he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the stranger’s air, all wondered who he could be; and Kitty and Lydia, determined to find out, led the way across the street, under pretense of wanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained the pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, had reached the same spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated permission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with him the day before from town, and he was happy to say had accepted a commission in their corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the young man wanted only regimentals to make him completely charming. His appearance was greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation—a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the whole party were still standing and talking together very agreeably, when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley were seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the ladies of the group, the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and began the usual civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and Jane Bennet the principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to Longbourn on purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated it with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by the sight of the stranger.
+
+Elizabeth happened to see the countenance of both as they looked at each other, so slight as to escape all but her highly trained eye. Both changed colour, one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few moments, touched his hat—a salutation which Mr. Darcy just deigned to return. Elizabeth could tell by the miniscule twitches of Darcy’s sword hand that he had briefly flirted with the notion of drawing his blade. What could be the meaning of it?
+
+In another minute, Mr. Bingley, without seeming to have noticed what passed, took leave and rode on with his friend.
+
+Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of Mr. Philips’s house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia’s pressing entreaties that they should come in, and even in spite of Mrs. Philips’s throwing up the parlour window and loudly seconding the invitation.
+
+Mrs. Philips was always glad to see her nieces; and the two eldest, from their recent absence, were particularly welcome. Her civility was claimed towards Mr. Collins by Jane’s introduction of him. She received him with her very best politeness, which he returned with as much more, apologising for his intrusion, without any previous acquaintance with her. Mrs. Philips was quite awed by such an excess of good breeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon put to an end by exclamations and inquiries about the other; of whom, however, she could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that Mr. Denny had brought him from London, and that he was to have a lieutenant’s commission in the regiment which was presently engaged to the North. She had been watching him the last hour, she said, as he walked up and down the street, and had Mr. Wickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued the occupation, but unluckily no one passed windows now except a few of the officers, who, in comparison with the stranger, were become “stupid, disagreeable fellows.” Some of them were to dine with the Philipses the next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr. Wickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn would come in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Philips protested that they would have a little bit of hot supper, and a nice comfortable noisy game of Crypt and Coffin. The prospect of such delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits.
+
+As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass between the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either or both, had they appeared to be in the wrong, she could no more explain such behaviour than her sister.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 16
+
+
+
+
+AS NO OBJECTION was made to the young people’s engagement with their aunt, the coach conveyed Mr. Collins and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton.
+
+As they passed the croquet grounds and the scorched acre of woods that marked Penny McGregor’s final resting place, the idle chatter that had engaged them thus far was suddenly ended; for all six could think of nothing but the news which had only that morning reached them at Longbourn. Penny’s father, mad with grief, had thrown himself into a vat of boiling perfume. By the time his apprentices pulled him out, he had been badly disfigured and rendered blind. Doctors were unsure if he would survive, or if the stench would ever leave him. All sat in reverent silence until they reached the outskirts of Meryton.
+
+Upon reaching their destination, Mr. Collins was at leisure to look around him and admire, and he was so much struck with the size and furniture of the apartment, that he declared he might almost have supposed himself in one of Lady Catherine’s drawing-rooms. Mrs. Philips felt all the force of the compliment, being herself quite aware of Lady Catherine’s proclivity for slaying the sorry stricken, which, she dare thought, exceeded that of her own nieces’.
+
+In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her mansion, which had received considerable improvements, including a grand dojo, and new quarters for her private guard of ninjas, Mr. Collins was happily employed until the gentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs. Philips a very attentive listener, whose opinion of his consequence increased with what she heard, and who was resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as soon as she could. To the girls, who could not listen to their cousin without taking a silent inventory of the countless ways they could kill him, the interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last, however. The gentlemen did approach, and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room, Elizabeth felt as if she had just been stunned by a devastating roundhouse kick. Such was his effect on her—that those traits of her sex, despite all her training, remained susceptible to influence. The officers of the shire were in general a very creditable, gentlemanlike set; but Mr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and walk, as they were superior to the broad-faced, stuffy Uncle Philips, breathing port wine, who followed them into the room.
+
+Mr. Wickham was the happy man toward whom almost every female eye was turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into conversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, made her feel that the commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered interesting by the skill of the speaker.
+
+With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham and the officers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; to the young ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a kind listener in Mrs. Philips, and was by her watchfulness, most abundantly supplied with coffee and muffin. When the card-tables were placed, he had the opportunity of obliging her in turn, by sitting down to Crypt and Coffin.
+
+Mr. Wickham did not play at Crypt and Coffin, and with ready delight was he received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there seemed danger of Lydia’s engrossing him entirely, for she was a most determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of cards, she soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager to know whether players would find their “crypts” eerily empty or their “coffins” happily full. Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear him, though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told—the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in a hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there.
+
+“About a month,” said Elizabeth. “He is a man of many kills, I understand.”
+
+“Yes,” replied Mr. Wickham; “his talent as a warrior is above reproach. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself, for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy.”
+
+Elizabeth could not but look surprised.
+
+“You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as a lady of your training probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?”
+
+“As much as I ever wish to be,” cried Elizabeth very warmly. “I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very disagreeable.”
+
+“I have no right to give my opinion,” said Wickham, “as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for me to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish—and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else, other than here in your own family.”
+
+“Upon my word, I say no more here than I might say in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. I hope your plans in favour of the shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.”
+
+“Oh! No—it is not for me to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If he wishes to avoid seeing me, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding him. We are, after all, both warriors—and it is beneath the honour of a warrior to shrink from the sight of any man. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best zombie slayers that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I believe I could forgive him anything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father.”
+
+Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented further inquiry.
+
+Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, excluding of course the ever-increasing number of unmentionables—no doubt a direct consequence of Manchester’s collapse.
+
+“A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made it unavoidable, as they have for so many who intended otherwise with their lives. The church ought to have been my profession—I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now.”
+
+“Indeed!”
+
+“Yes—the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when he was slain in the Second Battle of Kent, it was given elsewhere.”
+
+“Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth; “but how could that be? How could his will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal redress?”
+
+“There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it—or to treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence—in short anything or nothing. But the fact is, that we are very different sort of men, and that he hates me.”
+
+“This is quite shocking! He deserves to be felled at the end of a Zatoichi Cane Sword!”
+
+“Some time or other he will be—but it shall not be by me. Till I can forget his father, I can never expose him or challenge him to duel.”
+
+Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than ever as he expressed them.
+
+“But what,” said she, after a pause, “can have been his motive? What can have induced him to behave so cruelly?”
+
+“A thorough, determined dislike of me—a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father’s uncommon attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early in life. He could find no fault with me, and I dare say it drove Darcy to resent my very existence. And when his father passed, he saw his opportunity to punish me for years of perceived injustice.”
+
+“I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this—though I have never liked him. I never suspected him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this.”
+
+Mr. Wickham related to Elizabeth a tale from his youth, which he believed best illustrated the nature of that inhumanity. When he and Darcy were both boys of no more than seven years, the elder Darcy had taken a keen interest in their training. One day, during a daybreak spar, the young Wickham landed a severe kick, which sent Darcy to the ground. The elder Darcy implored Wickham to “finish” his son with a blow to the throat. When the boy protested, the elder Darcy—rather than punishing him for insolence, praised his generosity of spirit. The young Darcy, embarrassed more by his father’s preference than his own defeat, attacked Wickham when his back was turned—sweeping his legs with a quarterstaff, and shattering the bones of both. It was nearly a year before he walked without the aid of a cane.
+
+“Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?”
+
+“Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the poor. He has also brotherly pride, which, with some brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian of his sister.”
+
+“What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?”
+
+He shook his head. “I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother—very, very proud. As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and, I understand, highly skilled in the deadly arts. Since her father’s death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her training.”
+
+After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not help reverting once more to the first, and saying:
+
+“I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley, who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other? Do you know Mr. Bingley?”
+
+“Not at all.”
+
+“He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr. Darcy is.”
+
+The Crypt and Coffin party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other table and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips. The usual inquiries as to his success was made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had found the majority of his crypts quite full of zombies; but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged that she would not make herself uneasy.
+
+“I know very well, madam,” said he, “that when persons sit down to a game of Crypt and Coffin, they must take their chances of these things, and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters.”
+
+Mr. Wickham’s attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation was very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh.
+
+“Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” she replied, “has very lately given him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long.”
+
+“You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy.”
+
+“No, indeed, I did not. I knew only of Lady Catherine’s claim to quieting more of Satan’s servants than any woman in England.”
+
+“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 Mr. Darcy himself, unaware that he was already destined for another.
+
+“Mr. Collins,” said Elizabeth, “speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her daughter; but I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his patroness and a great warrior, 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. She has the reputation of being remarkably skilled; but I rather believe she derives part of her fame from her rank and fortune.”
+
+Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and 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; but there was not time for her even to mention his name as they went, for she and her sisters could hear the groans of unmentionables echoing through the pitch black woods on either side of the carriage. They were distant enough so as not to arouse a fear of imminent attack, but close enough to necessitate a minimum of noise. They rode in silence, the girls with their firearms resting neatly on their laps. For once, Mr. Collins could not be persuaded to make a sound.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 17
+
+
+
+
+ELIZABETH RELATED TO JANE the next day what had passed between Mr. Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern; she knew not how to believe that 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. The possibility of his having his legs shattered was enough to interest all her tender feelings; and nothing remained to be done, but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each, and throw into the account of accident or mistake whatever could not be otherwise explained.
+
+“They have both,” said she, “been deceived in some way or other. Interested people have perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is impossible for us to conjecture the causes which may have alienated them, without actual blame on either side.”
+
+“Very true, indeed; and 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 favourite in such a manner, one whom his father had trained in the deadly arts and promised to provide for. It is impossible.”
+
+“I can much 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 not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks.”
+
+“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—that Mr. Bingley, if he had been imposed on, would have much to suffer when the affair became public, and may even feel a duel necessary to restore his honour. She could hardly bear the thought.
+
+The two young ladies were summoned from the dojo, 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. Jane and Elizabeth were embarrassed to receive callers in their sparring gowns, but their unusual appearance did not deter the ladies from being delighted to see them—particularly, their dear friend Jane. The ladies 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 to herself a happy evening in the society of her two friends, and the attentions of their brother; and 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.
+
+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; and 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,” said he, “that a ball of this kind, given by a young man of character, can have any evil tendency; and I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins in the course of the evening; and I take this opportunity of soliciting yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially, a preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right cause, and not to any disrespect for her.”
+
+Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed being engaged by Mr. Wickham for those very dances; and 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 soon after afflicted with a most palpable urge to vomit, and politely cupped her hands lest the sight of her sick distress the present party. Thankfully, the urge subsided quickly, but the realization that invited it remained. Did this fat little priest mean to take her as a wife? She was horrified at the thought of marrying of man whose only skill with a blade was cutting slivers of gorgonzola.
+
+If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for, the younger Miss Bennets would have been in a very pitiable state, 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. The earth was again soft, and the dead numerous. 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; and nothing less than a dance on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday endurable to Kitty and Lydia.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 18
+
+
+
+
+TILL ELIZABETH ENTERED the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of redcoats 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 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 Denny, who told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business the day before, to attend a demonstration of a new carriage that boasted of being impervious to attacks by the manky dreadfuls. This assured Elizabeth that Darcy was not answerable for Wickham’s absence, and her every feeling of displeasure against the former was sharpened by immediate disappointment. She was resolved against any sort of conversation with him.
+
+Having told all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she had not seen for a week, Elizabeth 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; they were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and uncommonly round, 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. “If Master Liu had seen such a lapse of awareness! Twenty lashes at least, and another twenty trips up and down the thousand steps of Kwan Hsi!”
+
+“I dare say you will find Mr. Darcy very agreeable,” Charlotte tried to console her.
+
+“Heaven forbid! That would be the greatest misfortune of all!”
+
+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 ten times his consequence. Elizabeth made no answer, and took her place in the set. 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 sort 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.”
+
+“On the contrary, I find that balls are much more enjoyable when they cease to remain private.” Elizabeth could not help but blush, but she was determined that her face betray not the slightest hint of amusement. Instead, she added archly; “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, or be regarded as uncommonly clever.”
+
+“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 meet with zombies on their walks 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 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 his ability to walk for a twelvemonth, I understand.”
+
+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, for she is as ferocious as she is fetching! I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Eliza (glancing at her sister and Bingley) shall take place. What congratulations will then flow in! But let me not interrupt you, sir. You will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching young lady. Oh! To think of the ways her many skills could be put to amorous employ!”
+
+Darcy directioned his eyes with a very serious expression toward Bingley and Jane, who were dancing together. Recovering himself, however, he turned to his partner, and said, “Sir William’s interruption has made me forget what we were talking of.”
+
+“I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have interrupted two people in the room who had less to say for themselves. We have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.”
+
+“What think you of Orientals?” said he, smiling.
+
+“Orientals—oh! No. I am sure we never met the same, or had the same feelings toward them.”
+
+“But if that be the case, we may compare our different opinions. I think them a strange lot—both in appearance and custom, though having studied solely in Japan, I admit that the opinion may be incomplete. I should be most interested to hear of your time in the company of Chinamen.”
+
+“No—I cannot talk of Orientals in a ball-room; my head is always full of something else.”
+
+“The present always occupies you in such scenes—does it?”
+
+“Yes, always,” she replied, without knowing what she said, for her thoughts had wandered far from the subject—to the pain of Master Liu’s glowing brand searing her flesh; to sparring matches with her sisters atop a beam no wider than their swords, as pikes waited to punish an ill-placed foot below. Her mind returning to the present, she suddenly exclaimed, “I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its being created.”
+
+“I am,” said he, with a firm voice.
+
+“And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”
+
+“I hope not.”
+
+“It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.”
+
+“May I ask to what these questions tend?”
+
+“Merely to the illustration of your character,” said she, endeavouring to shake off her gravity. “I am trying to make it out.”
+
+“And what is your success?”
+
+She shook her head. “I do not get on at all. I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.”
+
+“I can readily believe,” answered he gravely, “that reports may vary greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment.”
+
+“But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity.”
+
+“I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” he coldly replied. She said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in silence; and on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree, for in Darcy’s breast there was a tolerable powerful feeling toward her, which soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against another.
+
+Elizabeth then sought her eldest sister. “I want to know what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But perhaps you have been too pleasantly engaged to think of any third person; in which case you may be sure of my pardon.”
+
+“No,” replied Jane, “I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of his history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which have principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the good conduct, the probity, and honour of his friend. I am sorry to say by his account, Mr. Wickham is by no means a respectable young man.”
+
+“Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?”
+
+“No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.”
+
+“I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley’s sincerity,” said Elizabeth warmly; “but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances only. Mr. Bingley’s defense of his friend was a very able one, but since he is unacquainted with several parts of the story, I shall venture to still think of both gentlemen as I did before.”
+
+She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each. Elizabeth listened with delight to the happy, though modest hopes which Jane entertained of Mr. Bingley’s regard, and said all in her power to heighten her confidence in it. On their being joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew to Miss Lucas; to whose inquiry after the pleasantness of Darcy she had scarcely replied, before her fat cousin Mr. Collins came up to them, and told her with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as to make a most important discovery.
+
+“Ah! May I suppose, then, that you have discovered the location of the buffet?” said Elizabeth, rudely.
+
+“No! I have found out,” said he, “by a singular accident, that there is now in the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to overhear the gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who does the honours of the house the names of his cousin Miss de Bourgh, and of her mother Lady Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would have thought of my meeting with, perhaps, a nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in this assembly! I am most thankful that the discovery is made in time for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to do.”
+
+“You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy!”
+
+“Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it earlier. I believe him to be Lady Catherine’s nephew.”
+
+Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme, assuring him that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without introduction as an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment to his aunt; that it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in consequence, to begin the acquaintance. When Elizabeth ceased speaking, Mr. Collins replied thus:
+
+“My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world in your excellent judgment in all matters within the scope of your understanding, particularly in the slaying of Satan’s armies; but permit me to say, that there must be a wide difference between the established forms of ceremony amongst the laity, and those which regulate the clergy. After all, you may wield God’s sword, but I wield His wisdom. And it is wisdom, dear cousin, which will ultimately rid us of our present difficulties with the undead.”
+
+“You will excuse me for saying so, but I have never seen a zombie’s head taken off by words—nor do I ever expect to.”
+
+“You must allow me to follow the dictates of my conscience on this occasion, which leads me to perform what I look on as a point of duty.”
+
+With a low bow he left her to attack Mr. Darcy, whose reception of his advances she eagerly watched, and whose astonishment at being so addressed was very evident. Her cousin prefaced his speech with a solemn bow, and though she could not hear a word of it, she felt as if hearing it all, and saw in the motion of his lips the words “apology,” “Hunsford,” and “Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” It vexed her to see him expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him with unrestrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him time to speak, replied with an air of distant civility. Mr. Collins, however, was not discouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy’s contempt seemed abundantly increasing with the length of his second speech, and at the end of it he only made him a slight bow, and moved another way.
+
+As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she turned her attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley. She saw her in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection could bestow; and she felt capable, under such circumstances, of endeavouring even to like Bingley’s two sisters. Her mother’s thoughts were plainly bent the same way, and she determined not to venture near her, lest she suffer her endless prattling. When they sat down to supper, therefore, Elizabeth considered it a most unlucky perverseness which placed them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to find that her mother was talking to Lady Lucas freely, openly, and of nothing else but her expectation that Jane would soon be married to Mr. Bingley. It was an animating subject, and Mrs. Bennet seemed incapable of fatigue while enumerating the advantages of the match. His being such a charming young man, and so rich, and living but three miles from them, were the first points of self-gratulation; and then it was such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of Jane, and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as she could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her younger daughters, as Jane’s marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of other rich men. “Oh! What joy to see them all thus provided for! To see them entertaining at their own estates; raising their own children, instead of all this silly training and fighting.” She concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be equally fortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing there was no chance of it.
+
+In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her mother’s words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible whisper; for, to her inexpressible vexation, she could perceive that the chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to them. Her mother only scolded her for being nonsensical, her breath thick with meat and port.
+
+“What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say nothing he may not like to hear.”
+
+“For heaven’s sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be for you to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to his friend by so doing!”
+
+Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Elizabeth blushed and blushed again with shame and vexation. She could not help frequently glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though every glance convinced her of what she dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her mother, she was convinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression of his face changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and steady gravity.
+
+At length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady Lucas, who had been long yawning at the repetition of delights which she saw no likelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts of cold ham and chicken. Elizabeth now began to revive. But not long was the interval of tranquillity; for, when supper was over, not a servant was to be found to attend to their empty plates. Seeing his guests grow restless, Mr. Bingley rose from his seat and excused himself—no doubt to scold his steward for the embarrassment.
+
+Upon his return, Elizabeth promptly reached for her ankle dagger. Mr. Bingley’s white face and troubled countenance were enough to solicit such a reaction.
+
+“Mr. Darcy, if I may have the pleasure of your company in the kitchen,” said Bingley. Darcy rose, taking care not to move too quickly, lest he alarm the guests. Elizabeth took it upon herself to follow him. When Darcy took notice of this, he turned to her and said, in a whisper, “Miss Bennet, I would much prefer you took your seat. I am quite capable of attending to Mr. Bingley myself.”
+
+“Of that I have no doubt, Mr. Darcy. Just as I have no doubt in my ability to form my own opinion on the matter. Now, do you wish to cause a stir, or shall we to the kitchen?”
+
+Mr. Bingley led the two of them down a hidden staircase and into the cellar, which was divided into two halves by a long corridor—one side belonging to the servants’ quarters and armory, the other to the exercise parlor and kitchen. It was in the latter that a most unfortunate sight awaited them. Two adult unmentionables—both of them male—busied themselves feasting upon the flesh of the household staff. How two zombies could have killed a dozen servants, four maids, two cooks, and a steward was beyond Elizabeth’s comprehension, but she knew precisely how they had gotten in: The cellar door had been opened to let in the cool night air and relieve the oppression of the woodstoves.
+
+“Well, I suppose we had ought to take all of their heads, lest they be born to darkness,” she said.
+
+Mr. Bingley observed the desserts his poor servants had been attending to at the time of their demise—a delightful array of tarts, exotic fruits, and pies, sadly soiled by blood and brains, and thus unusable.
+
+“I don’t suppose,” said Darcy, “that you would give me the honour of dispensing of this unhappy business alone. I should never forgive myself if your gown were soiled.”
+
+“The honour is all yours, Mr. Darcy.”
+
+Elizabeth thought she detected the slightest smile on his face. She
+
+
+
+“TWO ADULT UNMENTIONABLES—BOTH OF THEM MALE—BUSIED THEMSELVES FEASTING UPON THE FLESH OF THE HOUSEHOLD STAFF.”
+
+watched as Darcy drew his blade and cut down the two zombies with savage yet dignified movements. He then made quick work of beheading the slaughtered staff, upon which Mr. Bingley politely vomited into his hands. There was no denying Darcy’s talents as a warrior.
+
+“If only,” she thought, “his talents as a gentleman were their equal.”
+
+When they returned to the ball, they found the spirits of the others very much disturbed. Mary was entertaining them at the pianoforte, her shrill voice testing the patient ears of all present. Elizabeth looked at her father to entreat his interference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the hint, and when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud:
+
+“That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough. Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit.”
+
+To Elizabeth it appeared that, had her family made an agreement to embarrass themselves as much as they could during the evening, it would have been impossible for them to play their parts with more success.
+
+The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was teased by Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her side, and though he could not prevail on her to dance with him again, he put it out of her power to dance with others, by using his thick middle to hide her from view. In vain did she offer to introduce him to any young lady in the room. He assured her, that he was perfectly indifferent to it; that his chief object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to her and that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. She owed her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often joined them, and good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins’s conversation to herself.
+
+She was at least free from the offense of Mr. Darcy’s further notice; though often standing within a very short distance of her, quite disengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She felt it to be the probable consequence of her allusions to Mr. Wickham, and rejoiced in it.
+
+When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn, and addressed herself especially to Mr. Bingley, to assure him how happy he would make them by eating a family dinner with them at any time, without the ceremony of a formal invitation. Bingley was all grateful pleasure, and he readily engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on her, after his return from London, whither he was obliged to go the next day for a meeting of the Society of Gentlemen for a Peaceful Solution to Our Present Difficulties, of which he was a member and patron.
+
+Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied, and quitted the house under the delightful persuasion that she should see her daughter settled at Netherfield, her weapons retired forever, in the course of three or four months. Of having another daughter married to Mr. Collins, she thought with equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal, pleasure. Elizabeth was the least dear to her of all her children; and though the man and the match were quite good enough for her, the worth of each was eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 19
+
+
+
+
+THE NEXT DAY opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his declaration in form. On finding Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together, soon after breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words:
+
+“May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth, when I solicit for the honour of a private audience with her in the course of this morning?”
+
+Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise, Mrs. Bennet answered instantly, “Oh dear! Yes—certainly. I am sure Lizzy will be very happy—I am sure she can have no objection. Come, Kitty, I want you upstairs.” And, gathering her work together, she was hastening away, when Elizabeth called out:
+
+“Dear madam, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must excuse me. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not hear. I am going away myself.”
+
+“No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you to stay where you are.” And upon Elizabeth’s seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about to escape, she added: “Lizzy, I insist upon your staying and hearing Mr. Collins.”
+
+Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as soon as they were gone, Mr. Collins began.
+
+“Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty adds to your other perfections. You would have been less amiable in my eyes had there not been this little unwillingness; but allow me to assure you, that I have your respected mother’s permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the purport of my discourse, for however preoccupied you might be with hastening the Devil’s retreat—for which I earnestly applaud you—my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as soon as I entered the house, I singled you out as the companion of my future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this subject, perhaps it would be advisable for me to state my reasons for marrying—and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with the design of selecting a wife, as I certainly did.”
+
+The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run away with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing, that she could not use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him further, and he continued:
+
+“My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for every clergyman to set the example of matrimony in his parish. Secondly, that I am convinced it will add very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly, that it is the particular advice and recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness. It was but the very Saturday night before I left Hunsford that she said, ‘Mr. Collins, you must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose a gentlewoman for my sake; and for your own, let her be an active, useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.’ Allow me, by the way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice and kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the advantages in my power to offer. You will find her powers of combat beyond anything I can describe; and your own talents in slaying the stricken, I think, must be acceptable to her, though naturally, I will require you to retire them as part of your marital submission.”
+
+It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.
+
+“You are too hasty, sir,” she cried. “You forget that I have made no answer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my thanks for the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than to decline them.”
+
+“I am not now to learn,” replied Mr. Collins, “that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second, or even a third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.”
+
+“You forget, sir, that I am a student of Shaolin! Master of the seven-starred fist! I am perfectly serious in my refusal. You could not make me happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who could make you so. Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the situation, for I am a warrior, sir, and shall be until my last breath is offered to God.”
+
+“Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,” said Mr. Collins very gravely, “but I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all disapprove of you. And you may be certain when I have the honour of seeing her again, I shall speak in the very highest terms of your modesty, economy, and other amiable qualification.”
+
+“Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You must give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment of believing what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise.” And rising as she thus spoke, she would have quitted the room, had Mr. Collins not thus addressed her:
+
+“When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the subject, I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given me. I know it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on the first application.”
+
+“Really, Mr. Collins,” cried Elizabeth, “you puzzle me exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form of encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as to convince you of its being one.”
+
+“You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your refusal of my addresses is merely words of course.”
+
+To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would make no reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, if he persisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering encouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered in such a manner as to be decisive, and whose behavior at least could not be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 20
+
+
+
+
+MR. COLLINS WAS NOT left long to the silent contemplation of his successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open the door and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and herself in warm terms on the happy prospect of their nearer connection. Mr. Collins received and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview.
+
+This information startled Mrs. Bennet; she would have been glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared not believe it, and could not help saying so.
+
+“But, depend upon it, Mr. Collins,” she added, “that Lizzy shall be brought to reason. I will speak to her about it directly. She is a very headstrong, foolish girl, and does not know her own interest—but I will make her know it.”
+
+Hurrying instantly to her husband, she called out as she entered the library, “Oh! Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him.”
+
+Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern.
+
+“I have not the pleasure of understanding you,” said he, when she had finished her speech. “Of what are you talking?”
+
+“Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy.”
+
+“And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems a hopeless business.”
+
+“Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her marrying him.”
+
+“Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion.”
+
+Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the library.
+
+“Come here, child,” cried her father as she appeared. “I have sent for you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?” Elizabeth replied that it was.
+
+“Very well—and this offer of marriage you have refused?”
+
+“I have, sir.”
+
+“Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?”
+
+“Yes, or I will never see her again.”
+
+“An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you again if you do not marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you do; for I shall not have my best warrior resigned to the service of a man who is fatter than Buddha and duller than the edge of a learning sword.”
+
+Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning, but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the affair as she wished, was excessively disappointed.
+
+“What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, in talking this way?”
+
+“My dear,” replied her husband, “I have two small favours to request. First, that you will spare me the expense of having your lips sewn shut; and secondly, that you will allow me the free use of my room. I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon as may be.”
+
+Not yet, however, did Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again; coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane in her interest; but Jane, with all possible mildness, declined interfering; and Elizabeth, sometimes with real earnestness, and sometimes with playful gaiety, replied to her attacks. Though her manner varied, however, her determination never did.
+
+While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who cried in a half whisper, “I am glad you are come, for there is such fun here! What do you think has happened this morning? Mr. Collins has made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him.”
+
+Lydia noticed that Charlotte was flush with the warmth of exercise and had a rather disconcerted look on her face. “Charlotte? Are you ill?”
+
+Charlotte hardly had time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty, who came to tell the same news; and no sooner had they entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her family. “Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,” she added in a melancholy tone, “for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me. I am cruelly used, nobody feels for my poor nerves.”
+
+Charlotte’s reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth.
+
+“Aye, there she comes,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “looking as unconcerned as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were the very unmentionables she takes such pleasure in occupying her time with. But I tell you, Miss Lizzy—if you take it into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way, you will never get a husband at all—and I am sure I do not know who is to maintain you when your father is dead.”
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 21
+
+
+
+
+THE DISCUSSION OF MR. COLLINS’S offer was now nearly at an end. The gentleman himself scarcely spoke to her, and his assiduous attentions were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose civility in listening to him was a seasonable relief to them all, and especially to her friend. Indeed, Charlotte seemed to flatter Mr. Collins with an almost unnatural attentiveness.
+
+The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet’s ill-humour or ill health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth had hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did not appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on Saturday, and to Saturday he meant to stay.
+
+After breakfast, the girls retired to the dojo and attended to their mid-week musket disassembly and cleaning. With those very weapons on their person, they next set out for to Meryton to inquire if Mr. Wickham were returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball.
+
+They were less than a mile from Longbourn when Kitty, who had elected to take point, abruptly stopped, and signaled for the others to do so as well. She raised her musket, but at what, Elizabeth and the other girls knew not, for the road seemed free of trouble. After standing thus for a moment, a single chipmunk scurried out of the woods on their right. It darted across their path with considerable rapidity, before disappearing into the woods on the left. Lydia could not help but laugh at the sight. “My dear Kitty, how shall we ever thank you for sparing our toes a most unfortunate tickling!”
+
+But Kitty kept her musket at the ready, and, after a moment, a second chipmunk scurried across the road with equal alacrity. It was followed in short order by a pair of weasels, then a skunk, then a fox and her pups. More creatures followed, and in ever-increasing numbers; as if Noah himself beckoned, offering refuge from some unseen flood. By the time deer began to leap across their path, the other girls had their muskets trained on the tree line, ready for the herd of zombies they suspected would appear at any moment.
+
+The first was a young, freshly dead female in a white lace wedding gown, which, like her skin, was surprisingly white—almost shockingly so, save for the bright red rubies that dripped from her mouth and onto the lace covering her bosom. Kitty put the creature down with a shot to the face, upon which Lydia placed her barrel against its head and promptly dispatched it to Hell. So close was this shot, that the bride’s hair was set alight by the powder flash. “Seems a shame,” said Lydia, as acrid smoke began to rise. “Wasting perfectly good wedding clothes like tha . . . “
+
+The wail of another zombie interrupted her; his flowing white beard and half-eaten face attached to a stout body, which was clad in a blood-crusted blacksmith’s apron. Elizabeth and Jane aimed and discharged their muskets; Jane’s ball finding one of the creature’s eyes, and Elizabeth’s striking its neck—cutting through the brittle flesh and separating head from body.
+
+These zombies were followed by several more—each vanquished as quickly as the last, until the cracking of powder at last fell silent. Sensing the danger passed, the sisters lowered their barrels, and spoke of setting off again for Meryton. But these plans were belated by a most unusual noise from beyond the tree line. It was a shrill shrieking, neither human nor animal, and yet unlike any zombie wail the sisters had ever heard. It grew closer, and once again, all muskets were trained and readied. But when the source of this strange noise revealed itself, their barrels were lowered.
+
+“Oh! No . . .” said Jane. “Oh! It simply cannot be!”
+
+A long-dead female zombie stumbled out of the woods, her modest clothing slightly tattered; her brittle hair pulled back so tightly that it had begun to tear the skin of her forehead. In her arms, she held something exceedingly rare; something none of the sisters had ever seen, or ever wished to see—an unmentionable infant. It clawed at the female’s flesh, emitting a most unpleasant series of shrieks. Elizabeth raised her musket, but Jane was quick to grab the barrel.
+
+“You mustn’t!”
+
+“Have you forgotten your oath?”
+
+“It’s an infant, Lizzy!”
+
+“A zombie infant—no more alive than the musket I mean to silence it with.”
+
+Elizabeth again raised her weapon and aimed. The female dreadful was now more than halfway across the road. She trained her sights on the elder’s head; her finger caressing the trigger. She would put it down, reload, and dispense of them both. All she had to do was squeeze. And yet . . . she did not. There was a strange force at work, a feeling she faintly recalled from her earliest days, before she had first traveled to Shaolin. It was a curious feeling; something akin to shame, but without the dishonor of defeat—a shame that demanded no vengeance. “Could there be honor in mercy?” she wondered. It contradicted everything she had been taught, every warrior instinct she possessed. Why then could she not fire? Hopelessly bemused, Elizabeth lowered her musket, and the zombies continued into the woods until they were seen no more.
+
+It was agreed that none of them would ever speak of it.
+
+Wickham joined the sisters on their entering the town, and attended them to their aunt’s, where his regret and vexation, and concern upon hearing of the regrettable fate of Mr. Bingley’s household staff was well talked over. To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged that the necessity of his absence had been self-imposed.
+
+“I found,” said he, “as the time drew near that I had better not meet Mr. Darcy; that to be in the same room, with the very man who crippled me for a twelvemonth, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes might arise unpleasant to more than myself.”
+
+Elizabeth highly approved his forbearance, which was greater than her own, for she confessed that a duel would have almost certainly ensued, had she been in his place. Wickham and another officer walked back with them to Longbourn, and during the walk he particularly attended to her. His accompanying them was a triple advantage: the compliment of his attention, an occasion of introducing him to her father and mother, and the presence of an extra warrior, should they encounter trouble on the road.
+
+Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little, hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady’s fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister’s countenance change as she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some particular passages. “This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains has surprised me a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their way to town—and without any intention of coming back again. You shall hear what she says.”
+
+She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information of their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly, and of their meaning to dine in Grosvenor Street, where Mr. Hurst had a house. The next was in these words: “I do not pretend to regret anything I shall leave in the perilous, zombie-covered country, except your society, my dearest friend; but we will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many returns of that delightful intercourse we have known, and in the meanwhile may lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that.” To these highflown expressions Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of distrust; and though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she saw nothing to lament.
+
+“It is unlucky,” said she, “that you should not be able to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not hope that the period of future happiness to which Miss Bingley looks forward may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful intercourse you have known as friends will be renewed with yet greater satisfaction as sisters? Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by them.”
+
+“Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you:’ When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which took him to London might be concluded in three or four days; but we are certain it cannot be so. Many of my acquaintances are already there for the winter; I wish that I could hear that you, my dearest friend, had any intention of making one of the crowd—but of that I despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and be not the least bit similar to the Christmas of two years past, which resulted in so many unpleasantries.’ It is evident by this,” added Jane, “that he comes back no more this winter.”
+
+“It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean that he should,” said Elizabeth.
+
+“Mr. Bingley is his own master. Perhaps the sight of his bloodied staff was too much for his delicate character. But you do not know all. I will read you the passage which particularly hurts me: ‘Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister and we are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and skill in the deadly arts; and the affection she inspires in Louisa and myself is heightened from the hope we dare entertain of her being hereafter our sister. My brother admires her greatly already; he will have frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing. With all these circumstances to favour an attachment, and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness of so many?’”
+
+“What do you think of this sentence, my dear Lizzy?” said Jane as she finished it. “Is it not clear enough? Does it not expressly declare that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she is perfectly convinced of her brother’s indifference; and that if she suspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to put me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?”
+
+“Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear it?”
+
+“Most willingly.”
+
+“You shall have it in a few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. I dare say she means to keep you from his attentions. Your honour demands she be slain.”
+
+Jane shook her head. “You forget yourself, Lizzy.”
+
+“Jane, no one who has ever seen you together can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley, I am sure, cannot. She may not be a warrior, but she has cunning enough. Dearest sister, I implore you—this unhappiness is best remedied by the hasty application of a cutlass to her throat.”
+
+“If we thought alike,” replied Jane, “my honour would be restored at the expense of losing Mr. Bingley’s affections forever. And what, pray, would be the purpose? Caroline is incapable of willfully deceiving anyone; and all that I can hope in this case is that she is deceiving herself.”
+
+“Is it she who is deceived, or you? You forget yourself, Jane—you have allowed your feelings for Mr. Bingley to soften the instincts bestowed by our Oriental masters.”
+
+Though they could not agree on a course of action, Jane and Elizabeth agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the family, but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern, and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen to go away just as they were all getting so intimate together. After lamenting it, however, at some length, she had the consolation that Mr. Bingley would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration, that though he had been invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two full courses.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 22
+
+
+
+
+THE BENNETS WERE ENGAGED to dine with the Lucases, and again, during the chief of the day, was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins. Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. “It keeps him in good humour,” said she, “and I am more obliged to you than I can express.”
+
+This was very amiable, but Charlotte’s kindness extended farther than Elizabeth had any conception of; its object was nothing else than to secure her from any return of Mr. Collins’s proposals, by engaging them towards herself. Such was Miss Lucas’s scheme; and appearances were so favourable, that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost secure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon. But here she did injustice to the fire and independence of his character, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw himself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins, from a conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known till its success might be known likewise; for though feeling almost secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging, he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Elizabeth’s rejection. His reception, however, was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas perceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and instantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had she dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there.
+
+In as short a time as Mr. Collins’s long speeches would allow, everything was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as they entered the house he earnestly entreated her to name the day that was to make him the happiest of men.
+
+Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent; and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins’s present circumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom they could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate, with more interest than the matter had ever excited before, how many years longer Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife should take up residence and dispense of the unsightly dojo post haste. The whole family, in short, were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The least agreeable circumstance in the business was the surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship Charlotte valued beyond that of any other person. Would she disapprove? Or worse, would she have no desire of further acquaintance? Charlotte resolved to give her the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins, when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence burst forth in such very direct questions on his return as required some ingenuity to evade.
+
+As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet, with great politeness and cordiality, said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his engagements might allow him to visit them.
+
+“My dear madam,” he replied, “this invitation is particularly gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible.”
+
+They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for so speedy a return, immediately said:
+
+“But is there not danger of Lady Catherine’s disapprobation here, my good sir? You had better neglect your relations than run the risk of offending your patroness.”
+
+“My dear sir,” replied Mr. Collins, “I am particularly obliged to you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so material a step without her ladyship’s concurrence.”
+
+“You cannot be too much upon your guard. Risk anything rather than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly probable, be satisfied that we shall take no offence.”
+
+“Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive from me a letter of thanks for this, and for every other mark of your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, I shall now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my cousin Elizabeth.”
+
+Elizabeth had been expecting such a slight and determined to show not the least offense at it, lest he gain some measure of victory over her. She instead smiled, and said, “And I, Mr. Collins, wish you the safest of journeys—for there have been such an uncommon number of dreadfuls on the roads of late, that an encounter seems unavoidable. I am certain, however, that yours will be the exception.”
+
+With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally surprised that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him. But on the following morning, every hope of this kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before.
+
+The possibility of Mr. Collins’s fancying himself in love with her friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two; but that Charlotte could encourage him seemed almost as far from possibility as she could encourage him herself.
+
+“Engaged to Mr. Collins! My dear Charlotte—impossible!”
+
+Miss Lucas calmly replied:
+
+“Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you think it incredible that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman’s good opinion, because you thought him ill-suited to be the husband of so great a woman as yourself?”
+
+Such an affront would have been met with fists had it come from any other person, but in this case, Elizabeth’s affections were greater even than her honour. Seeing no hope of persuading her otherwise, she wished Charlotte all imaginable happiness.
+
+“I see what you are feeling,” replied Charlotte. “You must be surprised, very much surprised—so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to marry you. But when you have had time to think it over, I hope you will be satisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic, you know; I never was. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins’s character, connection, and situation in life, I am convinced that my chance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on entering the marriage state—especially since, oh! Elizabeth, I beg you will not be angry with me or cut me down where I stand! But Elizabeth, I can have no secrets from you—I have been stricken.”
+
+Elizabeth gasped. Her closest friend, stricken by the plague! Condemned to serve Satan! Her instincts demanded she back away. She listened as Charlotte recounted the unhappy event, which occurred during her Wednesday walk to Longbourn. Daring to make the trip alone and unarmed, she had hastened upon the road undisturbed, until she happened upon an overturned chaise and four. Seeing no unmentionables about, Charlotte approached and knelt—readying her eyes to meet the gruesome visage of a crushed coachman. To her horror, she was instead met by the grasp of a zombie who had been trapped beneath the carriage. Her leg caught in its bony fingers, she screamed as the creature’s teeth broke her skin. She was able to free herself and continue to Longbourn, but Hell’s dark business had been carried out.
+
+“I don’t have long, Elizabeth. All I ask is that my final months be happy ones, and that I be permitted a husband who will see to my proper Christian beheading and burial.”
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 23
+
+
+
+
+ELIZABETH WAS SITTING with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what she had heard, and resolving to speak of it to no one, when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter, to announce her engagement to the family. With many compliments to them, he unfolded the matter—to an audience not merely wondering, but incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than politeness, protested he must be entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always unguarded and often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed:
+
+“Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? Do not you know that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?”
+
+Thankfully, Sir William had been trained as a tailor and not a warrior, for nothing less than the patience of a man who had threaded ten-thousand needles could have borne such treatment without anger.
+
+Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so unpleasant a situation, now put herself forward to confirm his account, by mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte herself. Mrs. Bennet was too much overpowered to say a great deal while Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than her feelings found a rapid vent. In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving the whole of the matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins had been taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be happy together; and fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two inferences, however, were plainly deduced from the whole: one, that Elizabeth was the real cause of the mischief; and the other that she herself had been barbarously misused by them all; and on these two points she principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could console and nothing could appease her. Nor did that day wear out her resentment.
+
+Mr. Bennet’s emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion; for it gratified him, he said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had been used to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and more foolish than his daughter!
+
+As for Elizabeth, she could hardly think on the matter without coming to tears, for she alone knew the sorrowful truth. She thought often of striking Charlotte down—of donning her Tabbi boots and slipping into her bedchamber under cover of darkness, where she would mercifully end her friend’s misery with the Panther’s Kiss. But she had given her word, and her word was sacred. She would not interfere with Charlotte’s transformation.
+
+Her grief for Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her sister, for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious, as Bingley had now been gone a week and nothing more was heard of his return.
+
+Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised letter of thanks from Mr. Collins (whose journey had been, against Elizabeth’s hopes, unencumbered by zombies) arrived on Tuesday, addressed to their father, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a twelvemonth’s abode in the family might have prompted. After discharging his conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them of his happiness in having obtained the affection of their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had been so ready to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at Longbourn, whither he hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; for Lady Catherine, he added, so heartily approved his marriage, that she wished it to take place as soon as possible, which he trusted would be an unanswerable argument with his amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him the happiest of men. Elizabeth could not help but feel for the poor fat fool; he had no idea what misery awaited.
+
+Mr. Collins’s return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of pleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary, she was as much disposed to complain of it as her husband. It was very strange that he should come to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient and exceedingly troublesome. She hated having visitors in the house while her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the most disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and they gave way only to the greater distress of Mr. Bingley’s continued absence. An hour seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her impatience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he did not come back she would think herself very ill used. It needed all Jane’s training under Master Liu to bear these attacks with tolerable tranquillity.
+
+Mr. Collins returned most punctually on Monday fortnight, but his reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his first introduction. He was too happy, however, to need much attention; and luckily for the others, the business of love-making relieved them from a great deal of his company. The chief of every day was spent by him at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time to make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed.
+
+Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of anything concerning the match threw her into an agony of illhumour, and wherever she went she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight of Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her successor in that house, she regarded her with jealous abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see them, she concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and whenever she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that they were talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself and her daughters out of the house, as soon as Mr. Bennet were dead. She complained bitterly of all this to her husband.
+
+“Indeed, Mr. Bennet,” said she, “it is very hard to think that Charlotte Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that I should be forced to make way for her, and live to see her take her place in it!”
+
+“My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for better things. Let us flatter ourselves that Mr. Collins, who seems always eager to talk of Heaven, may be dispatched there by a horde of zombies before I am dead.”
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 24
+
+
+
+
+MISS BINGLEY’S LETTER ARRIVED, and put an end to doubt. The very first sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for the winter, and concluded with her brother’s regret at not having had time to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left the country.
+
+Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest of the letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy’s praise occupied the chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on, and Caroline boasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy.
+
+Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this, heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern for her sister, and thoughts of going immediately to town and dispensing of the lot of them.
+
+“My dear Jane!” exclaimed Elizabeth, “you are too good. Your sweetness and disinterestedness are really angelic; you wish to think all the world respectable, and are hurt if I speak of killing anybody for any reason! Do not be afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your privilege of universal goodwill. You need not. There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every zombie confirms my belief that God has abandoned us as punishment for the evils of people such as Miss Bingley.”
+
+“My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference of situation and temper. For someone who so often speaks of our dear master, I fear you have forgotten much of his wisdom! Were we not taught to temper our feelings? We must not be so ready to fancy ourselves intentionally injured. It is very often nothing but our own vanity that deceives us.”
+
+“I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley’s conduct to design,” said Elizabeth; “but without scheming to do wrong, or to make others unhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness, want of attention to other people’s feelings, and want of resolution—grave offenses to one’s honour, all.”
+
+“And do you impute it to either of those?”
+
+“Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by saying what I think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you can.”
+
+“You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him?”
+
+“I believe it so ardently as to offer you my sword in their vanquishing.”
+
+“I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can only wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me, no other woman can secure it.”
+
+“Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they may wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great connections, and pride.”
+
+“Beyond a doubt, they do wish him to choose Miss Darcy,” replied Jane; “but this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have known her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love her better. But, whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely they should have opposed their brother’s. What sister would think herself at liberty to do it? If they believed him attached to me, they would not try to part us; if he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an affection, you make everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most unhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been mistaken. Let me take it in the best light.”
+
+Elizabeth could scarcely contain her anger; still, Jane was her elder, and leader of the Sisters Bennet. She had no choice but to obey. From this time Mr. Bingley’s name was scarcely ever mentioned between them.
+
+Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no more, and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account for it clearly, there was little chance of her ever considering it with less perplexity. Mrs. Bennet’s best comfort was that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.
+
+Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. “So, Lizzy,” said he one day, “your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate her. Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then. It is something to think of, and it gives her a sort of distinction among her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough in Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham be your man. He is a pleasant fellow, and might teach you something of those wifely parts of life which you, above all your sisters, have forsaken.
+
+“Thank you, sir, but I am perfectly content being the bride of death. We must not all expect Jane’s good fortune.”
+
+“True,” said Mr. Bennet, “but it is a comfort to think that whatever of that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will make the most of it.”
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 25
+
+
+
+
+AFTER A WEEK SPENT in professions of love and schemes of felicity, Mr. Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of Saturday. He took leave of his relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished his fair cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father another letter of thanks.
+
+On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving her brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend the Christmas at Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly superior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield ladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived by trade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so well bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger than Mrs. Bennet, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant woman, and a great favourite with all her Longbourn nieces. Between the two eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a particular regard. She had often provided encouragement to continue their training when it had become too severe, and provided refuge when their mother’s derision of their “savage nature” became intolerable.
+
+The first part of Mrs. Gardiner’s business on her arrival was to distribute her presents and describe the goings on in town; she spoke of subjects as diverse as new fashions and recent victories against the sorry stricken. When this was done she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen. Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They had all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her girls had been upon the point of marriage, and after all there was nothing in it.
+
+“I do not blame Jane,” she continued, “for Jane would have got Mr. Bingley if she could. But Lizzy! Oh, sister! It is very hard to think that she might have been Mr. Collins’s wife by this time had it not been for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very room, and she refused him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have a daughter married before I have, and that the Longbourn estate is just as much entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful people indeed, sister. They are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of them, but so it is.”
+
+Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before, in the course of Jane and Elizabeth’s correspondence with her, made her sister a slight answer, and, in compassion to her nieces turned the conversation.
+
+When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. “It seems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane,” said she. “I am sorry it went off. But these things happen so often! A young man, such as you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl for a few weeks, and when accident separates them, so easily forgets her.”
+
+“An excellent consolation in its way,” said Elizabeth, “but it will not do for us. It does not often happen that the interference of friends will persuade a young man of independent fortune to think no more of a girl whom he was violently in love with only a few days before.”
+
+“Pray, how violent was Mr. Bingley’s love?”
+
+“As violent as the monks of Dragon Mountain. Every time they met, it was more decided and remarkable.”
+
+“Poor Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get over it immediately. It had better have happened to you, Lizzy; you would have opened this Bingley’s stomach and strangled him with his own bowels, I suspect. Do you think she would be prevailed upon to go back to town with us? Change of scene might be of service—and perhaps a little relief from home may be as useful as anything.”
+
+Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded of her sister’s ready acquiescence. It was too long since her eyes had been filled with the delights of London; which, though quarantined by towering walls, and divided into sections by the King’s army, was still a city unrivaled in its ability to excite the senses.
+
+“I hope,” added Mrs. Gardiner, “that no consideration with regard to this young man will influence her. We go out so little, that it is very improbable that they should meet at all, unless he comes to see her.”
+
+“And that is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in Section Six East!”
+
+“So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all.”
+
+The Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment of her brother and sister that they did not once sit down to a family dinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always made part of it—of which Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and on these occasions, Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth’s warm commendation, narrowly observed them both. Their preference of each other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy; and she resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before leaving Hertfordshire.
+
+To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure, unconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago, before her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very part of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many acquaintances in common; and though Wickham had been little there since the death of Darcy’s father, it was yet in his power to give her fresher intelligence of her former friends than she had been in the way of procuring.
+
+Mrs. Gardiner had seen Mr. Darcy’s estate, Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by his reputation as a gentleman and powerful slayer of the undead. Here consequently was an inexhaustible subject of discourse. On being made acquainted with the present Mr. Darcy’s treatment of him, she tried to remember some of that gentleman’s reputed disposition, and was confident that she recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured boy.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 26
+
+
+
+
+MRS. GARDINER’S CAUTION to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given on the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone; after honestly telling her what she thought, she thus went on:
+
+“You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because you are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. I have nothing to say against him; he has felled many a zombie; and if he had the fortune he ought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is, you must not let your fancy run away with you.”
+
+“My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.”
+
+“Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.”
+
+“Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I can prevent it.”
+
+“Elizabeth, you are not serious now.”
+
+“I beg your pardon, I will try again. I am a warrior, madam: survivor of the thirty-six chambers of Shaolin, beholder of the scrolls of Gan Xian Tan. I do not seek love, and at present I am not in love with Mr. Wickham; though he is, beyond all comparison, the most agreeable man I ever saw—in form, character, and musketry. However, I see the imprudence of an attachment with one so deeply in want of fortune. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short, I will do my best.”
+
+“Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so very often. At least, you should not remind your mother of inviting him.”
+
+“You know my mother’s ideas as to the necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my honour, I will try to do what I think to be the wisest; and now I hope you are satisfied.”
+
+Her aunt assured her that she was, and Elizabeth having thanked her for the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice being given on such a point, without being resented.
+
+Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode with the Lucases, his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was now fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured tone, that she “wished they might be happy. “Thursday was to be the wedding day, and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she rose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother’s ungracious and reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her out of the room. As they went downstairs together, Charlotte said:
+
+“I promise to write for as long as I am able. I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.”
+
+“That you certainly shall.”
+
+“We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.”
+
+“I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to come to Hunsford.” Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the visit. Charlotte was already showing the earliest signs of transformation, though she took great care to hide them from all but the trained eye. Her skin had taken on a slight pallor, and her speech seemed a trifle laboured.
+
+“My father and Maria are coming to me in March,” added Charlotte, “and I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as welcome as either of them.”
+
+The wedding took place, and no one other than Elizabeth seemed to suspect the bride’s condition. Mr. Collins appeared happier than he ever had despite the fact that Charlotte had to be reminded to use her fork several times over the course of dinner. The bride and
+
+
+
+“THE WEDDING TOOK PLACE, AND NO ONE OTHER THAN ELIZABETH SEEMED TO SUSPECT THE BRIDE’S CONDITION.”
+
+bridegroom set off for Kent from the church door, and everybody had as much to say, or to hear, on the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that it should be equally affectionate was impossible. Charlotte’s first letters were received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would like Lady Catherine, and how her transformation was proceeding. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and roads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine’s behaviour was most friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins’s picture of Hunsford and Rosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait for her own visit there to know the rest. The only harbinger of Charlotte’s unhappy fate was her ever-worsening penmanship.
+
+Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce their safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped it would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys.
+
+Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience generally is. Jane had been a week in town without either seeing or hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that her last letter to her friend from Longbourn had by some accident been lost.
+
+“My aunt,” she continued, “is going to-morrow into that part of the town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Section Four Central.”
+
+She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley. “I did not think Caroline in spirits,” were her words, “but she was very glad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming to London. I was right, therefore, my last letter had never reached her. I inquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much engaged with Mr. Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that Miss Darcy was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was not long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall see them soon here.”
+
+Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. Jane was a fine killer, but a deficient judge of character. Indeed, her only weakness was her too-giving heart. Elizabeth was quite convinced that Caroline Bingley had no intentions of telling her brother about the visit, or even Jane’s being in town. Once again, her thoughts turned to the satisfaction of seeing Miss Bingley’s last rubies pour from her neck and down the front of her bodice.
+
+As she predicted, four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to persuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be blind to Miss Bingley’s inattention. After waiting at home every morning for a fortnight, the visitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay and the alteration of her manner would allow Jane to deceive herself no longer. The letter which she wrote to her sister will prove what she felt.
+
+
+MY DEAREST LIZZY,
+
+You will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in your better judgement, at my expense, when I confess myself to have been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley’s regard for me. But, my dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not think me obstinate if I still assert that my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. Caroline did not return my visit till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the meantime. When she did come, it was very evident that she had no pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal apology, for not calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and was in every respect so altered a creature, that when she went away I was perfectly resolved to follow her into the street and confront her as you suggested, and, had I been appropriately dressed for an outing, I might have. He knows of my being in town, I am certain, from something she said herself; and yet it would seem, by her manner of talking, as if she wanted to persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Darcy. I can not understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should be almost tempted to demand satisfaction. But I will endeavour to banish every painful thought, and think only of what will make me happy—your affection, and the invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from you very soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never returning to Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not with any certainty. We had better not mention it. I am extremely glad that you have such pleasant accounts from our friends at Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir William and Maria. I am sure you will be very comfortable there.
+
+YOURS, ETC.
+
+
+
+
+
+This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned as she considered that Jane would no longer be duped, and that her focus might once again turn to combat. All expectation from the brother was now absolutely over. She would not even wish for a renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on every review of it; and as a punishment for him, as well as a possible advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr. Darcy’s sister, as by Wickham’s account, she would make him abundantly regret what he had thrown away.
+
+Mrs. Gardiner about this time wrote and reminded Elizabeth of her promise concerning that gentleman, and required information; Elizabeth assured her that his apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over, he was the admirer of someone else. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering himself agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clearsighted perhaps in this case than in Charlotte’s, did not quarrel with him for his wish of independence. Nothing, on the contrary, could be more natural; and while able to suppose that it cost him a few struggles to relinquish her, she was ready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very sincerely wish him happy.
+
+All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating the circumstances, she thus went on: “I am now convinced, my dear aunt, that I have never been much in love; for had I really experienced that pure and elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name, and wish him all manner of evil. But I find my thoughts returning to the protection of our beloved England, for truly there can be no higher purpose; indeed the feelings of one young lady seem rather insignificant in comparison. My talents and my times demand my service, and I believe the Crown more pleased to have me on the front lines than at the altar.”
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 27
+
+
+
+
+WITH NO GREATER EVENTS than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton (less often interrupted by zombies on account of the hardened earth of winter), did January and February pass away. March was to take Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of going thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was struggling to keep the last of her senses, and Elizabeth thought it an appropriate tribute to their former friendship to see her one last time. She found that absence, as well as pity, had also weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. The journey would moreover give her a peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have been very sorry for any delay. Everything, however, went on smoothly, and was finally settled. She was to accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement of spending a night in London was added in time, and the plan became perfect as a plan could be.
+
+The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on his side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that Elizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the first to listen and to pity, the first to be admired.
+
+Her fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her think him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a good-humoured girl, but as empty-headed and untrained as himself, had nothing to say that could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much delight as the rattle of the chaise. It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early as to be in Section Six East by noon. The coachman, as was the custom on trips to town, had employed two young men from Meryton to ride beside him with muskets. This was done in spite of the fact that Elizabeth was herself fully armed, and more than capable of defending them should they encounter any unpleasantness.
+
+When they were but three miles from London, and Sir William was prattling on about the particulars of his knighthood for the second time in as many hours, the chaise lurched to a halt. The suddenness of this was enough to send Maria flying from one side of the carriage to the other, and was promptly followed by frightened shouts and the crack of powder outside. Had Elizabeth not been graced with steady nerves and the fortitude of years of combat, she might have gasped upon pulling back one of the curtains—for there were no less than one hundred unmentionables surrounding them on all sides. One of the young musket men had been dragged off the chaise and was being devoured, while the other two living men fired clumsily into the crowd as the hands of the dead pulled at their pant legs. Elizabeth grabbed her Brown Bess and Katana sword and told Sir William and Maria to remain as they were.
+
+She kicked open the door and sprang atop the coach. From here Elizabeth could appreciate the full measure of their predicament, for rather than one hundred unmentionables, she now perceived no less than twice that number. The coachman’s leg was in the possession of several zombies, who were quite close to getting their teeth on his ankle. Seeing no alternative, Elizabeth brought her sword down upon his thigh—amputating the leg, but saving the man. She picked him up with one arm and lowered him into the coach, where he fainted as blood poured forth from his new stump. Sadly, this action prevented her from saving the second musket man, who had been pulled from his perch. He screamed as the dreadfuls held him down and began to tear organs from his living belly and feast upon them. The zombies next turned their attention to the terrified horses. Elizabeth knew that she and the present party were all doomed to slow deaths if the horses should fall into Satan’s hands, so she sprang skyward, firing her musket as she flew through the air, her bullets penetrating the heads of several unmentionables. She landed on her feet beside one of the horses, and with her sword, began cutting down the attackers with all the grace of Aphrodite, and all the ruthlessness of Herod.
+
+Her feet, fists, and blade were too swift for the clumsy horde, and they began to retreat. Seeing her chance, Elizabeth sheathed her Katana, sprang into the driver’s box, and grabbed the reins. The zombies had already begun to regroup as she cracked the coachman’s whip, driving the horses forward and carrying them down the road at a rather unsafe speed, until she was satisfied that the danger had passed.
+
+Shortly thereafter, they approached the southern face of London’s wall. Though she had once walked upon China’s Great Wall, Elizabeth was nonetheless impressed whenever she had occasion to lay eyes upon Britain’s Barrier. Considered alone, each section offered little to boast of. The wall was similar in height and appearance to that of many older castles, and punctuated by the occasional gorge tower or cannon port. But considered as a whole, the wall was so massive as to defy the notions of what was possible with human hands. Elizabeth brought the carriage to a halt at the southern guard tower. A dozen or more chaises were stopped ahead of them—waiting as the guards searched for contraband and made certain that none of the passengers showed signs of the strange plague. Sir William poked his head out and informed Elizabeth that the coachman had died, and asked if she thought it appropriate to leave his body beside the road.
+
+As they drove to Mr. Gardiner’s door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival; when they entered the passage she was there to welcome them, surprised by the sight of Elizabeth in the driver’s box. Elizabeth’s spirits lifted at the sight of her sister, who looked as healthful and lovely as ever. She relayed the details of their unhappy journey as swiftly as she could, and begged they speak no more of it, except to say that she had never seen such a number of unmentionables together in the country, and wonder why so many would attack a single chaise. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres.
+
+Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first object was her sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to her minute inquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her spirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however, to hope that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the particulars also of Miss Bingley’s visit in Section Six East, and repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the acquaintance.
+
+Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham’s desertion, and complimented her on bearing it so well.
+
+“But my dear Elizabeth,” she added, “what sort of girl is this new object of his affections? I should be sorry to think our friend mercenary.”
+
+“Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs, between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me, because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a girl with only ten thousand pounds, you think him mercenary.”
+
+“If you will only tell me what sort of girl she is, I shall know what to think.”
+
+“She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her.”
+
+Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, Elizabeth had the unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.
+
+“We have not determined how far it shall carry us,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “but, perhaps, to the Lakes.”
+
+No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. “My dear, dear aunt,” she rapturously cried, “what delight! What felicity! You give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are young men to rocks and mountains? Oh! what hours of mountaintop sparring we shall spend! How many bucks we shall fell with nothing more than our daggers and swiftness of foot! Oh! How we will please Buddha by communing with the earth!”
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 28
+
+
+
+
+EVERY OBJECT in the next day’s journey was new and interesting to Elizabeth. With a new coachman and twice their original number of musket men, they hastened to Hunsford. Once arrived (their journey happily uneventful), every eye was in search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view. Rosings Park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth smiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants.
+
+At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the road, the house standing in it, the green pales, and the laurel hedge, everything declared they were arriving. Elizabeth felt at once relaxed, for there had been no reports of zombies in Hunsford for years. Many attributed this to the presence of Lady Catherine—so great a slayer that the stricken dared not venture too close to her home.
+
+Mr. Collins and Charlotte appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate which led by a short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of the whole party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing at the sight of each other. But when Mrs. Collins welcomed Elizabeth, the latter was greatly distressed by the appearance of the former. It had been months since she had seen Charlotte, and kind months they had not been, for her friend’s skin was now quite gray and marked with sores, and her speech appallingly laboured. That none of the others noticed this, Elizabeth attributed to their stupidity—particularly Mr. Collins, who apparently had no idea that his wife was three-quarters dead.
+
+They were taken into the house; and as soon as they were in the parlour, Mr. Collins welcomed them a second time, with ostentatious formality to his humble abode, and punctually repeated all his wife’s offers of refreshment.
+
+Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help in fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its aspect and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her, as if wishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But though everything seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to gratify him by any sigh of repentance. After sitting long enough to admire every article of furniture in the room, Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the garden. To work in this garden was one of his most respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired Charlotte’s efforts to talk of the healthfulness of the exercise, even though it was quite difficult to understand her.
+
+From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two meadows; but the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white frost, turned back; and while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte took her sister and friend over the house. It was rather small, but well built and convenient. Though she was pleased to see her friend comfortably settled, there was a grief about the whole affair, for Charlotte would not long be able to enjoy her happiness.
+
+She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining in, observed:
+
+“Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will be delighted with her. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is charming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to walk home. Her ladyship’s carriage is regularly ordered for us. I should say, one of her ladyship’s carriages, for she has several.”
+
+“Wady Caferine very respectable . . . sensible woman,” groaned Charlotte, “and most attentive nay-bah.”
+
+“Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference.”
+
+As dinner continued in this manner, Elizabeth’s eye was continually drawn to Charlotte, who hovered over her plate, using a spoon to shovel goose meat and gravy in the general direction of her mouth, with limited success. As she did, one of the sores beneath her eye burst, sending a trickle of bloody pus down her cheek and into her mouth. Apparently, she found the added flavor agreeable, for it only increased the frequency of her spoonfuls. Elizabeth, however, could not help but vomit ever so slightly into her handkerchief.
+
+The rest of the evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news, and telling again what had already been written; and when it closed, Elizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to meditate upon Charlotte’s worsening condition, and how no one—even Lady Catherine, supposed to be the greatest of all zombie slayers—had noticed it.
+
+About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in confusion; and, after listening a moment, she heard somebody running upstairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after her. Elizabeth grabbed her Katana, opened the door, and met Maria in the landing place, who cried out:
+
+“Oh, my dear Eliza! Pray make haste and come into the dining room, for there is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make haste, and come down this moment.”
+
+Maria would tell her nothing more, and down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the lane, in quest of this wonder. It was merely two ladies stopping in a low carriage at the garden gate.
+
+“And is this all?” cried Elizabeth. “I expected at least a dozen unmentionables, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her daughter.”
+
+“La! My dear,” said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, “it is not Lady Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them; the other is Miss de Bourgh. Only look at her. She is quite a little creature. Who would have thought that she could be so thin and small?”
+
+“She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all this wind. Why does she not come in?”
+
+“Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours when Miss de Bourgh comes in.”
+
+“I like her appearance,” said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas. “She looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for Mr. Darcy very well. She will make him a very proper wife.”
+
+Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in conversation with the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth’s high diversion, was stationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the greatness before him, and constantly bowing whenever Miss de Bourgh looked that way.
+
+At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on, and the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw the two girls than he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, for he informed them that the whole party was asked to dine at Rosings the next day. Apparently overcome with excitement, Charlotte dropped to the ground and began stuffing handfuls of crisp autumn leaves in her mouth.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 29
+
+
+
+
+“I CONFESS,” said Mr. Collins, “that I should not have been at all surprised by her ladyship’s asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening at Rosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that it would happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this? Who could have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine there so immediately after your arrival!”
+
+“I am the less surprised at what has happened,” replied Sir William, “for her superior mastery of the deadly arts and high breeding are known throughout the courts of Europe.”
+
+Scarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but their visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in what they were to expect, that the sight of such rooms, so many servants, a personal guard of five-and-twenty ninjas, and so splendid a dinner, might not wholly overpower them.
+
+When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to Elizabeth:
+
+“Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us which becomes herself and her daughter. I would advise you merely to put on whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest—there is no occasion for anything more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you for being simply dressed, just as she will not think less of you for possessing combat skills so very beneath her own.” Elizabeth’s fists clenched at the insult, but out of affection for her three-quarters dead friend, she held her tongue and sword.
+
+While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different doors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much objected to be kept waiting for her dinner.
+
+As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a mile across the park.
+
+When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria’s alarm was every moment increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly calm. Elizabeth’s courage did not fail her, even though she had been regaled with stories of Lady Catherine’s accomplishments from the time she had been old enough to hold her first dagger. The mere stateliness of money or rank she could witness without trepidation, but the presence of a woman who had slain ninety dreadfuls with nothing more than a rain-soaked envelope was an intimidating prospect indeed.
+
+They followed the servants through an ante-chamber to the room where Lady Catherine, her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. Her ladyship, with great condescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins had settled it with her husband that the office of introduction should be hers, it was performed with no shortage of difficulty as she struggled to speak in a manner comprehensible to others.
+
+In spite of having been at St. James’s, Sir William was so completely awed by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage enough to make a very low bow, and take his seat without saying a word; and his daughter, frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge of her chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth found herself quite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her composedly. Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked features, which might once have been handsome. Her once-flawless figure had been softened by age, but her eyes no were less striking than Elizabeth had oft heard them described. They were they eyes of a woman who once held the wrath of God in her hands. Elizabeth wondered how much quickness those famed hands still possessed.
+
+When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment she soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the daughter; she could almost have joined in Maria’s astonishment at her being so thin and so small. There was neither in figure nor face any likeness between the ladies. Miss de Bourgh was pale and sickly; her features, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very little, except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance there was nothing remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening to what she said.
+
+After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows to admire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point out its beauties, and Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much better worth looking at in the summer.
+
+The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants and all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised; and, as he had likewise foretold, he took his seat at the bottom of the table, by her ladyship’s desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish nothing greater. The party did not supply much conversation. Elizabeth was ready to speak whenever there was an opening, but she was seated between Charlotte and Miss de Bourgh—the former of whom had to be frequently reminded to use her silver, and the latter said not a word to her all dinner-time.
+
+When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to be done but to hear Lady Catherine talk of her attempts to create a serum, which would slow—or even reverse—the effects of the strange plague. Elizabeth was surprised to learn that her ladyship was thus engaged, for trifling in plague cures was considered the last refuge of the naïve. The greatest minds in England had been vexed by the same pursuit for five-and-fifty years. She inquired into Charlotte’s domestic concerns familiarly and minutely, and gave her a great deal of advice as to the management of them all; and told her how everything ought to be regulated in so small a family as hers. Elizabeth found that nothing was beneath this great lady’s attention, which could furnish her with an occasion of dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse with Mrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew the least.
+
+“Mr. Collins tells me that you are schooled in the deadly arts, Miss Bennet.”
+
+“I am, though not to half the level of proficiency your Ladyship has attained.”
+
+“Oh! Then—some time or other I shall be happy to see you spar with one of my ninjas. Are your sisters likewise trained?”
+
+“They are.”
+
+“I assume you were schooled in Japan?”
+
+“No, your ladyship. In China.”
+
+“China? Are those monks still selling their clumsy kung fu to the English? I take it you mean Shaolin?”
+
+“Yes, your ladyship; under Master Liu.”
+
+“Well, I suppose you had no opportunity. Had your father more means, he should have taken you to Kyoto.”
+
+“My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates Japan.”
+
+“Have your ninjas left you?”
+
+“We never had any ninjas.”
+
+“No ninjas! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home without any ninjas! I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must have been quite a slave to your safety.”
+
+Elizabeth could hardly help smiling as she assured her that had not been the case.
+
+“Then, who protected you when you saw your first combat? Without ninjas, you must have been quite a sorry spectacle indeed.”
+
+“Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such was our desire to prevail, and our affection for each other, that we had no trouble vanquishing even our earliest opponents.”
+
+“If I had known your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage a team of ninjas. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady and regular instruction. Had my own daughter been blessed with a more suitable constitution, I should have sent her away the best dojos in Japan at the age of four. Are any of your younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?”
+
+“Yes, ma’am, all.”
+
+“All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the second. The younger ones out before the elder ones are married! Your younger sisters must be very young?”
+
+“Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps she is full young to be much in company. But really, ma’am, I think it would be very hard upon younger sisters, that they should not have their share of society and amusement, because the elder may not have the means or inclination to marry early. The last-born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth at the first. And to be kept back on such a motive! I think it would not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind.”
+
+“Upon my word,” said her ladyship, “you give your opinion very decidedly for so young a person. Pray, what is your age?”
+
+“With three younger sisters grown up,” replied Elizabeth, smiling, “your ladyship can hardly expect me to own it.”
+
+Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer; and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.
+
+“You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, therefore you need not conceal your age.”
+
+“I am not one-and-twenty.”
+
+When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the card-tables were placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat down to Crypt and Coffin; and as Miss de Bourgh chose to play Whip the Vicar, Elizabeth and Maria had the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her party. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was uttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson expressed her fears of Miss de Bourgh’s being too hot or too cold, or having too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the other table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking—stating the mistakes of the three others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins was employed in agreeing to everything her ladyship said, thanking her for every empty crypt he won, and apologising if he thought he won too many.
+
+After drooling a third cup of tea onto her lap, Charlotte stood to excuse herself from the other table, clutching her stomach and wearing a rather pained expression. “I beg ya-oar pahdun, ya-oar wadyship.” Lady Catherine gave no acknowledgment, and Mr. Collins and Sir William were too engrossed in their game to notice what happened next.
+
+Elizabeth watched Charlotte bow slightly, and then limp to the furthest corner of the room, where she lifted the bottom of her gown and bent her knees into a squat. Elizabeth immediately excused herself, rose, and (taking care not to draw attention) grabbed Charlotte by the arm and escorted her to the toilette, where she watched her stricken friend suffer through a quarter-hour of a sickness so severe that decorum prevents its description in these pages.
+
+The tables were shortly after broken up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins, gratefully accepted, and immediately ordered. The party then gathered round the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they were to have on the morrow. From these instructions they were summoned by the arrival of the coach; and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr. Collins’s side and as many bows on Sir William’s they departed. As soon as they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her cousin to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, for Charlotte’s sake, she made more favourable than it really was. “Lady Catherine the Great” had been a disappointment in every sense, and Elizabeth could not forgive the slight against her temple and master.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 30
+
+
+
+
+SIR WILLIAM STAYED only a week at Hunsford, but his visit was long enough to convince him of his daughter’s being most comfortably settled. Mr. Collins devoted his mornings to driving Sir William out in his gig, and showing him the country; but when he went away, the whole family returned to their usual employments.
+
+Now and then they were honoured with a call from Lady Catherine, and nothing escaped her observation during these visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work, and advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement of the furniture; or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding out that Mrs. Collins’s joints of meat were too large for her family.
+
+Elizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady was no longer engaged in the daily defense of her country, she was a most active magistrate in her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were carried to her by Mr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to be quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she sallied forth into the village to implore them to settle their differences, or failing that, wielding her still-mighty blade to settle them herself.
+
+The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week; and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being only one card-table in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart of the first. On one such occasion, Elizabeth was solicited to spar with several of her ladyship’s ninjas for the amusement of the party.
+
+The demonstration took place in Lady Catherine’s grand dojo, which she had paid to have carried from Kyoto, brick by brick, on the backs of peasants. The ninjas wore their traditional black clothing, masks, and Tabbi boots; Elizabeth wore her sparring gown, and her trusted Katana sword. As Lady Catherine rose to signal the beginning of the match, Elizabeth, in a show of defiance, blindfolded herself.
+
+“My dear girl,” said her ladyship, “I suggest you take this contest seriously. My ninjas will show you no mercy.”
+
+“Nor I they, your ladyship.”
+
+“Ms. Bennet, I remind you that you lack proper instruction in the deadly arts. Your master was a Chinese monk—these ninjas hail from the finest dojos in Japan.”
+
+“If my fighting is truly inferior, then your ladyship shall be spared the trouble of watching it for very long.”
+
+Elizabeth set her feet, and Lady Catherine, realising she would never convince such a stubborn, unusual girl, snapped her fingers. The first ninja drew his sword and let out a battle cry as he charged directly at Elizabeth. When his blade was only inches from her throat, she moved from her opponent’s path and dragged her Katana across his belly. The ninja dropped to the floor—his innards spilling from the slit faster than he could stuff them back in. Elizabeth sheathed her sword, knelt behind him, and strangled him to death with his own large bowel.
+
+Lady Catherine snapped her fingers a second time, and another ninja charged—this one unleashing throwing stars as he advanced. Elizabeth drew her Katana and shielded herself from the first three flying weapons, then snatched the fourth out of the air and threw it back at its originator—striking him in the thigh. The ninja cried out and grabbed the wound with both hands, and Elizabeth brought her blade down, taking off not only the hands, but the leg which they held firmly. The ninja fell to the floor and was promptly beheaded.
+
+Though discontented with such a beginning, Lady Catherine held the greatest hopes for her third and final ninja, the deadliest of the three. But no sooner had she snapped her fingers, than Elizabeth flung her Katana across the dojo, piercing the ninja’s chest and pinning him against a wooden column. Elizabeth removed her blindfold and confronted her
+
+
+
+“‘MY DEAR GIRL,’ SAID HER LADYSHIP, ‘I SUGGEST YOU TAKE THIS CONTEST SERIOUSLY. MY NINJAS WILL SHOW YOU NO MERCY.’”
+
+opponent, who presently clutched the sword handle, gasping for breath. She delivered a vicious blow, penetrating his rib cage, and withdrew her hand—with the ninja’s still-beating heart in it. As all but Lady Catherine turned away in disgust, Elizabeth took a bite, letting the blood run down her chin and onto her sparring gown.
+
+“Curious,” said Elizabeth, still chewing. “I have tasted many a heart, but I dare say, I find the Japanese ones a bit tender.”
+
+Her ladyship left the dojo without giving compliment to Elizabeth’s skills.
+
+Their other engagements were few, as the style of living in the neighbourhood was beyond Mr. Collins’s reach. This, however, was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the whole she spent her time comfortably enough; there were half-hours of pained, almost unintelligible conversation with Charlotte, and the weather was so fine for the time of year that she had often great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk was along the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was a nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but herself, and where she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine’s curiosity.
+
+In this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away. Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to bring an addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be important. Elizabeth had heard soon after her arrival that Mr. Darcy was expected there in the course of a few weeks, and though there were not many of her acquaintances whom she did not prefer, his coming would furnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and she might be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley’s designs on him were, by his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined by Lady Catherine, who talked of his coming with the greatest satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration, and seemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen by Miss Lucas and herself.
+
+His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was walking the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane, in order to have the earliest assurance of it, and after making his bow as the carriage turned into the Park, hurried home with the great intelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his respects. There were two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for Mr. Darcy had brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of his uncle, and, to the great surprise of all the party, when Mr. Collins returned, the gentleman accompanied him. Charlotte had seen them from her husband’s room, crossing the road, and immediately running into the other, told the girls what an honour they might expect, adding:
+
+“I fank you, Eliza, for dis piece of c-civiwity. Mr. Dah-cey would never have c-come so soon to w-w-w-wait upon me.”
+
+Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment, before their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and address most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire—paid his compliments, with his usual reserve, to Mrs. Collins, and whatever might be his feelings toward her friend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely curtseyed to him without saying a word.
+
+Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but his cousin, after having addressed a slight observation on the house and garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without speaking to anybody. At length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to inquire of Elizabeth after the health of her family. She answered him in the usual way, and after a moment’s pause, added:
+
+“My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never happened to see her there?”
+
+She was perfectly sensible that he never had; but she wished to see whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed between the Bingleys and Jane, and she thought she perceived a slight twitch in his eye as he answered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The subject was pursued no farther, and the gentlemen soon afterwards went away.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 31
+
+
+
+
+COLONEL FITZWILLIAM’S MANNERS were very much admired at the Parsonage, and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasures of their engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they received any invitation thither—for while there were visitors in the house, they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day, almost a week after the Colonel’s arrival, that they were honoured by such an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to come there in the evening.
+
+The invitation was accepted of course, and at a proper hour they joined the party in Lady Catherine’s drawing-room. Her ladyship received them civilly, but it was plain that their company was by no means so acceptable as when she could get nobody else.
+
+Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them; anything was a welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins’s pretty friend had moreover caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by her, and talked so agreeably of the engagements at Manchester, of the marvel of new mechanical weapons, of his favourite methods of slaying the sorry stricken, that Elizabeth had never been half so well entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much spirit and flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself, as well as of Mr. Darcy. His eyes had been repeatedly turned towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship, after a while, shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not scruple to call out:
+
+“What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.”
+
+“We are speaking of the deadly arts, madam,” said he, when no longer able to avoid a reply.
+
+“Of the deadly arts! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I must have my share in the conversation if you are speaking of the deadly arts. There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of them than myself, or a better natural ability. Had Anne’s health allowed her to apply, I am confident that she would have become as great a slayer of zombies as I. How does Georgiana get on with her training, Darcy?”
+
+Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister’s proficiency with blade, fist, and Brown Bess.
+
+“I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,” said Lady Catherine; “and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel if she does not practise a good deal.”
+
+“I assure you, madam,” he replied, “that she does not need such advice. She practises very constantly.”
+
+“So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often tell young ladies that no excellence in the deadly arts is to be acquired without constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that she will never be half my equal unless she practises more; and though Mrs. Collins has no dojo, she is very welcome, as I have often told her, to come to Rosings every day, and spar with my ninjas, provided she promises to kill no more of them. She would be in nobody’s way, you know, in that part of the house.”
+
+Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt’s ill-breeding, and made no answer.
+
+When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having promised to give them a demonstration of her considerable finger strength; and she set about fastening a modesty string around her ankles. Lady Catherine and the others observed as Elizabeth placed her hands upon the floor and lifted her feet heavenward—her dress kept in place by the modesty string. Holding herself thus, she then lifted one of her palms off the floor, so that all of her weight rested on but one hand. Mr. Darcy presently stationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer’s countenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first convenient pause, wore an arch smile, and said:
+
+“You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to see me? I will not be alarmed. There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.” To emphasise this point, she lifted her palm so that only one fingertip remained connected to the floor.
+
+“I shall not say you are mistaken,” he replied, “because you could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not your own.”
+
+Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to Colonel Fitzwilliam, “Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so able to expose my real character, in a part of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire—for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.”
+
+“I am not afraid of you,” said he, smilingly.
+
+“Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” cried Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.”
+
+“You shall hear then—but prepare yourself for something very dreadful.” Elizabeth pushed off of the floor with her fingertip, landed gently on her feet, and unfastened her modesty string. “The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball—and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.”
+
+“I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party.”
+
+“True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what shall I demonstrate next? My fingers wait your orders.”
+
+“Perhaps,” said Darcy, “I should have judged better, had I sought an introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.”
+
+“Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?” said Elizabeth, still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has been sculpted into a killer of the highest order, is ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers?”
+
+“I can answer your question,” said Fitzwilliam, “without applying to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.”
+
+“I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,” said Darcy, “of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.”
+
+“My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not possess the strength your aunt’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same deadly results. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I will not take the trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable.”
+
+Darcy smiled and said, “You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better.”
+
+Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know what they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately fastened her modesty string and began walking about the room on her fingertips. Lady Catherine, after observing for a few minutes, said to Darcy:
+
+“Miss Bennet would make a fine showing of Leopard’s Claw if she practised more, and could have the advantage of a Japanese master. She has a very good notion of fingering.”
+
+“That she does,” said Darcy, in a manner such as to make Elizabeth’s face quite red.
+
+Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he attended to Miss de Bourgh; but neither at that moment nor at any other could she discern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his behaviour to her she derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he might have been just as likely to marry her, had she been his relation.
+
+Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth’s performance, mixing with them many instructions on execution. Elizabeth received them with all the forbearance of civility, and, at the request of the gentlemen, remained on her fingertips till her ladyship’s carriage was ready to take them all home.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 32
+
+
+
+
+ELIZABETH WAS SITTING by herself the next morning, meditating while Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village, when she was startled by a ring at the door. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to be Lady Catherine, and under that apprehension was extinguishing her incense, when the door opened, and, to her very great surprise, Mr. Darcy entered the room.
+
+He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for his intrusion by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies were to be within.
+
+They then sat down, and when her inquiries after Rosings were made, seemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely necessary, therefore, to think of something, and in this emergence recollecting when she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and feeling curious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty departure, she observed:
+
+“How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy! It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?”
+
+“Perfectly so, I thank you.”
+
+She found that she was to receive no other answer, and, after a short pause, added:
+
+“I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever returning to Netherfield again?”
+
+“I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend very little of his time there in the future. He is rather afraid of zombies, and their numbers in that part of the country are continually increasing.”
+
+“If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we might possibly get a settled family there—one with a keener interest in the deadly arts. But, perhaps, Mr. Bingley did not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as for his own, and we must expect him to keep it or quit it on the same principle.”
+
+“I should not be surprised,” said Darcy, “if he were to give it up as soon as any eligible purchase offers.”
+
+Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his friend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the trouble of finding a subject to him.
+
+He took the hint, and soon began with, “This seems a very comfortable house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr. Collins first came to Hunsford.”
+
+“I believe she did—and I am sure she could not have bestowed her kindness on a more grateful object.”
+
+“Mr. Collins appears to be very . . . fortunate in his choice of a wife.”
+
+Elizabeth detected hesitation in his compliment. Was he sensible of Charlotte’s being stricken?
+
+“Yes, indeed, his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one of the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding—though I am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and in a prudential light it is certainly a very good match for her.”
+
+“It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so easy a distance of her own family and friends.”
+
+“An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.”
+
+“And what is fifty miles of zombie-free road? Little more than half a day’s journey. Yes, I call it a very easy distance.”
+
+“I should never have considered the distance as one of the advantages of the match,” cried Elizabeth. “I should never have said Mrs. Collins was settled near her family.”
+
+“It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far.”
+
+As he spoke he let slip a sort of smile which Elizabeth fancied she understood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered:
+
+“Sir, you forget that I have twice made the journey to the darkest reaches of the Orient—a journey you know to be frightfully long and fraught with bears. I assure you, my picture of the world is rather a bit bigger than Longbourn. However, Mr. and Mrs. Collins have never had a need of embarking on such adventures, so I suspect their ideas of distance are much like those of other ordinary people. I am likewise persuaded my friend would not call herself near her family under less than half the present distance.”
+
+Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her.
+
+Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and glancing over it, said, in a colder voice:
+
+“Are you pleased with the news from Sheffield?”
+
+A short dialogue on the subject of the army’s recent victory ensued, on either side calm and concise—and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte and her sister, just returned from her walk. The tête-à-tête surprised them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which had occasioned his intruding on Miss Bennet, and after sitting a few minutes longer without saying much to anybody, went away.
+
+“Wah can be da meaning of dis?” howled Charlotte, as soon as he was gone. “Mah dear Ewiza, he muss be love you, aw he never wuh have called in dis famiwiar way.”
+
+But when Elizabeth told of his silence; it did not seem very likely, even to Charlotte’s wishes, to be the case; and after various conjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from the difficulty of finding anything to do, which was the more probable from the time of year. The ground was quite frozen, and neither fresh unmentionables nor field sports would be seen again till spring. Within doors there was Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard-table, but gentlemen cannot always be within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the pleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the two cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither almost every day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he had pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course recommended him still more.
+
+But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage, it was more difficult to understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there ten minutes together without opening his lips; and when he did speak, it seemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice. He seldom appeared really animated, even at the sight of Mrs. Collins gnawing upon her own hand. What remained of Charlotte would liked to have believed this change the effect of love, and the object of that love her friend Eliza. She watched him whenever they were at Rosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success, for her thoughts often wandered to other subjects, such as the warm, succulent sensation of biting into a fresh brain. Mr. Darcy certainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that look was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often doubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it seemed nothing but absence of mind. And upon imagining Mr. Darcy’s mind, her thoughts would again turn to the subject of chewing on his salty, cauliflower-like brain.
+
+She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his being partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs. Collins did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of raising expectations which might only end in disappointment.
+
+In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison the most pleasant man; he certainly admired her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but, to counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had a considerably larger head, and thus, more brains to feast upon.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 33
+
+
+
+
+MORE THAN ONCE did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the park, unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the mischance that should bring him where no one else was brought, and, to prevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him at first that it was a favourite haunt of hers. How it could occur a second time, therefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and even a third. He never said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking or of listening much; but it struck her in the course of their third rencontre that he was asking some odd unconnected questions—about her pleasure in being at Hunsford, which bones she had broken, and her opinion of the suitability of marriage for warriors such as they.
+
+She was engaged one day as she walked, in perusing Jane’s last letter, and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not written in spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy, she saw on looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her. Putting away the letter immediately and forcing a smile, she said:
+
+“I did not know before that you ever walked this way.”
+
+“I have been making the tour of the park,” he replied, “as I generally do every year, and intend to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are you going much farther?”
+
+“No, I should have turned in a moment.”
+
+And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage together.
+
+“Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?” said she.
+
+“Yes—if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He arranges the business just as he pleases.”
+
+“And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least pleasure in the great power of choice. I do not know anybody who seems more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy.”
+
+“He likes to have his own way very well,” replied Colonel Fitzwilliam. “But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it than many others, because he is rich, and handsome, and highly skilled in the ways of death. I speak from experience. A younger son, you know, must be accustomed to self-denial and dependence.”
+
+“In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of either. Now seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going wherever you chose, or procuring anything you had a fancy for?”
+
+“These are home questions—and perhaps I cannot say that I have experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater weight, I may suffer from want of money. Younger sons are required to serve in the King’s army, as you know.”
+
+“Yes, though I imagine, as an earl’s son, that you have seen little of the front lines.”
+
+“Quite the contrary, Miss Bennet.”
+
+The Colonel lifted one of his trouser legs and presented Elizabeth with the most unfortunate sight—for there was nothing but lead and hickory between his knee and the ground. Elizabeth had perceived a limp upon meeting him, but had presumed it the result of some slight injury or ill breeding. To interrupt a silence which might make him fancy her affected by the sight, she soon afterwards said:
+
+“I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of having someone at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a lasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps, his sister does as well for the present, and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he likes with her. I mean that in the most respectable way, naturally, and not as a suggestion that there exists any impropriety between them.”
+
+“If there did,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “it would be an impropriety that I would be equally guilty of, for I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy.”
+
+“Are you indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make? Does your charge give you much trouble?”
+
+As she spoke she observed him looking at her earnestly; and the manner in which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other got pretty near the truth. She directly replied:
+
+“You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a very great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them.”
+
+“I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentlemanlike man—he is a great friend of Darcy’s.”
+
+“Oh! Yes,” said Elizabeth drily; “Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr. Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.”
+
+“Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy does take care of him in those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture.”
+
+“What is it you mean?”
+
+“It is a circumstance which Darcy could not wish to be generally known, because if it were to get round to the lady’s family, it would be an unpleasant thing.”
+
+“Sir, I have beheld the ancient secrets of the Orient, and shall take them to my grave. Surely I can be trusted with one of Mr. Darcy’s dalliances.”
+
+“And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be Bingley. What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated himself on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other particulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from knowing them to have been together the whole of last summer.”
+
+“Did Mr. Darcy give you reasons for this interference?”
+
+“I understood that there were some very strong objections against the lady.”
+
+“And what arts did he use to separate them?”
+
+“He did not talk to me of his own arts,” said Fitzwilliam, smiling. “He only told me what I have now told you.”
+
+Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her thirst for vengeance growing mightier with every step. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she was so thoughtful.
+
+“I am thinking of what you have been telling me,” said she. “Your cousin’s conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?”
+
+“You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?”
+
+“I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his friend’s inclination, or why, upon his own judgement alone, he was to determine and direct in what manner his friend was to be happy. But,” she continued, recollecting herself, “as we know none of the particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed that there was much affection in the case.”
+
+“That is not an unnatural surmise,” said Fitzwilliam, “but it is a lessening of the honour of my cousin’s triumph very sadly.”
+
+This was spoken jestingly; but it appeared to her so just a picture of Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an answer, and therefore, abruptly changing the conversation talked on indifferent matters until they reached the Parsonage. There, shut into her own room, as soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption of all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other people could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There could not exist in the world two men over whom Mr. Darcy could have such boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures taken to separate Bingley and Jane she had never doubted; but she had always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and arrangement of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him, he was the cause, his pride and caprice were the cause, of all that Jane had suffered, and still continued to suffer. He had ruined for a while every hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart in the world; and for that, Elizabeth was now resolved to hold Darcy’s heart, still beating, in her hand before her time in Kent was concluded.
+
+“There were some very strong objections against the lady,” were Colonel Fitzwilliam’s words; and those strong objections probably were, her having one uncle who was a country attorney, another who was in business in London, and possessing the power to crush Bingley’s skull in the heat of a quarrel—for he was not trained as she.
+
+“To Jane herself,” she exclaimed, “there could be no possibility of objection; all loveliness and goodness as she is! Her understanding excellent, her musketry unmatched, and her manners captivating. Neither could anything be urged against my father, who, though with some peculiarities, has abilities Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain, and respectability which he will probably never reach.” When she thought of her mother, her confidence gave way a little; but she would not allow that any objections there had material weight with Mr. Darcy, whose pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from the want of importance in his friend’s connections, than from their want of sense; and she was quite decided, at last, that he had been partly governed by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of retaining Mr. Bingley for his sister.
+
+The agitation which the subject occasioned, brought on a headache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening, that, added to her unwillingness to kill Mr. Darcy in the company of his aunt (lest she interfere), it determined her not to attend her cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 34
+
+
+
+
+WHEN THEY WERE GONE, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering. But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that cheerfulness which had been used to char-acterise her style. Elizabeth noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy’s shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict, gave her a keener sense of her sister’s sufferings. It was some consolation to think that he would soon fall at the end of her blade—and that in less than a fortnight she should herself be with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her spirits, beginning with the presentation of Darcy’s heart and head.
+
+She could not think of Darcy without remembering his cousin; for agreeable as he was, Colonel Fitzwilliam was also the one man who could assign the guilt of Darcy’s slaying to Elizabeth. He would have to be dispensed with as well.
+
+While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the door-bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself. But this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room. In a hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better. She answered him with cold civility, scarcely able to believe her luck at his happening by so soon, and waiting for the first opportunity to excuse herself and retrieve her Katana. He sat down for a moment, and then getting up, walked about the room. After a brief silence, he came towards her in an agitated manner, and thus began:
+
+“In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
+
+Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement; and the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for her, immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed; and he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority—of its being a degradation—of the family obstacles which had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.
+
+In spite of her deeply rooted bloodlust, she could not be insensible to the compliment of such a man’s affection, and though her intention of killing him did not vary for an instant, she was somewhat sorry for the pain he was to receive; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to answer him with patience, lest her intentions be exposed. He concluded with representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite of all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of his hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt of a favourable answer. He spoke of apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only exasperate farther, and, when he ceased, the colour rose into her cheeks, and she said:
+
+“In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot—I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned you pain, but only sorry because it has been most unconsciously done. Before you walked through that door, I had resolved to strike you down, sir. My honor—nay, the honor of my family, demands no lesser satisfaction.”
+
+Elizabeth presently lifted her dress above her ankles and struck a basic crane pose, which she thought well-suited for the cramped quarters. Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance
+
+
+
+ONE OF HER KICKS FOUND ITS MARK, AND DARCY WAS SENT INTO THE MANTELPIECE WITH SUCH FORCE AS TO SHATTER ITS EDGE
+
+of his mind was visible in every feature. At length, with a voice of forced calmness, he said:
+
+“And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected and challenged?”
+
+“I might as well inquire,” replied she, “why with so evident a desire of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character? Do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps forever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?”
+
+As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion was short, for Elizabeth presently attacked with a series of kicks, forcing him to counter with the drunken washwoman defense. She spoke as they battled:
+
+“I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted there. You dare not, you cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other.”
+
+One of her kicks found its mark, and Darcy was sent into the mantelpiece with such force as to shatter its edge. Wiping the blood from his mouth, he looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.
+
+“Can you deny that you have done it?” she repeated.
+
+With assumed tranquility he then replied, “I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself.”
+
+Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection, and grabbed the fire poker, which she pointed at Darcy’s face.
+
+“But it is not merely this affair,” she continued, “on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself?”
+
+“You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns,” said Darcy, in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.
+
+“Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an interest in him?”
+
+“His misfortunes!” repeated Darcy contemptuously; “yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed.” With this, he swept her feet from beneath her and sprang to his own. Elizabeth was too quick to allow him the advantage, for she was soon upright and swinging the poker at him with renewed vigour.
+
+“And of your infliction,” cried Elizabeth with energy. “You have reduced him to his present state of poverty—comparative poverty. You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! And yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and ridicule.”
+
+“And this,” cried Darcy, as he grabbed the poker from her hand, “is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps,” added he, pressing the pointed end against her neck, “these offenses might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your training? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?”
+
+Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet, as Darcy backed her against a wall, she tried to the utmost to speak with composure when she said:
+
+“You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared the slightest grief which I might have felt in beheading you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.”
+
+She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued:
+
+“You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.”
+
+Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on.
+
+“From the very beginning—from the first moment, I may almost say—of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”
+
+“You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”
+
+And with these words he hastily left the room, throwing the poker in the fire as he did; and Elizabeth heard him the next moment open the front door and quit the house.
+
+The tumult of her mind was now painfully great. She knew not how to support herself, and from the feminine weakness which she had so struggled to exercise from her nature, sat down and cried for half an hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was increased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of marriage from Mr. Darcy! That she should fail to kill him when her honor demanded it! That he should have been in love with her for so many months! So much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all the objections which had made him prevent his friend’s marrying her sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his own case—was almost incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride—his shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane—his unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration of his attachment had for a moment excited. She continued in very agitated reflections till the sound of Lady Catherine’s carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter Charlotte’s observation, and hurried her away to her room.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 35
+
+
+
+
+ELIZABETH AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING to the same thoughts and meditations which had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the surprise of what had happened; it was impossible to think of anything else; and, totally indisposed for employment, she resolved, soon after breakfast, to indulge herself in vigorous exercise. She was proceeding directly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy’s sometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park, she turned up the lane, which led farther from the turnpike-road.
+
+After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and look into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent had made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk, when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which edged the park; he was moving that way; and, fearful of its being Mr. Darcy, she was directly retreating. Did he mean to strike her down? How could she have been so stupid as to leave the Parsonage without her Katana? With superior quickness of foot, Darcy was able to cut off her retreat at the gate, and, holding out a letter, which she instinctively took, said, with a look of haughty composure, “I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?” And then, with a slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight.
+
+With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still increasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter-paper, written quite through, in a very close hand. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated from Rosings, at eight o’clock in the morning, and was as follows:
+
+
+Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments or renewal of those offers which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten.
+
+Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister, and the other, that I had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. If, in the explanation of my actions and motives, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd.
+
+I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with others, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any other young woman in the country. But it was not till she took ill and remained at Netherfield that I had any apprehension, for knowing of her occupation as a slayer of the undead, I was certain that she had been stricken with the strange plague. Not wishing to trouble you or any of the Netherfield party with my theory, I endeavoured to smother Bingley’s affections, thus sparing him the agony of watching your sister succumb. Upon her recovery, which I expected to be temporary, I perceived that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever, but I remained convinced that she would soon begin the cheerless descent into Satan’s service. As the weeks turned to months, I began to question my observations. Why had she not yet turned? Could I have been so wrong as to mistake a simple fever for the strange plague? By the time I realised my error, it was too late to affect any undoing of the scheme. Mr. Bingley had been quite separated from Miss Bennet, both in distance and affection. Though I did so without malice, my actions have surely pained your sister, and your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert, that the severity of your sister’s cold was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that, however amiable her temper, her heart was pledged to darkness. That I was desirous of believing her stricken is certain—but I will venture to say that my investigation and decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did not believe her to be afflicted because I wished it; I believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. But there were other causes of repugnance. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your mother’s family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison to that total want of propriety so frequently betrayed by herself, your three younger sisters, and even by your father. Pardon me. It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, let it give you consolation to consider that you and your elder sister are held in my highest esteem, both in manners and skill as fellow warriors. I will only say farther that from what passed that evening, that my opinion of Miss Bennet being stricken was confirmed by her failure to join us in the investigation of the unfortunate kitchen incident, and my will strengthened to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. He left Netherfield for London, on the day following, as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning.
+
+The part which I acted is now to be explained. His sisters’ uneasiness had been equally excited with my own, though for different reasons; our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered, and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in London. We accordingly went—and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a choice. I described, and enforced them earnestly. But, however this remonstrance might have staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded by my assurance of your sister’s indifference. He had before believed her to return his affection with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley has great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgment than on his own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much. There is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister’s being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley; but her brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might have met without ill consequence is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this concealment, this disguise was beneath me; it is done, however, and it was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister’s feelings, it was done only as a consequence of affection for my friend, and the belief that Miss Bennet had been cursed to wander the earth in search of brains.
+
+With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he has particularly accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity.
+
+Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to him; and on George Wickham, who was his godson, his kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and afterwards at Kyoto—most important assistance, as his own father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to give him a proper Oriental education. My father was not only fond of this young man’s society, whose manner were always engaging; he had also the highest opinion of his fighting skill, and hoping the deadly arts would be his profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities—the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his benefactor, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have. During one such moment, Mr. Wickham happily boasted of his intention to practice his roundhouse kicks on our deaf stable boy, in the hopes that a broken neck would serve as punishment for a saddle polishing that hadn’t met with his approval. My affection for the wretched servant required that I shatter both of Mr. Wickham’s legs, lest he be able to carry out his dastardly plan. Here again I shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his real character—it adds even another motive.
+
+My excellent father died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it to me, to promote his advancement in the battle against the manky dreadfuls. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that he had some intention of studying advanced musketry, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than believed him to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal, and arranged for him to receive three thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his studying musketry was a mere pretence, and being now free from all restraint, his life was one of idleness and dissipation. For about three years I heard little of him; but on the termination of the funds which had been designed for him, he applied to me again by letter. His circumstances, he assured me, were exceedingly bad. He had found musketry a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on entering the priesthood, if I would present him with a yearly allowance. You will hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition to it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others as in his reproaches to myself. After this period every appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.
+
+I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother’s nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided over it, Mrs. Younge, to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by her connivance and aid, he recommended himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her excuse. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Regard for my sister’s credit and feelings prevented any public exposure; but my honor demanded a duel with Mr. Wickham, who left the place immediately. Mrs. Younge was of course savagely beaten in front of the other household staff. Mr. Wickham’s chief object was unquestionably my sister’s fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.
+
+This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he had imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination.
+
+You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night; but I was not then master enough of myself to know what could be revealed. For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our near relationship and constant intimacy, and, still more, as one of the executors of my father’s will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of me should make my assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning. May God bless you, and save England from her present unhappiness.
+
+FITZWILLIAM DARCY
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 36
+
+
+
+
+IF ELIZABETH, WHEN MR. DARCY gave her the letter, did not expect it to contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of its contents. She read with an eagerness which hardly left her power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing what the next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister’s being stricken she instantly resolved to be false; and his account of the real, the worst objections to the match, made her too angry to have any wish of doing him justice.
+
+But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham—when she read with somewhat clearer attention a relation of events which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself—her feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition. Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, “This must be false! This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!”
+
+In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the letter was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence. The account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own words. But the thought of so punishing a deaf stable boy! And for such a trifling offense! It was almost impossible to believe a man of Wickham’s countenance capable of such cruelty. It was impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the other; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did not err. But when she read and re-read with the closest attention, the particulars immediately following of Wickham’s resigning all of the elder Darcy’s hopes that he would continue his training, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down the letter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be impartiality—deliberated on the probability of each statement—but with little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read on; but every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had believed it impossible that any contrivance could so represent as to render Mr. Darcy’s conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole.
+
+Of Wickham’s former way of life nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As to his real character, had information been in her power, she had never felt a wish of inquiring. His voice and manner had established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for what Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many years’ continuance. But no such recollection befriended her.
+
+She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation between Wickham and herself, in their first evening at Mr. Philips’s. Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was now struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear of seeing Mr. Darcy—that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that he should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball the very next week. She remembered also that, till the Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but herself; but that after their removal it had been everywhere discussed; that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy’s character, though he had assured her that respect for the father would always prevent his exposing the son.
+
+How differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned! His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, Jane had long ago asserted his blamelessness in the Wickham affair; that proud and repulsive as were his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their acquaintance, seen anything that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust.
+
+She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham could she think without feeling she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd. Had she her dagger, Elizabeth would have dropped to her knees and administered the seven cuts of dishonor without a moment’s hesitation.
+
+“How despicably I have acted!” she cried; “I, who have prided myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my mastery of mind and body! Who have often disdained the generosity of my sister, and gratified my vanity in useless mistrust! How humiliating is this discovery! Oh! Were my master here to bloody my back with wet bamboo!”
+
+From herself to Jane—from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy’s explanation there had appeared very insufficient, and she read it again. Widely different was the effect of a second perusal. How could she deny that credit to his assertions in one instance, which she had been obliged to give in the other? He declared himself to be suspicious of her sister’s being stricken, and she could not deny the justice of this wariness; for Jane’s cold had been severe indeed, and even Elizabeth had once or twice suspected the same.
+
+When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were mentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her sense of shame was severe.
+
+The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed, but it could not console her for the contempt which had thus been self-attracted by the rest of her family; and as she considered that Jane’s disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt by such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything she had ever known before.
+
+After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every variety of thought—reconsidering events, determining probabilities, and reconciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and so important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made her at length return home; and she entered the house with the wish of appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such reflections as must make her unfit for conversation.
+
+She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes, to take leave—but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her till she could be found. Elizabeth could but just affect concern in missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no longer an object; she could think only of her letter.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 37
+
+
+
+
+THE TWO GENTLEMEN left Rosings the next morning, and Mr. Collins having been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting bow, was able to bring home the pleasing intelligence, of their appearing in very good health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the melancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings, due to the approaching departure of the gentlemen, and Elizabeth’s killing of several of her ladyship’s favourite ninjas. To Rosings he then hastened, to console Lady Catherine and her daughter for their loss of company; and on his return brought back, with great satisfaction, a message from her ladyship, importing that she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of having them all to dine with her.
+
+Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that, had she chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to her as her future niece; nor could she think, without a smile, of what her ladyship’s indignation would have been. “What would she have said? How would she have behaved?” were questions with which she amused herself.
+
+Their first subject was the shrinking of the Rosings party. “I assure you, I feel it exceedingly,” said Lady Catherine; “I believe no one feels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I am particularly attached to these young men, and know them to be so much attached to me! They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The dear Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy seemed to feel it most acutely, more, I think, than last year. His attachment to Rosings certainly increases.”
+
+Mrs. Collins had a compliment to throw in here, which was kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter, despite the fact that no one could discern what she was growling.
+
+Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed out of spirits, and immediately accounting for it by herself, by supposing that she did not like to go home again so soon, she added:
+
+“But if that is the case, you must write to your mother and beg that you may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your company, I am sure.”
+
+“I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation,” replied Elizabeth, “but it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town next Saturday.”
+
+“Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I expected you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There can be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly spare you for another fortnight.”
+
+“But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return, for the ground again softens, and Hertfordshire will soon be overrun with unmentionables.”
+
+“Oh! Your father of course may spare you. I have observed your skills in the deadly arts, my dear; and they are not of the level which would make any difference in the fate of Hertfordshire or anywhere else.” Elizabeth could scarcely believe the insult. Had her affection for Mr. Darcy not been freshly restored, she might have challenged her lady-ship to a duel for such an affront to her honor.
+
+Lady Catherine continued, “And if you will stay another month complete, it will be in my power to take one of you as far as London, for I am going there early in June, to discuss strategy with His Majesty; and as my guard insists I travel in a barouche-box, there will be very good room for one of you—and indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I should not object to taking you both, as neither of you are fat like Mr. Collins.”
+
+“You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our original plan.”
+
+Lady Catherine seemed resigned. “Mrs. Collins, you must send one of my ninjas with them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea of two young women travelling by themselves. It is highly improper in times such as these. You must contrive to send somebody. Young women should always be properly guarded and attended, unless they are that rare sort of lady, like myself, who has been trained by the most respected masters in Japan—and not by those appalling Chinese peasants.”
+
+“My uncle is to send a servant for us, but I assure your ladyship that I am quite capable of—”
+
+“Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad you have somebody who thinks of these things. Where shall you change horses? Oh! Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at the Bell, you will be attended to.”
+
+Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their journey, and as she did not answer them all herself, attention was necessary, which Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or, with a mind so occupied, she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection must be reserved for solitary hours; whenever she was alone, she gave way to it as the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a solitary walk, in which she might indulge in all the delight of unpleasant recollections.
+
+Mr. Darcy’s letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She studied every sentence; and her feelings towards its writer were at times widely different. When she remembered the haughty style of his address, she dreamt of watching his eyes glaze over as she choked the life from his body; but when she considered how unjustly she had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned against herself; and she hastily applied her dagger to the seven cuts of shame, which had scarcely time to scab over. His attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect; but she could not approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal, or feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past behaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and regret; and in the unhappy defects of her family, a subject of yet heavier chagrin. They were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at them, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his youngest daughters; and her mother, with manners so far from right herself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently united with Jane in punishing the imprudence of Catherine and Lydia with wet bamboo; but while they were supported by their mother’s indulgence, what chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, undisciplined, irritable, and completely under Lydia’s guidance, had been always affronted by their attempts at correcting her; and Lydia, self-willed and dimwitted, would scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While Meryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they would be going there forever, killing zombies only when it interfered with their chances of flirting with an officer.
+
+Anxiety on Jane’s behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr. Darcy’s explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good opinion, heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was proved to have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame, unless any could attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his friend. How grievous then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had been deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family! Oh! Could she only bring herself to dispense with the lot of them!
+
+When to these recollections was added the development of Wickham’s character, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had seldom been depressed before, were now so much affected as to make it almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful.
+
+Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of her stay as they had been at first. The very last evening was spent there; and her ladyship again demeaned the quality of Chinese combat training, gave them directions as to the best method of packing, and was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right way, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the work of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh.
+
+When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, wished them a good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford again next year; and Miss de Bourgh exerted herself so far as to curtsey and hold out her frail hand to both.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 38
+
+
+
+
+ON SATURDAY MORNING Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few minutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of paying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary.
+
+“I know not, Miss Elizabeth,” said he, “whether Mrs. Collins has yet expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I am very certain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for it. The favor of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We know how little there is to tempt anyone to our humble abode. Our plain manner of living, our small rooms and few domestics, and the little we see of the world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady who has twice been to the Orient.”
+
+Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She had spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of being with Charlotte, and the kind attentions she had received, must make her feel the obliged. Mr. Collins replied:
+
+“My dear Charlotte and I have but one mind and one way of thinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each other.”
+
+Elizabeth might have said, given Charlotte’s being stricken and Mr. Collins being himself so dreadfully unappealing in every way, that she agreed with his assessment. But she merely offered that she firmly believed and rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was not sorry, however, to have the recital of them interrupted by the lady from whom they sprang. Poor Charlotte! It was melancholy to see her now almost entirely transformed! But she had chosen it with her eyes open. And though it wouldn’t be long before even the daft Mr. Collins would discover her condition and be forced to behead her, she did not seem to ask for compassion. Her home and her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and her ever deepening lust for tender morsels of savory brains, had not yet lost their charms.
+
+At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate parting with Charlotte, who Elizabeth knew she would never see again, they were attended to the carriage by Mr. Collins, and as they walked down the garden he was commissioning her with his best respects to Elizabeth’s family, not forgetting his thanks for the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her in, Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed, when he suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies at Rosings.
+
+“But,” he added, “you will of course wish to have your humble respects delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you while you have been here.”
+
+Elizabeth made no objection; the door was then allowed to be shut, and the carriage drove off.
+
+“Good gracious!” cried Maria, after a few minutes’ silence, “it seems but a day or two since we first came! And yet how many things have happened!”
+
+“A great many indeed,” said her companion with a sigh.
+
+“We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there twice! How much I shall have to tell!”
+
+Elizabeth added privately, “And how much I shall have to conceal!”
+
+The first ten miles of their journey were performed without the slightest bit of conversation or alarm. But when they came upon the old white church in St. Ezra Parish, Elizabeth at once recognized the scent of death in the air, and ordered the coachman to stop.
+
+It was a grand church for so small a village, built upon a frame of shaved tree trunks, and covered with hundreds of whitewashed planks. The denizens of St. Ezra were a notoriously pious lot, and they packed the pews every Saturday and Sunday to pray for deliverance from the legions of Satan. Stained glass windows ran the length of each side, which told the story of England’s descent from peace into chaos; the last window portrayed a resurrected Christ returning to slay the last of the unmentionables, Excalibur in hand.
+
+While the coachman and servant waited nervously with Maria, Elizabeth ascended the steps toward the church’s splintered doors, sword at the ready. The scent of death was overwhelming, and several of the stained glass windows had been shattered. Something terrible had happened here, but how recently, she knew not.
+
+Elizabeth entered the church ready to fight, but upon perceiving the inside, she sheathed her Katana, as it could do no good here. Not now. It seemed the whole of St. Ezra Parish had barricaded themselves in the church. Bodies lay everywhere: in pews; in aisles—the tops of their skulls cracked open; every last bite of their brains scraped out, like pumpkin seeds from a jack-o’-lantern. With their Parish under attack, these people had retreated to the only safe place they knew; but it hadn’t been safe enough. The zombies had simply overwhelmed them with superior numbers and insatiable determination. Men still clutched their pitchforks. Ladies still huddled with their children. Elizabeth felt her eyes moisten as she imagined the horror of their final moments. The screams. The sight of others being torn to pieces before their eyes. The horror of being eaten alive by creatures of unspeakable evil.
+
+A tear fell down Elizabeth’s cheek. She was quick to wipe it away, feeling somewhat ashamed that it had escaped at all.
+
+“A house of God so defiled!” said Maria, as their journey continued. “Have these unmentionables no sense of decency?”
+
+“They know nothing of the sort,” said Elizabeth, staring mindlessly out of the coach’s window, “and neither must we.”
+
+With no further alarm, they reached Mr. Gardiner’s house, where they were to remain for a few days. Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her spirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her aunt had reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at Longbourn there would be leisure enough for observation.
+
+It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even for Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy’s proposals. To know that she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish Jane was such a temptation to openness as nothing could have conquered but the state of indecision in which she remained as to the extent of what she should communicate; and her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried into repeating something of Bingley which might only grieve her sister further.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 39
+
+
+
+
+IT WAS THE SECOND WEEK in May, in which the three young ladies set out together from Section Six East for Hertfordshire; and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet’s carriage was to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman’s punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room upstairs. These two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily employed in amusing the sentinel on guard with immodest displays of their proficiency with a throwing star, much to the consternation of the carriage horse which served as their unwilling target.
+
+After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming, “Is not this nice? Is not this an agreeable surprise?”
+
+“And we mean to treat you all,” added Lydia, “but you must lend us the money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there.” Then, showing her purchases—“Look here, I have bought this bonnet.”
+
+And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect unconcern, “Oh! But there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what one wears this summer, after the soldiers have left Meryton, and they are going in a fortnight.”
+
+“Are they indeed!” cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction; for not only would her sisters have one less distraction from their training, but the very fact of the decampment meant that Hertfordshire had been much relieved of the unmentionable menace while she was away.
+
+“They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to take us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme; and I dare say would hardly cost anything at all. Mamma would like to go too of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall have! With hardly any balls to be had in Meryton!”
+
+“Yes,” thought Elizabeth, “a summer with so few balls would be miserable indeed for a girl who thinks of little else.”
+
+“Now I have got some news for you,” said Lydia, as they sat down at table. “What do you think? It is excellent news—capital news—and about a certain person we all like!”
+
+Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told he need not stay. Lydia laughed, and said:
+
+“Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse things said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I never saw such a long chin in my life. I nearly ran him through for thinking him a zombie. Well, but now for my news; it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is it not? There is no danger of Wickham’s marrying Mary King. There’s for you! She is gone down to her uncle at Liverpool: gone to stay. Wickham is safe.”
+
+“And Mary King is safe!” added Elizabeth; “safe from a connection imprudent as to fortune.”
+
+“She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.”
+
+“But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,” said Jane.
+
+“I am sure there is not on his. I will answer for it, he never cared three straws about her—who could about such a nasty little freckled thing, with not a skill to boast of?”
+
+As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was ordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their boxes, weapons, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty’s and Lydia’s purchases, were seated in it.
+
+“How nicely we are all crammed in,” cried Lydia. “I am glad I bought my bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another hatbox! Well, now let us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way home. And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all since you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any flirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband before you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare. She is almost three-and-twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not being married before three-and-twenty! My aunt Phillips wants you so to get husbands, you can’t think. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr. Collins; but I do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord! How I should like to be married before any of you; and then I would chaperon you about to all the balls. Dear me! We had such a good piece of fun the other day at Colonel Forster’s. Kitty and me were to spend the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the evening; (by the bye, Mrs. Forster and me are such friends!) and so she asked the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen was forced to come by herself—”
+
+Elizabeth presently drew her Katana and cut off Lydia’s head, which fell into the open hatbox.
+
+The others looked on in a state of silent shock as a torrent of blood sprang forth from Lydia’s neck, staining their dresses. Elizabeth sheathed her blade, and in a most delicate tone, said “I beg you all forgive me, but I could stand her prattling no longer.” However, when she spared another glance toward Lydia, she was surprised to see her head very much attached.
+
+“Lord! How I laughed!” continued her younger sister. “And so did Mrs. Forster. I thought I should have died.”
+
+Elizabeth sighed. If only she could really cut off Lydia’s head. With such tireless drivel did Lydia, assisted by Kitty’s hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she could, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham’s name.
+
+Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet say voluntarily to Elizabeth:
+
+“I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.”
+
+Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases came to meet Maria and hear the news; and various were the subjects that occupied them: Lady Lucas inquired after the welfare of her eldest daughter, who Maria reported in excellent health and spirits. “Has everyone gone mad?” thought Elizabeth. “Can no one see that she is nine-tenths dead from the plague?” Mrs. Bennet was doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of the present fashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and, on the other, retailing them all to the younger Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other person’s, was enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who would hear her.
+
+“Oh! Mary,” said she, “I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun! As we went along, Kitty and I opened the carriage windows and played at taunting the farmhands who were charged with burning the morning’s body piles; and when we got to the George, I do think we behaved very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest cold luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have treated you too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought we never should have got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then we were so merry all the way home! We talked and laughed so loud that zombies might have heard us ten miles off!”
+
+To this Mary very gravely replied, “Far be it from me, my dear sister, to depreciate such pleasures! They would doubtless be congenial with the generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms for me—I should infinitely prefer a good spar.”
+
+But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to anybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all.
+
+In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk to Meryton, and to see how everybody went on; but Elizabeth steadily opposed the scheme. It should not be said that the Miss Bennets could not be at home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was another reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Mr. Wickham again, and was resolved to bloody his mouth when she did. The comfort to her of the regiment’s approaching removal was indeed beyond expression. In a fortnight they were to go—and once gone, she hoped there could be nothing more to plague her on his account.
+
+She had not been many hours at home before she found that the Brighton scheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her father had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were at the same time so vague and equivocal that her mother had never yet despaired of succeeding at last.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 40
+
+
+
+
+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, she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene between Mr. Darcy and herself.
+
+Jane’s astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly partiality, which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly natural. 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 to learn that they had resulted in combat, and the destruction of Mr. Collins’s mantelpiece.
+
+“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 tell 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—particularly his treatment of the deaf stable boy and Miss Darcy. What a stroke was this for poor Jane! She 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 the 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 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 by the living,” 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 beat his sister’s governess! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it so.”
+
+“Certainly. But there is one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintances in general understand Wickham’s character.”
+
+Miss Bennet replied, “Surely there can be no occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your opinion?”
+
+“That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised 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 anyone here what he really is. At present I will say nothing about it.”
+
+“You are quite right. To have his errors made public might force him to demand satisfaction from Mr. Darcy—and when two gentlemen duel, there is seldom a happy result. We must not make him desperate. In the words of our dear master, ‘a caged tiger bites twice as hard.’”
+
+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. 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 Bingley.
+
+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 most 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 Phillips 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’s 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.”
+
+“I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any more.”
+
+“Oh well! It is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. 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.” Elizabeth couldn’t bring herself to tell her mother of Charlotte’s doom. The poor woman was scarcely able to keep herself together as it was.
+
+“I suppose they often talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it as quite 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 putting an old woman out of her home.”
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 41
+
+
+
+
+THE FIRST WEEK of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was the last of the regiment’s stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies in the neighbourhood were sick with melancholy. The dejection was almost universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink, and sleep, and pursue their daily exercises, which at this time of year included games of “Kiss Me Deer”—a game their father had invented to better their softness of foot and arm strength. The rules were simple: Sneak up behind one of the large bucks grazing in the nearby woods, wrestle it to the ground, and kiss it on the nose before letting it go. Jane and Elizabeth laughed many an afternoon away in such a manner; very frequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such merrymaking in any of the family.
+
+“Good Heaven! what is to become of us? What are we to do?” would they often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. “How can you be smiling so, Lizzy?”
+
+Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what she had herself endured on a similar occasion, five-and-twenty years ago.
+
+“I am sure,” said she, “I cried for two days together when Colonel Miller’s regiment went away. I thought I should have broken my heart.”
+
+“I am sure I shall break mine,” said Lydia.
+
+“If one could but go to Brighton!” observed Mrs. Bennet.
+
+“Oh, yes! If one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so disagreeable.”
+
+“A little sea-bathing would set me up forever.”
+
+“And my aunt Philips is sure it would do me a great deal of good,” added Kitty.
+
+
+
+“THE RULES WERE SIMPLE: SNEAK UP BEHIND ONE OF THE LARGE BUCKS GRAZING IN THE NEARBY WOODS, WRESTLE IT TO THE GROUND, AND KISS IT ON THE NOSE BEFORE LETTING IT GO.”
+
+Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy’s objections; and never had she been so happy to open the scabs of her seven cuts.
+
+But the gloom of Lydia’s prospect was shortly cleared away; for she received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of their three months’ acquaintance they had been intimate two.
+
+The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster, the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely to be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister’s feelings, Lydia flew about the house in restless ecstasy, calling for everyone’s congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever; whilst the luckless Kitty spent many an hour aiming her longbow at any deer, rabbit, or bird unfortunate enough to venture too close to the house.
+
+“I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask me as well as Lydia,” said she, “though I am not her particular friend. I have just as much right to be asked as she has.”
+
+In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she considered it as the death warrant of all possibility of common sense for the latter; and even though Lydia would think her detestable if it were known, Elizabeth could not help secretly advising her father not to let her go. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia’s general behaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must be greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said:
+
+“Lydia will never be easy until she has exposed herself in some public place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present circumstances.”
+
+“If you were aware,” said Elizabeth, “of the very great disadvantage to us all which must arise from the public notice of Lydia’s unguarded and imprudent manner—nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you would judge differently in the affair.”
+
+“Already arisen?” repeated Mr. Bennet. “What, has she frightened away some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of pitiful fellows who have been kept aloof by Lydia’s folly.”
+
+“Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not of particular, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our importance, our respectability in the world must be affected by the wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark Lydia’s character. Excuse me, for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, or reminding her of our blood oath to defend the Crown above all things, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character will be fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt that ever made herself or her family ridiculous, and a disgrace to the honour of our beloved master. In this danger Kitty also is comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain, ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh! My dear father, can you suppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever they are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the disgrace?”
+
+Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject, and affectionately taking her hand said in reply:
+
+“Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less advantage for having a couple of—or I may say, three—very silly sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will keep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an object of prey to anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance even as a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being there may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow many degrees worse, without authorizing us to have her head.”
+
+With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion continued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry.
+
+Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her father, their indignation would hardly have warranted a moment of their tireless prattling. In Lydia’s imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised every possibility of earthly happiness. She saw, with the creative eye of fancy, the streets of that gay bathing-place covered with officers. She saw herself the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them at present unknown. She saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six officers at once as they pressed her for another demonstration of the deadly arts.
+
+Had she known her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and such realities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could have been understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly the same. Lydia’s going to Brighton was all that consoled her for the sorrow of having not one of her five daughters married.
+
+But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures continued, with little intermission, to the very day of Lydia’s leaving home.
+
+On the very last day of the regiment’s remaining at Meryton, Mr. Wickham dined, with other of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth disposed to part from him in good humour, that on his making some inquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam’s and Mr. Darcy’s having both spent three weeks at Rosings, and asked him if he was acquainted with the former.
+
+He looked surprised; but with a moment’s recollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen him often; and, after observing that he was a very gentlemanlike man, asked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour. With an air of indifference he soon afterwards added:
+
+“How long did you say he was at Rosings?”
+
+“Nearly three weeks.”
+
+“And you saw him frequently?”
+
+“Yes, almost every day.”
+
+“His manners are very different from his cousin’s.”
+
+“Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves upon acquaintance.”
+
+“Indeed!” cried Mr. Wickham with a look which did not escape her. “And pray, may I ask—.” But checking himself, he added, in a gayer tone, “Is it in address that he improves? For I dare not hope,” he continued in a lower and more serious tone, “that he is improved in essentials.”
+
+“Oh, no!” said Elizabeth. “In essentials, I believe, he is very much what he ever was.”
+
+While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a something in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive and anxious attention, while she added:
+
+“When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that his mind or his manners were in a state of improvement, but that, from knowing him better, his disposition was better understood. Particularly in regard to his treatment of stable boys.”
+
+Wickham’s alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated look; for a few minutes he was silent, till, shaking off his embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of accents:
+
+“You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Darcy, will readily comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume even the appearance of what is right. I only fear that the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been alluding, is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgment he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his wish of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I am certain he has very much at heart.”
+
+Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on the old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge him. The rest of the evening passed with the appearance, on his side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to distinguish Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a mutual desire of never meeting again.
+
+When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton, from whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation between her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the only one who shed tears; but they were tears of vexation and envy. Mrs. Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter, and impressive in her injunctions that she should not miss the opportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible—advice which there was every reason to believe would be well attended to; and in the clamorous happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle adieus of her sisters were uttered without being heard.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 42
+
+
+
+
+HAD ELIZABETH’S OPINION been all drawn from her own family, she could not have formed a very pleasing opinion of conjugal felicity or domestic comfort. Her father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance of good humour which youth and beauty generally give, had married a woman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind had very early in their marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect, esteem, and confidence had vanished for ever; and all his views of domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own imprudence had brought on. Instead, he sought to ensure that his daughters would not follow in their mother’s silly, idle footsteps. In this regard, he had tried five times, and succeeded two. Other than the gift of Jane and Elizabeth, to Mrs. Bennet he was very little otherwise indebted. This is not the sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his wife.
+
+Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her father’s behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of herself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation and decorum. This had been especially arduous during their trips to China, which Mr. Bennet had supervised without the company of his wife, and during which he had taken many a beautiful Oriental to his bedchamber. Master Liu had defended this as acquiescence to local custom, and Elizabeth had more than once felt the sting of wet bamboo on her back for daring to question her father’s propriety. But she had never felt so strongly as now the disadvantages that must attend the children of so unsuitable a marriage.
+
+When Lydia went away she promised to write very often and very minutely to her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and always very short. Those to her mother contained little else than that they were just returned from the library, where such and such officers had attended them, and that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which she would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going off to the camp; and from her correspondence with her sister, there was still less to be learnt—for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were much too full of lines under the words to be made public.
+
+After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, good humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn. Everything wore a happier aspect. The families who had fled the infestation came back again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose for the first time in memory. Mrs. Bennet was restored to her usual querulous serenity; and, by the middle of June, Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without tears; an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope that by the following Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable as not to mention an officer above once a day, unless, by some cruel and malicious arrangement at the War Office, another regiment should be quartered in Meryton.
+
+The time fixed for the beginning of Elizabeth’s northern tour was now fast approaching, and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and curtailed its extent. Due to the recent troubles in Birmingham, and the army’s want of more flints and powder, Mr. Gardiner would be prevented from setting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again within a month, and as that left too short a period for them to go so far, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with the leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up the Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour, and, according to the present plan, were to go no farther northwards than Derbyshire. In that county there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The town where she had formerly passed some years of her life, and where they were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of her curiosity as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, Dovedale, or the Peak.
+
+Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on seeing the Lakes, and still thought there might have been time enough. But she was glad for the chance of being anywhere other than Hertfordshire, and all was soon right again.
+
+Desperate to pass the time, Elizabeth set off to see the burning grounds of Oakham Mount one morning. It had been nearly two years since she had last visited, and it was only a few miles’ walk to the top of the Mount—which was little more than a hill, with an ever-present column of smoke rising from its top. Such columns could be seen from one end of England to the other, no matter the season or weather. There was always burning to be done.
+
+Elizabeth reached the grounds shortly after breakfast, and was somewhat surprised to see it so busy. Several wagons had already lined up outside the Paymaster’s shack; each of them carrying large, box-shaped iron cages on their backs. Each cage held anywhere from one to four zombies (in rare cases, one might see a cage with five, or even six). Most of them belonged to farmers, who trapped unmentionables as a means of earning extra money. But a few belonged to professional zombie hunters, called Reclaimers, who traveled the countryside setting cages. Elizabeth knew that some of these so-called “Reclaimers” were nothing more than scoundrels, who made their living abducting innocents, infecting them with the plague, and selling them to burning grounds. But better to burn a few innocents than let the guilty run free.
+
+Not far from the Paymaster’s shack, the Fire Master stood beside his pit, only feet from flames which rose to twice his height. His bare chest was covered in exercise moisture, for he never stopped working—whether coating logs with tar, raking embers, or throwing bails of hay into the fire.
+
+After haggling with the Paymaster and getting their pieces of silver, the men pulled their wagons to the Hook Master’s station, where the cages were hoisted off with a large mechanical device, and swung over the flames. Elizabeth could not help but feel a sense of joy as she watched cage after cage of zombies burn—heard their terrible shrieks as the fire (which they feared above all else) licked at their feet, then ignited the whole of their putrid flesh and hastened them back to Hell. When the zombies were nothing more than bone and ash, the cages were lowered back onto their wagons, and carried away to be filled anew.
+
+Apart from these sorts of excursions, the next four weeks passed slowly—but they did pass, and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two younger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their cousin Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and sweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every way—teaching them, playing with them, and loving them.
+
+The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement. One enjoyment was certain—that of suitableness of companions; a suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear inconveniences—cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure—and affection and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were disappointments abroad.
+
+It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, etc. are sufficiently known. Nor is it the object to describe the handful of zombie encounters which necessitated Elizabeth’s intervention—for not one was sufficient to yield even a drop of sweat from her brow. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present concern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner’s former residence, and where she had lately learned some acquaintance still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen all the principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of Lambton, Elizabeth found from her aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not in their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In talking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.
+
+“My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so much?” said her aunt; “a place, too, with which so many of your acquaintances are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you know.”
+
+Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She must own that she was tired of seeing great houses; after going over so many, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.
+
+Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. “If it were merely a fine house richly furnished,” said she, “I should not care about it myself; but the grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the country.”
+
+Elizabeth said no more—but her mind could not acquiesce. The possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly occurred. It would be dreadful!
+
+Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid whether Pemberley were not a very fine place? What was the name of its proprietor? And, with no little alarm, whether the family were down for the summer? A most welcome negative followed the last question—Mr. Darcy was reported to be in town for a meeting of the League of Gentlemen for the Encouragement of Continued Hostilities Against Our Most Unwelcome Enemy. Her alarms now being removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of curiosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the next morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and with a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike to the scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 43
+
+
+
+
+ELIZABETH, AS THEY DROVE ALONG, watched for the first appearance of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.
+
+The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent—taking care to listen closely for moans or the snapping of twigs, for there was rumoured to be a large herd of freshly de-graved dreadfuls about.
+
+Elizabeth’s mind was too full to be of much use in this regard, but she saw and admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for half a mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone building, made to resemble the grandest palaces of Kyoto, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills; and in front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled into a natural defense against frontal assault, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where the natural beauty of the Orient had been so little counteracted by English taste. They were all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!
+
+They descended the hill, crossed between the stone dragons on either side of the bridge, and drove to the solid jade door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehension of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder at her being where she was.
+
+The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking English woman, dressed in a kimono and shuffling about on bound feet. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well proportioned room, handsomely fitted up with art and furniture from Darcy’s beloved Japan. Elizabeth, after surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms these objects were taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the proprietor’s taste for the East; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendour, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.
+
+“And of this place,” thought she, “I might have been mistress! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt. But no,” recollecting herself, “that could never be; my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me; I should not have been allowed to invite them.”
+
+This was a lucky recollection—it saved her from something very like regret.
+
+She longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master was really absent, but had not the courage for it. At length however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied that he was, adding, “But we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends.” How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day!
+
+Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham, a crutch under each arm, amongst several other miniatures over the mantelpiece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was a picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master’s musket polisher, who had been brought up by him at his own expense. “He is now gone into the army,” she added; “but I am afraid he has turned out very wild.”
+
+Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it.
+
+“And that,” said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, “is my master—and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other—about eight years ago.”
+
+“I have heard much of your master’s fine person,” said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; “it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not.”
+
+Mrs. Reynolds respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this intimation of her knowing her master.
+
+“Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?”
+
+Elizabeth coloured, and said—“A little.”
+
+“And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma’am?”
+
+“Yes, very handsome.”
+
+“I am sure I know none so handsome; but in the gallery upstairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master’s favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them.”
+
+This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham’s being among them.
+
+Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old.
+
+“And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?” said Mrs. Gardiner.
+
+“Oh! Yes—the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so accomplished! She beheaded her first unmentionable not one month after her eleventh birthday! I grant you Mr. Darcy had chained the vile creature to a tree, but it was an impressive kill nonetheless. In the next room is a new Katana just come for her—a present from my master; she comes here to-morrow with him.”
+
+Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either by pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her master and his sister.
+
+“Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?”
+
+“Not so much as I could wish, sir; but I dare say he may spend half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months.”
+
+“Except,” thought Elizabeth, “when she goes to Ramsgate.”
+
+“If your master would marry, you might see more of him.”
+
+“Yes, sir; but I do not know when that will be. I do not know who is good enough for him.”
+
+Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, “It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so.”
+
+“I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that knows him, “replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; and she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, “I have never known a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old. In that time, I have seen him savagely beat but one servant, and a most deserved beating it was. I dare say he is the gentlest man in all of Britain.”
+
+This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been her firmest opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more, and was grateful to her uncle for saying:
+
+“There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in having such a master.”
+
+“Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I could not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and he was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the world.”
+
+Elizabeth almost stared at her. “Can this be Mr. Darcy?” thought she.
+
+“His father was an excellent man,” said Mrs. Gardiner.
+
+“Yes, ma’am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him—just as affable to the poor. Kind even to the wretched accidents of God—the lame and the deaf alike.”
+
+“In what an amiable light does this place him!” thought Elizabeth.
+
+“This fine account of him,” whispered her aunt as they walked, “is not quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend.”
+
+“Perhaps we might be deceived.”
+
+“That is not very likely; our authority was too good.”
+
+On reaching the spacious lobby above they were shown into a very pretty sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than the apartments below; and were informed that it was but just done to give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room when last at Pemberley.
+
+“He is certainly a good brother,” said Elizabeth, as she walked towards one of the windows. Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy’s delight, when she should enter the room. “And this is always the way with him,” she added. “Whatever can give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in a moment. There is nothing he would not do for her.”
+
+The battle-gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms, were all that remained to be shown. In the former were many good zombie heads and suits of Samurai armor; but Elizabeth cared little for such trophies, and turned to look at some drawings of Miss Darcy’s, in crayons, whose subjects were almost exclusively the nude male form.
+
+When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen, they returned downstairs, and, taking leave of the housekeeper, were consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall-door.
+
+As the gardener led them along the river, stopping to point out the occasional coy pond or stone garden, Elizabeth turned back to appreciate the house from a greater distance, and was met with such a shock as to make her reach for the sword that she had neglected to bring—for behind them was a fast-approaching herd of unmentionables, no fewer than five-and-twenty in number. Elizabeth, her composure regained, alerted her party to this unhappy development, and ordered them to run and hide, which they did with no shortage of alacrity.
+
+With the herd nearly upon her, she prepared for battle—ripping a branch from a nearby tree and placing her feet in the first position for the Windswept Peasant method. Pole fighting had never been her strongest discipline, but as she was otherwise unarmed, it seemed the most practical approach, given the large number of opponents. The zombies let forth a most unpleasant roar as they came within biting distance, and Elizabeth returned it in kind as she began her counterattack. But no sooner had she struck down the first five or six, than the cracking of gunpowder scattered the score that remained. Elizabeth held a defensive pose as the zombies limped hurriedly for the safety of the woods, and then, upon being assured of their retreat, turned her gaze in the direction of the musket fire. On this she was again met with shock, though of a decidedly different nature—for upon a steed, holding a still-smoking Brown Bess, was none other than the owner of the grounds on which she stood. The smoke from Darcy’s musket hung in the air around him, wafting Heavenward through his thick mane of chestnut hair. His steed let forth a mighty neigh and reared upon its hind legs—high enough to throw a lesser horseman clear. But Darcy’s free hand held
+
+
+
+“THE SMOKE FROM DARCY’S MUSKET HUNG IN THE AIR AROUND HIM, WAFTING HEAVENWARD THROUGH HIS THICK MANE OF CHESTNUT HAIR.”
+
+true, and he coaxed the spooked beast back to earth.
+
+It was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards her, dismounted, and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility, as the rest of her party came out of hiding and joined them.
+
+Amazed at the alteration of his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the impropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the few minutes in which they continued were some of the most uncomfortable in her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his inquiries as to the well being of her aunt and uncle, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the distraction of his thoughts.
+
+At length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few moments without saying a word, he suddenly handed Elizabeth his Brown Bess, mounted his steed, and took leave.
+
+The others then joined her, and expressed admiration of his figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and wholly engrossed by her own feelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and vexation. Her coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged thing in the world! How strange it must appear to him! In what a disgraceful light might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if she had purposely thrown herself in his way again! Oh! Why did she come? Or, why did he thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his discrimination; for it was plain that he was that moment arrived. She blushed again and again over the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so strikingly altered—what could it mean? That he should even come to her aid was amazing! But to speak to her, and with such civility, to inquire after her well being! Never in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified, never had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put his letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, or how to account for it.
+
+They entered the woods and ascended some of the higher grounds, where the zombies, with their dry muscles and brittle bones, were less likely to bother them. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish of going round the whole park, but feared it might be too dangerous given the propinquity of the herd. A nearby roar from one of Satan’s soldiers settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which brought them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods, to the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They crossed it by a simple bridge, which they were informed was assembled from the violated headstones of Pemberley. It was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered it. Elizabeth longed to explore its windings, but when they had crossed the bridge and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner, who was still frightened by what had transpired, begged they go no farther, and thought only of returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was, therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction. Their progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man about them, that he advanced but little.
+
+Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were again surprised by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk here being less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. Perhaps he had merely returned to hunt the scattered unmentionables. The idea lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance, she saw that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place; but she had not got beyond the words “delightful,” and “charming,” when some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said no more.
+
+Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked her if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends. This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and she could hardly suppress a smile at his being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people against whom his pride had revolted in his offer to herself. “What will be his surprise,” thought she, “when he knows who they are? He takes them now for people of fashion.”
+
+The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore it, and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions. That he was surprised by the connection was evident; he sustained it, however, with fortitude, and so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners.
+
+The conversation soon turned upon musket fishing; and she heard Mr. Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to shoot fish there as often as he chose while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time to supply him with a fishing musket, and pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm-in-arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and continually was she repeating, “Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be for me—it cannot be for my sake that his manners are thus softened. It is impossible that he should still love me, unless, by kicking him into the mantelpiece during our battle at Hunsford, I affected some severe change in his countenance.”
+
+After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some zombie droppings, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth’s arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her husband’s. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected—“for your housekeeper,” she added, “informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country.” He acknowledged the truth of it all, and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. “They will join me early to-morrow,” he continued, “and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you—Mr. Bingley and his sisters.”
+
+Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley’s name had been the last mentioned between them; and, if she might judge by his complexion, his mind was not very differently engaged.
+
+“There is also one other person in the party,” he continued after a pause, “who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?”
+
+The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her must be the work of her brother, and, without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made him think really ill of her.
+
+They now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her was a compliment of the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a mile behind.
+
+He then asked her to walk into the house—but she declared herself not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time much might have been said, but nothing was. Elizabeth and Darcy merely looked at one another in awkward silence, until the latter reached both arms around her. She was frozen—“What does he mean to do?” she thought. But his intentions were respectable, for Darcy merely meant to retrieve his Brown Bess, which Elizabeth had affixed to her back during her walk. She remembered the lead ammunition in her pocket and offered it to him. “Your balls, Mr. Darcy?” He reached out and closed her hand around them, and offered, “They belong to you, Miss Bennet.” Upon this, their colour changed, and they were forced to look away from one another, lest they laugh. On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s coming up they were all pressed to go into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the ladies into the carriage; and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking slowly towards the house.
+
+The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them pronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they had expected. “He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming,” said her uncle.
+
+“There is something a little stately in him, to be sure,” replied her aunt, “but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now say with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud, I have seen nothing of it. Such horsemanship! Such musketry!”
+
+“I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling.”
+
+“To be sure, Lizzy,” said her aunt, “he is not so handsome as Wickham; or, rather, he has not Wickham’s countenance, for his features are perfectly good. But how came you to tell me that he was so disagreeable?”
+
+Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had liked him better when they had met in Kent than before, and that she had never seen him so pleasant as this morning.
+
+“But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,” replied her uncle. “Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him at his word, as he might change his mind another day, and bludgeon me with his musket for taking trout from his stock.”
+
+Elizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his character, but said nothing.
+
+“From what we have seen of him,” continued Mrs. Gardiner, “I really should not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by anybody as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look. On the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when he speaks. And there is something of dignity in the way his trousers cling to those most English parts of him. But, to be sure, the good lady who showed us his house did give him a most congratulatory appraisal! I could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal master, I suppose, and servants are often too complimentary out of a desire to keep their heads.”
+
+Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of his behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them to understand, in as guarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from his relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different construction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor Wickham’s so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In confirmation of this, she related the particulars of the stable boy business, without actually naming her authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on.
+
+Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out to her husband all the interesting spots where she and her former lover had frittered away many a summer afternoon, before circumstances required the affair to be broken off. Fatigued as she had been by the morning’s attack, they had no sooner dined than she set off in quest of her former acquaintance, and (unbeknownst to the sleeping Mr. Gardiner) her evening was spent in the satisfactions of intercourse renewed after many years’ discontinuance.
+
+The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth much attention for her aunt’s dalliances; and she could do nothing but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy’s civility, and, above all, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 44
+
+
+
+
+ELIZABETH HAD SETTLED IT that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was consequently resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning. But her conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their arrival at Lambton, these visitors came. Much to Mr. Gardiner’s displeasure, they had been walking about the place with Mrs. Gardiner’s old “friend,” a Polish-born gentleman who went only by “Sylak,” and were just returning to the inn to dress themselves for dining with the same, when the sound of a carriage drew them to a window, and they saw a gentleman and a lady in a curricle driving up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognizing the livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of her surprise to her relations by acquainting them with the honour which she expected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and the embarrassment of her manner as she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many of the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a new idea on the business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they felt that there was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such a quarter than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these newly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of Elizabeth’s feelings was at every moment increasing. Given her battle-tested nerves, she was quite amazed at her own discomposure; but amongst other causes of disquiet, she dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much in her favour; and, more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally suspected that every power of pleasing would fail her.
+
+She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she walked up and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw such looks of inquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made everything worse.
+
+Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see that her new acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself. Since her being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud; but the observation of a very few minutes convinced her that she was only exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain even a word from her beyond a monosyllable.
+
+Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and, though little more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance womanly and soft. There was something of a natural grace to her movements, and though she clearly had much to learn in the ways of delivering death, she was far from the distracting clumsiness of most girls her age. Her legs and fingers were uncommonly long, and Elizabeth could not help but think what a fine apprentice she would make, were she only inclined to follow her brother’s example with greater enthusiasm. She was less handsome than her brother; but there was sense and good humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly unassuming and gentle.
+
+They had not long been together before Mr. Darcy told her that Bingley was also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time to express her satisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when Bingley’s clumsy, untrained steps were heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the room. All Elizabeth’s anger against him had been long done away; but had she still felt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected cordiality with which he expressed himself on seeing her again. He inquired in a friendly, though general way, after her family, and looked and spoke with the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done.
+
+In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to Jane; and, oh! How ardently did she long to know whether any of his were directed in a like manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he talked less than on former occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with the notion that, as he looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But, though this might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his behaviour to Miss Darcy, who had been set up as a rival to Jane. No look appeared on either side that spoke to an attraction. Nothing occurred between them that could justify the hopes of Bingley’s sister. On this point she was soon satisfied; and two or three little circumstances occurred before they parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted a recollection of Jane touched by tenderness, and a wish of saying more that might lead to the mention of her, had he dared. He observed to her, at a moment when the others were talking together, and in a tone which had something of real regret, that it “was a very long time since he had had the pleasure of seeing her”; and, before she could reply, he added:
+
+“It is above eight months. We have not met since the 26th of November, when my staff at Netherfield was so unhappily visited upon.”
+
+Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he afterwards took occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of the rest, whether all her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the question, nor in the preceding remark; but there was a look and a manner which gave them meaning.
+
+It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself; but, whenever she did catch a glimpse, she felt an excitement greater even than the thrill of confronting the Devil’s legions, and in all that he said she heard an accent so removed from hauteur or disdain of his companions, as convinced her that the improvement of manners which she had yesterday witnessed had at least outlived one day. When she saw him thus courting the good opinion of people with whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a disgrace—when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to the very relations whom he had openly disdained—the difference, the change was so great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she could hardly believe herself unaffected by a cup of dragon’s milk tea. Never, even in the company of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please as now, when no importance could result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the acquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed would draw down the ridicule and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and Rosings.
+
+Their visitors stayed with them above half-an-hour; and when they arose to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner at Pemberley, before they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a timidity which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations, readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing how she, whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its acceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming however, that this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment than any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for her attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on.
+
+Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Elizabeth again, having still a great deal to say to her, and many inquiries to make after all their Hertfordshire friends. Elizabeth, construing all this into a wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was pleased, and on this account, as well as some others, found herself, when their visitors left them, capable of considering the last half-hour as one of the happiest she had ever spent without spilling a drop of blood. Eager to be alone, and fearful of inquiries or hints from her uncle and aunt, she stayed with them only long enough to hear their favourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress.
+
+But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s curiosity; for unlike her meddling mother, it was not their wish to force her communication. It was evident that she was much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had before any idea of; it was evident that he was very much in love with her. They saw much to interest, but nothing to justify inquiry.
+
+Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They could not be untouched by his coming to their rescue at Pemberley, or his politeness thereafter; and had they drawn his character from their own feelings and his servant’s report, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known would not have recognized it for Mr. Darcy.
+
+With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was not held there in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns with the son of his patron were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well-known fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged. It was also widely rumoured that he had engaged in improprieties with two local girls, both of whom, sadly, fell victim to the plague and had to be burned before charges could be brought.
+
+As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening more than the last; and the evening, though as it passed it seemed long, was not long enough to determine her feelings towards one in that mansion; and she lay awake two whole hours endeavouring to make them out. She certainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she had almost as long been ashamed of ever wishing to drink the blood from his severed head. The respect created by the conviction of his valuable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some time ceased to be repugnant to her feeling; and it was now heightened into somewhat of a friendlier nature, by the testimony so highly in his favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light, which yesterday had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem, there was a motive within her of goodwill which could not be overlooked. It was gratitude; gratitude, not merely for having once loved her, but for loving her still well enough to forgive all the petulance and acrimony of her manner in rejecting his offer with a kick to the face, and all the unjust accusations accompanying her rejection. He who, she had been persuaded, would avoid her as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this accidental meeting, most eager to preserve the acquaintance, and without any indelicate display of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where their two selves only were concerned, was soliciting the good opinion of her friends, and bent on making her known to his sister. Such a change in a man of so much pride exciting not only astonishment but gratitude—for to love, ardent love, it must be attributed; and as such its impression on her was by no means unpleasing, though it could not be exactly defined. She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to him, she felt a real interest in his welfare; where she had been taught to ignore all feeling, all excitement—she now found herself with an excess of both. How strange! For the more she dwelled on the subject, the more powerful she felt; not for her mastery of the deadly arts, but for her power over the heart of another. What a power it was! But how to wield it? Of all the weapons she had commanded, Elizabeth knew the least of love; and of all the weapons in the world, love was the most dangerous.
+
+It had been settled in the evening between the aunt and the niece, that such a striking civility as Miss Darcy’s in coming to see them on the very day of her arrival at Pemberley ought to be imitated, though it could not be equalled, by some exertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that it would be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following morning. They were, therefore, to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though when she asked herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply.
+
+Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme had been renewed the day before, and a positive engagement made of his meeting some of the gentlemen at Pemberley before noon.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 45
+
+
+
+
+CONVINCED AS ELIZABETH now was that Miss Bingley’s dislike of her had originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how unwelcome her appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know with how much civility on that lady’s side the acquaintance would now be renewed.
+
+On reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the Shinto shrine, whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows opening to the ground, the shrine admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody hills behind the house, and its many sacred mirrors honored the gods while creating a most pleasing abundance of light.
+
+In this shrine they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting there with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived in London. Georgiana’s reception of them was very civil, but attended with all the embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the fear of doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves inferior the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and her niece, however, did her justice, and pitied her.
+
+By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only by a curtsey; and, on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be, succeeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a genteel, agreeable-looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind of discourse proved her to be more truly well-bred than either of the others; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from Elizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she wished for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a short sentence when there was least danger of its being heard.
+
+Elizabeth saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss Bingley, and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without calling her attention. “Oh! How she must long to strike at me with her clumsy, untrained fists,” thought Elizabeth. “What fun it would be to see her lose her composure so!”
+
+The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of Japanese delicacies. There was now employment for the whole party—for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the beautiful pyramids of ham, frosting, and zarezushi soon collected them round the table.
+
+While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding whether she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by the feelings which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but a moment before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to regret that he came—for she realized that her breath must tang of sweets and raw eel.
+
+He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three other gentlemen from the house, was musket fishing in the river, and had left him only on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear than Elizabeth wisely resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed, because she saw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them, and that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour when he first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley’s, in spite of the smiles which over-spread her face whenever she spoke to one of its objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attentions to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother’s entrance, exerted herself much more to talk, and Elizabeth saw that he was anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded as much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the first opportunity of saying, with sneering civility:
+
+“Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the Militia removed from Meryton? They must be a great loss to your family.”
+
+In Darcy’s presence she dared not mention Wickham’s name; but Elizabeth instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and she had to forcefully repress the desire to blacken Miss Bingley’s eyes for such insolence. Exerting her tongue rather than her fists to repel the ill-natured attack, she presently answered the question in a tolerably detached tone. While she spoke, an involuntary glance showed her Darcy, with a heightened complexion, his sword hand twitching ever so slightly, and his sister overcome with confusion, and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what pain she was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would have refrained from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose Elizabeth by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she believed her partial, to make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in Darcy’s opinion, and, perhaps, to remind the latter of all the follies and absurdities by which some part of her family were connected with that corps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss Darcy’s meditated elopement.
+
+Elizabeth’s collected behaviour, however, soon quieted Mr. Darcy’s emotion; and as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able to speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely recollected her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which had been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth seemed to have fixed them on her more and more cheerfully. Not since the Battle of Tumu Fortress had an assault been so poorly conceived.
+
+Their visit did not continue long after the above mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their carriage Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth’s person, behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join her. Her brother’s recommendation was enough to ensure her favour; his judgement could not err. And he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana without the power of finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When Darcy returned to the shrine, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to him some part of what she had been saying to his sister.
+
+“How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy,” she cried; “I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she is since the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing that we should not have known her again.”
+
+However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented himself with coolly replying that he perceived no other alteration than her being rather tanned, no miraculous consequence of traveling in the summer.
+
+“For my own part,” she rejoined, “I must confess that I never could see any beauty in her. Her midriff is too firm; her arms too free of loose flesh; and her legs too long and flexible. Her nose wants character—it is unbearably petite. Her teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes, which have sometimes been called so fine, I could never see anything extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, knowing look, which I do not like at all; and in her air altogether there is a self sufficiency and composure, which is intolerable.”
+
+Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the success she expected. He was resolutely silent, however, and, from a determination of making him speak, she continued:
+
+“I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, ‘She a beauty! I should as soon call her mother a wit.’ But afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at one time.”
+
+“Yes,” replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, “but that was only when I first saw her, for I now consider her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.”
+
+He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself.
+
+Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred during their visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested them both. The look and behaviour of everybody they had seen were discussed, except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked of his sister, his friends, his shrine, his zarezushi—of everything but himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece’s beginning the subject.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 46
+
+
+
+
+ELIZABETH HAD BEEN a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but on the third her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that it had been aboard a post carriage that had been overrun by zombies, thus the delay in its delivery.
+
+They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by them-selves. The one delayed must first be attended to; it had been written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded; but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect:
+
+
+Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a most unexpected and serious nature. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland with one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our surprise. I am very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step (and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How thankful am I that we never let them know of his falling out with Mr. Darcy, or of his treatment of the deaf; we must forget it ourselves.
+
+
+
+
+
+On finishing this letter Elizabeth instantly seized the other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first.
+
+
+DEAREST LIZZY,
+
+I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as the marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken place, for there is now reason to believe that Lydia may have been taken against her will! Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia’s short letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they intended to elope, something was dropped by another officer that Wickham had no such intentions, which was repeated to Colonel F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B. intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham, but no further; for on entering that place, he was met with a hail of musket balls, and forced to seek cover while Wickham and Lydia removed into a hackney coach and sped away. All that is known after this is, that they were seen to continue the London road. I know not what to think. After making every possible inquiry on that side of London, Colonel F. came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F., but no one can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the worst, that she will be stripped of her clothes, her honour, and her head in quick succession—but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make it more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to pursue their first plan; and even if he could carry out such a scheme against a young woman of Lydia’s training, which is not likely, can I suppose his character so misjudged by us? Impossible! My father is going to London with Colonel Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do I am sure I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such distress, my uncle’s advice and assistance would be everything in the world; he will immediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.
+
+
+
+
+
+“Oh! Where, where is my uncle?” cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat as she finished the letter, without losing a moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door it was opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous manner made him start, and before he could recover himself to speak, she hastily exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not an instant to lose.”
+
+“Good God! What is the matter?” cried he, “I will not detain you a minute; but let me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are not well enough; you cannot go yourself.”
+
+Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she felt how little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and mistress home instantly.
+
+On his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support herself, and looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration, “Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you present relief? Kampo herbs; shall I get you some? You are very ill.”
+
+“No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. “There is nothing the matter with me. I am only distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn.”
+
+She burst into tears and for a few minutes could not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate silence. At length she spoke again. “I have just had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My younger sister is in the power of—of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. You know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections, nothing that can tempt him to marriage—she is lost for ever.”
+
+Darcy was fixed in astonishment. “When I consider,” she added in a yet more agitated voice, “that I might have prevented it! I, who knew what he was. Had I but explained some part of it only—some part of what I learnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not have happened. But it is all—all too late now.”
+
+“I am grieved indeed,” cried Darcy; “grieved—shocked. But is it certain—absolutely certain?”
+
+“Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced almost to London, but not beyond; Colonel Foster has reason to doubt their elopement, and suspects that Lydia was taken against her will.”
+
+“And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?”
+
+“My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle’s immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in half-an-hour. But nothing can be done. How are they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope.”
+
+Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.
+
+“When my eyes were opened to his real character—Oh! Had I known what I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not—I was afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!”
+
+Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking up and down the room in earnest meditation, his brow contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. His opinion of her was sinking; everything must sink under such a proof of family weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. Never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved him, as now, when all love must be vain.
+
+Covering her face with her handkerchief, Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else; and was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the voice of her companion. “Would to Heaven that anything could be either said or done on my part that might offer consolation to such distress! But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister’s having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley to-day.”
+
+“Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us to Miss Darcy. Say that urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as long as it is possible, I know it cannot be long.”
+
+He readily assured her of his secrecy; again expressed his sorrow for her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present reason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her relations, with only one serious, parting look, went away.
+
+As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality again; and as she threw a retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those feelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would formerly have rejoiced in its termination.
+
+She saw him go with regret; and in this early example of the shame which Lydia’s imminent violation and murder must produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched business. Never, since reading Jane’s second letter, had she entertained a hope of Wickham’s meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought, could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least of her feelings on this development. While the contents of the first letter remained in her mind, she was all surprise—all astonishment that Wickham should have captured a student of Shaolin—even one so careless as Lydia. But now it was all too natural. For such was her eagerness for the company of handsome officers, that her guard would have been sufficiently lowered to allow such a disgrace.
+
+Elizabeth was wild to be at home—to hear, to see, to be upon the spot to share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a family so deranged, a father absent, a mother surely vomiting by now, and requiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing could be done for Lydia, her uncle’s interference seemed of the utmost importance, and till he entered the room her impatience was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing by the servant’s account that their niece was slain by some unknown enemy; but satisfying them instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their summons, reading the two letters aloud. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be deeply afflicted. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after the first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner promised every assistance in his power. Elizabeth, though expecting no less, thanked him with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated by one spirit, everything relating to their journey was speedily settled. They were to be off as soon as possible. “But what is to be done about Pemberley?” cried Mrs. Gardiner. “John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for us; was it so?”
+
+“Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement. That is all settled.”
+
+“What shall we tell our other friends?” said the other, as she ran into her room to prepare. “Oh, how I wish there were time to see Sylak once more!”
+
+But wishes were vain, or at least could only serve to amuse her in the hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure to be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was impossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of business as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to be written to all their friends at Lambton, with false excuses for their sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr. Gardiner meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing remained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of the morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 47
+
+
+
+
+“I HAVE BEEN THINKING it over again, Elizabeth,” said her uncle, as they drove from the town; “and really, upon serious consideration, I am much more inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does on the matter. It appears to me so very unlikely that any young man should form such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or friendless, and who was actually staying in his colonel’s family, that I am strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends would not step forward? Could he expect that her sisters would not pursue him to the ends of the earth with their swords? Could he expect to be noticed again by the regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is not adequate to the risk!”
+
+“Do you really think so?” cried Elizabeth.
+
+“Upon my word,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “I begin to be of your uncle’s opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and interest, for him to be guilty of. I cannot think so very ill of Wickham. Can you yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him up, as to believe him capable of it?”
+
+“Not, perhaps, of neglecting his own interest; but of every other neglect I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I dare not hope it. Why should he fire upon the Colonel if that had been the case?”
+
+“In the first place,” replied Mr. Gardiner, “there is no absolute proof that they do not intend to marry.”
+
+“But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their marriage be private? Oh, no, no—this is not likely. His fellow officer, you see by Jane’s account, was persuaded of his never intending to marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some money. He cannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia—what attraction has she beyond youth and good length of bone that could make him, for her sake, forego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to your other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. My sisters and I cannot spend any substantial time searching for Wickham, as we are each commanded by His Majesty to defend Hertfordshire from all enemies until such time as we are dead, rendered lame, or married.”
+
+“But can you think that Lydia is so helpless as to allow herself—nay, her family to be so dishonoured?”
+
+“It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed,” replied Elizabeth, with tears in her eyes, “that a Bennet sister’s mastery of the deadly arts should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say. Perhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young; and for the last half-year, nay, for a twelvemonth—she has been given up to nothing but amusement and vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle and frivolous manner, and to neglect her daily sparring, meditation, or even the simplest game of Kiss Me Deer. Since the Militia were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love, flirtation, and officers have been in her head. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of person and address that can captivate a woman.”
+
+“But you see that Jane,” said her aunt, “does not think so very ill of Wickham as to believe him capable of the attempt.”
+
+“Of whom does Jane ever think ill? I have seen her cradle unmentionables in her arms, apologising for taking their limbs, even as they tried to bite her with their last. But Jane knows, as well as I do, what Wickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every sense of the word; that he has neither integrity nor honour.”
+
+“And do you really know all this?” cried Mrs. Gardiner.
+
+“I do indeed,” replied Elizabeth, colouring. “I told you, the other day, of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you yourself, when last at Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man who had behaved with such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other circumstances which I am not at liberty—which it is not worth while to relate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless.”
+
+“But does Lydia know nothing of this? Can she be ignorant of what you and Jane seem so well to understand?”
+
+“Oh, yes! That is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was ignorant of the truth myself—so ignorant that my honour required the seven cuts. And when I returned home, the Militia was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight’s time. As that was the case, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it necessary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could it apparently be to any one, that the good opinion which all the neighbourhood had of him should then be overthrown? And even when it was settled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening her eyes to his character never occurred to me.”
+
+“When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I suppose, to believe them fond of each other?”
+
+“Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either side, other than her carving his name into her midriff with a dagger; but this was customary with Lydia. When first he entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all were. Every girl in or near Meryton was out of her senses about him for the first two months; but he never distinguished her by any particular attention; and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy gave way, and others of the regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites.”
+
+However little of novelty could be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth’s thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could find no interval.
+
+They travelled as expeditiously as possible, until they neared the village of Lowe, where there had lately been a skirmish between the King’s army and a southerly herd. Here, the road became so littered with bodies (human and unmentionable alike), that it was rendered almost impassable. As the bodies were unsafe to touch, the coachman was forced to lift the iron beak from the undercarriage and affix it to the horses—hanging it with leather straps from their necks, so that it rested front of their feet, forming a plow, which pushed the bodies aside as they continued.
+
+Determined that they should lose no more time, Elizabeth sat next to the coachman with her Brown Bess, ready to meet the slightest sign of trouble with the crack of powder. She ordered him to stop for nothing; even that most personal business would have to be attended to from where they sat. They drove through the night, and reached Longbourn by dinner time the next day. It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied by long expectations.
+
+The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing on the steps of the house as they entered the paddock; and, when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their faces was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome.
+
+Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them a hasty kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane immediately met her.
+
+Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether anything had been heard of the fugitives.
+
+“Not yet,” replied Jane. “But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope everything will be well. Oh! Lizzy! Our sister abducted and repeatedly dishonoured, even as we stand here helpless!”
+
+“Is my father in town?”
+
+“Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word.”
+
+“And have you heard from him often?”
+
+“We have heard only twice. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely added that he should not write again till he had something of importance to mention.”
+
+“And my mother—how is she? How are you all?”
+
+“Mother is tolerably well, I trust; though she vomits often, and quite copiously, as you no doubt expected. She is upstairs and will have great satisfaction in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank Heaven, are quite well, and have both sworn blood-oaths against Mr. Wickham, bless their hearts.”
+
+“But you—how are you?” cried Elizabeth. “You look pale. How much you must have gone through!”
+
+Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well; and their conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were engaged with their children, was now put an end to by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears.
+
+When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth had already asked were of course repeated by the others, and they soon found that Jane had no intelligence to give. She still clung to the sanguine hope that it would all end well, and that every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father, to explain their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce their marriage.
+
+Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes’ conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous conduct of Wickham, and half a bucket’s worth of vomit; blaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the errors of her daughter must principally be owing.
+
+“If I had been able,” said she, “to carry my point in going to Brighton, with all my family, this would not have happened; but poor dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing if she had been well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the charge of her; but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor dear child! And now here’s Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight Wickham wherever he meets him, and then he will be killed—for no matter how full his mind of Oriental trickery, his frail old body possesses none of its former grace. And then what is to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out before he is cold in his grave, and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what we shall do.”
+
+They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia.
+
+“Do not give way to useless alarm,” added he. “Till we know that they are not married, and have no design of marrying, do not let us give her honour over as lost. As soon as I get to town I shall go to my brother, and make him come home with me to Section Six East; and then we may consult together as to what is to be done.”
+
+“Oh! My dear brother,” replied Mrs. Bennet, “that is exactly what I could most wish for. When you get to town, find them out; and if they are not married already, make them marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them, after they are married. And, above all, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in, that I am frighted out of my wits—and have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me—such spasms in my side and pains in my head, and such a ceaseless torrent of sick into my bucket, that I can get no rest by night nor by day.”
+
+Mr. Gardiner assured her again of his earnest endeavours in the cause, and after talking with her in this manner till dinner was on the table, they all left her to vomit in the company of the housekeeper, who attended in the absence of her daughters.
+
+Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to oppose it. In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been too busily engaged in their sparring to make their appearance before. They had been busy at little else since swearing their blood oaths. Soon after they were seated at the table, Mary whispered to Elizabeth:
+
+“This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much talked of. But we must stem the tide of idle chatter, and pour into our wounded bosoms the soothing balm of vengeance.”
+
+Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added, “Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful lesson: that virtue in a female is as easily removed as a piece of clothing; that one false step can cause endless ruin; that the only remedy for wounded honour is the blood of he who hath defiled it.”
+
+Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed to make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such kind of moral extractions from the evil before them.
+
+In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for half-an-hour by themselves; after joining in general lamentations over the dreadful dishonouring of their sister, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Jane could not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued the subject, by saying, “But tell me all and everything about it which I have not already heard. Give me further particulars. What did Colonel Forster say? Had they no apprehension of anything before the abduction took place?”
+
+“Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality, especially on Lydia’s side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so grieved for him! His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He was coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had any idea of Wickham’s having no intention of marrying: when that apprehension first got abroad, it hastened his journey.”
+
+“And was the officer convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of their intending to go off?”
+
+“Yes; but, when questioned by him, the officer denied knowing anything of their plans, and would not give his real opinion about it, even after the Colonel threatened to feed his most English parts to the unmentionables. He did not repeat his persuasion of their not marrying—and from that, I am inclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before.”
+
+“And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you doubted that they would be hastily married?”
+
+“How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I felt a little uneasy—a little fearful of my sister’s happiness with him in marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite right. My father and mother knew nothing of that; they only felt how imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia’s last letter she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their being in love with each other, many weeks.”
+
+“But not before they went to Brighton?”
+
+“No, I believe not.”
+
+“And did Colonel Forster appear to think well of Wickham himself? Does he know his real character?”
+
+“I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad affair has taken place, it is said that he left Meryton greatly in debt, and left at least one poor milkmaid in a delicate condition; but I hope this may be false.”
+
+“Oh, Jane, had we told what we knew of him, this could not have happened!”
+
+“Perhaps it would have been better,” replied her sister. “But to expose the former faults of any person without knowing what their present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions.”
+
+“Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia’s note to his wife?”
+
+“He brought it with him for us to see.”
+
+Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These were the contents:
+
+
+MY DEAR HARRIET,
+
+You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who, I shall think your brains in a zombie’s teeth, for there is but one man in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater, when I write to them and sign my name “Lydia Wickham.” What a good joke it will be! I can hardly write for laughing.
+
+I shall send for my clothes and weapons when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell Sally to mend a great claw mark in my worked muslin gown before they are packed up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster. I hope you will drink to our good journey.
+
+Your affectionate friend,
+
+LYDIA BENNET.
+
+
+
+
+
+“Oh! Thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!” cried Elizabeth when she had finished it. “What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment! But at least it shows that she was serious on the subject of their journey. Whatever he might afterwards force her into, it was not on her side a scheme of infamy. My poor father! How he must have felt it!”
+
+“I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in such confusion!”
+
+“Oh! Jane,” cried Elizabeth, “you do not look well. Oh that I had been with you! You have had every care and anxiety upon yourself alone.”
+
+“Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every fatigue, I am sure, had they not been engaged in crafting Mr. Wickham’s doom. My aunt Philips came to Longbourn on Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all. And Lady Lucas has been very kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to condole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters’, if they should be of use to us.”
+
+Upon hearing Lady Lucas mentioned, Elizabeth’s thoughts turned to Hunsford. She wondered if there were any of the old Charlotte left, or if Mr. Collins had yet perceived her affliction. It had, after all, been some time since she had received a letter from the parsonage. Was her friend still living? It was too frightful a subject to long dwell upon. She then proceeded to inquire into the measures which her father had intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter.
+
+“He meant I believe,” replied Jane, “to go to Epsom, the place where they last changed horses. His principal object must be to discover the number of the hackney coach which took them from Clapham after Mr. Wickham tried to kill the Colonel. It had come with a fare from London; and as he thought that the circumstance of a gentleman and lady’s removing from one carriage into another in a hail of musket fire might be remembered, he meant to make inquiries at Clapham.”
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 48
+
+
+
+
+THE WHOLE PARTY were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him. His family knew him to be a most negligent and dilatory correspondent; but at such a time they had hoped for exertion. They were forced to conclude that he had no pleasing intelligence to send; but even of that they would have been glad to be certain. Mr. Gardiner had waited only for the letters before he set off, with three hired men and their guns as his companions and guarantors of expeditious passage.
+
+Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few days longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable to her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a great comfort to them in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also visited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of cheering and heartening them up—though, as she never came without reporting some fresh instance of Wickham’s leaving this bill or that bastard child, she seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found them.
+
+All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three months before, had been hailed as “more praiseworthy than Christ himself.” He was declared to be in debt to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman’s family. Everybody declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world; and everybody began to find out that they had always distrusted the appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above half of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of her sister’s ruin more certain; and even Jane, who believed still less of it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now come when, if they had been married, they must in all probability have gained some news of it.
+
+Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday his wife received a letter from him; it told them that, on his arrival, he had immediately found out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Section Six East; that Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival, but without gaining any satisfactory information; and that he was now determined to inquire at all the principal hotels in town. There was also a postscript to this effect:
+
+
+I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if possible, from some of the young man’s intimates in the regiment, whether Wickham has any relations or connections who would be likely to know in what part of town he has now concealed himself. If there were anyone that one could apply to with a probability of gaining such a clue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we have nothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do everything in his power to satisfy us on this head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps, Lizzy could tell us what relations he has now living, better than any other person.
+
+
+
+
+
+Elizabeth had never heard of his having had any relations, except a father and mother, both of whom had been dead many years. It was possible, however, that some of his companions in the Militia might be able to give more information, though she was not very sanguine in expecting it.
+
+Elizabeth and Jane could find no solace in their deer wrestling, nor could they depend on their younger sisters for company, as both were forever engaged in crafting some new method of disembowelment for Mr. Wickham. Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters was the grand object of every morning’s impatience. Through letters, whatever of good or bad was to be told would be communicated, and every succeeding day was expected to bring some news of importance.
+
+But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived for their father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins; which, as Jane had received directions to open all that came for him in his absence, she accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his letters always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as follows:
+
+
+MY DEAR SIR,
+
+I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now suffering under, and likewise inform you of my own suffering, due to a tragedy that has befallen one of your dearest acquaintances, my beloved wife, Charlotte. It is my sad duty to report that she is no more with us upon this earth; that she was somehow stricken with the strange plague—an affliction we were all blind to until Lady Catherine de Bourgh condescended to bring it to my attention in a most graceful manner. Her ladyship, I might add, was kind enough to offer her hand in carrying out the customary beheading and burning; but I felt it my husbandly duty to perform them with my own hand—trembling though it was. Be assured, my dear sir, that despite my own crippling grief, I sincerely sympathise with you and all your respectable family, in your present distress, which must be of the bitterest kind. The death of your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison of this, just as the beheading and burning of my bride was a fate preferable to seeing her join the ranks of Lucifer’s brigade. You are grievously to be pitied; in which opinion I am joined Lady Catherine and her daughter, to whom I have related the affair. They agree with me in apprehending that this dishonouring of one’s daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of all the others; for “who,” as Lady Catherine herself condescendingly says, “will connect themselves with such a family?” And this consideration leads me moreover to reflect, with augmented satisfaction, on my offer to Elizabeth last November; for had she replied otherwise, I must have been involved in your disgrace, instead of the mere sorrow which I am presently condemned to. Let me then advise you, dear sir, to throw off your unworthy child from your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of her own heinous offense. And let me conclude by congratulating you, for I shall no longer be requiring Longbourn upon your death, as I shall myself be dead by the time this post reaches you—hanging from a branch of Charlotte’s favourite tree, in the garden which her ladyship was so magnanimous in granting us stewardship over.
+
+I AM, DEAR SIR, ETC., ETC.
+
+
+
+
+
+Mr. Gardiner did not write again till he had received an answer from Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send. It was not known that Wickham had a single relationship with whom he kept up any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one living. His former acquaintances had been numerous; but since he had been in the militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship with any of them. There was no one, therefore, who could be pointed out as likely to give any news of him. And in the wretched state of his own finances, there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in addition to his fear of discovery by Lydia’s relations, for it had just transpired that he had left bastards and gaming debts behind him to a very considerable amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than a thousand pounds would be necessary to clear his expenses at Brighton, and another thousand to provide for those sorry girls he had left with the stains of shame. Mr. Gardiner did not attempt to conceal these particulars from the Longbourn family. Jane heard them with horror. “A gamester! A bastard maker!” she cried. “This is wholly unexpected. I had not an idea of it.”
+
+Mr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see their father at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered spiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours, he had yielded to his brother-in-law’s entreaty that he would return to his family. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did not express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering what her anxiety for his life had been before.
+
+“What, is he coming home? And without poor Lydia?” she cried. “Sure he will not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Wickham, and make him marry her, if he comes away?”
+
+As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that she and the children should go to London, at the same time that Mr. Bennet came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their journey, and brought its master back to Longbourn.
+
+Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy that had attended her from that part of the world. His name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece; and Elizabeth had received no letters since her return that could come from Pemberley.
+
+The present unhappy state of the family rendered any other excuse for the lowness of her spirits unnecessary. Elizabeth, who was by this time tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of Lydia’s infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought, one sleepless night out of two.
+
+When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the habit of saying; made no mention of the business that had taken him away, and it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of it.
+
+It was not till the afternoon, when he had joined them at tea, that Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly expressing her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, “Say nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? ‘For every rod of wet bamboo upon the student’s back, the teacher deserves two.’ Did not Master Liu say as much?”
+
+“You must not be too severe upon yourself,” replied Elizabeth.
+
+“You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone to fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have been to blame. For it was I who resolved that you should be warriors, and not ladies. It is I who saw to your instruction in the ways of death, while neglecting to teach you anything of life. Grant me my shame, for it is most deserved.”
+
+“Do you suppose them to be in London?”
+
+“Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?”
+
+“And Lydia used to want to go to London,” added Kitty.
+
+“She is happy then,” said her father drily; “and her residence there will probably be of some duration.”
+
+Then after a short silence he continued:
+
+“Lizzy, I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your advice to me last May, which, considering the event, shows some greatness of mind.”
+
+They were interrupted by Kitty, who came to fetch her mother’s tea.
+
+“This is a parade!” he cried. “Can I have not a moment’s peace in which to suffer my misfortune? Tomorrow I will sit in my library, in my nightcap and robes of silk, and remain there till Kitty runs away.”
+
+“I am not going to run away, papa,” said Kitty fretfully. “If I should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia.”
+
+“You go to Brighton. I would not trust you so near it as Eastbourne for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter into my house again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be absolutely prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters. And you are never to stir out of doors till you can prove that you have spent ten hours of every day in pursuit of your studies.”
+
+Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry.
+
+“Well, well,” said he, “do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of them.”
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 49
+
+
+
+
+TWO DAYS AFTER Mr. Bennet’s return, as Jane and Elizabeth were tracking a buck through the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper coming towards them, and, concluding that she came to report their mother’s latest fit of vomiting, went forward to meet her; but, instead of the expected news, when they approached her, she said to Miss Bennet, “I beg your pardon, madam, for interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some good news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask.”
+
+“What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town.”
+
+“Dear madam,” cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, “don’t you know there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He has been here this half-hour, and master has had a letter.”
+
+Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech. They ran through the vestibule into the breakfast-room; from thence to the library; their father was in neither; and they were on the point of seeking him upstairs with their mother, when they were met by the butler, who said:
+
+“If you are looking for my master, ma’am, he is walking towards the dojo.”
+
+Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall once more, and ran across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately pursuing his way toward the modest building.
+
+Elizabeth came up with him, and eagerly cried out:
+
+“Oh, papa, what news—what news? Have you heard from my uncle?”
+
+“Yes I have had a letter from him by express.”
+
+“Well, and what news does it bring—good or bad?”
+
+“What is there of good to be expected?” said he, taking the letter from his pocket. “But perhaps you would like to read it.”
+
+Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up.
+
+“Read it aloud,” said their father, “for I hardly know myself what it is about.”
+
+
+Section Six East, Monday,
+
+August 2.
+
+MY DEAR BROTHER,
+
+At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such as, upon the whole, I hope it will give you satisfaction. Soon after you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what part of London they were. The particulars I reserve till we meet; it is enough to know they are discovered. I have seen them both—
+
+
+
+
+
+“Then it is as I always hoped,” cried Jane; “they are married!” Elizabeth read on:
+
+
+I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find there was any intention of being so; but I can happily report that Mr. Wickham has lately undergone a most remarkable change of heart on the subject, and wishes they be wed with the utmost expediency. He is in a most dreadful state, however, for a carriage accident has left him bedridden and unable to move his limbs, or control his personal business. I am afraid his doctors are of the opinion that he shall remain thus for the whole course of his life; but imagine their relief to know that he shall have a devoted wife to attend to his every need till death do they part. He wishes no share of your daughter’s five thousand pounds, nor does he require more than five pounds per annum to offset the cost of his linens. These are conditions which, considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying with, as far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by express, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers to act in your name throughout the whole of this business, there will not be the smallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore stay quiet at Longbourn, and depend on my diligence and care. Send back your answer as fast as you can, and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it best that my niece should be married at Wickham’s bedside, of which I hope you will approve, as there is little chance of his being moved. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as anything more is determined on.
+
+Yours, etc.,
+
+EDW. GARDINER.
+
+
+
+
+
+“Is it possible?” cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. “Can it be possible that he will marry her?”
+
+“Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we thought him. Oh! Rendered lame by a carriage! Cruel fate!” said her sister. “My dear father, I congratulate you.”
+
+“And have you answered the letter?” cried Elizabeth.
+
+“No; but it must be done soon.”
+
+“Oh! My dear father,” she cried, “come back and write immediately. Consider how important every moment is in such a case.”
+
+“Let me write for you,” said Jane, “if you dislike the trouble yourself.”
+
+“I dislike it very much,” he replied; “but it must be done.”
+
+And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house.
+
+“And may I ask,” said Elizabeth; “but the terms, I suppose, must be complied with.”
+
+“Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little.”
+
+“Oh! Wretched Lydia! To be a nurse for the rest of her days! And they must marry! Yet he is a cripple!”
+
+“Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there are two things that I want very much to know; one is, how much money your uncle has laid down to bring it about; and the other, how am I ever to pay him.”
+
+“Money! My uncle!” cried Jane, “what do you mean, sir?”
+
+“I mean, that no man in his senses would marry Lydia on so slight a temptation as five pounds a year during my life, and nothing after I am gone.”
+
+“That is very true,” said Elizabeth; “though it had not occurred to me before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh! It must be my uncle’s doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this.”
+
+“No,” said her father; “Wickham’s a fool if he takes her with a farthing less than ten thousand pounds, especially since he will now have little opportunity of earning and fortune of his own. I should be sorry to think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship.”
+
+“Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be repaid?”
+
+Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued silent till they reached the house. Their father then went on to the library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room.
+
+“And they are really to be married!” cried Elizabeth, as soon as they were by themselves. “How strange this is! And for this we are to be thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness, and wretched as is his broken body, we are forced to rejoice. Oh, Lydia!”
+
+“I comfort myself with thinking,” replied Jane, “that he certainly would not marry Lydia if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds, or anything like it, has been advanced. He has children of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds?”
+
+“If he were ever able to learn what Wickham’s debts have been,” said Elizabeth, “and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be requited. Their affording her their personal protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage as years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. If such goodness does not make her miserable now, she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she first sees my aunt!”
+
+“We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,” said Jane, “I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself they will settle so quietly—he in his bed, and she at his side, as may in time make their past imprudence forgotten.”
+
+“Their conduct has been such,” replied Elizabeth, “as neither you, nor I, nor anybody can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it, except to persuade our younger sisters that they must renounce their blood oath post haste.”
+
+It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library, therefore, and asked their father whether he would not wish them to make it known to her. He was writing and, without raising his head, coolly replied:
+
+“Just as you please.”
+
+“May we take my uncle’s letter to read to her?”
+
+“Take whatever you like, and get away.”
+
+Elizabeth took the letter from his writing-table, and they went upstairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one communication would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself. As soon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner’s hope of Lydia’s being soon married, her joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its exuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she had ever been fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her happiness as the eternal nurse to a lame, fortuneless husband, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct.
+
+“My dear, dear Lydia!” she cried. “This is delightful indeed! She will be married! I shall see her again! She will be married at sixteen! My good, kind brother! I knew how it would be. I knew he would manage everything! How I long to see her! And to see dear Wickham too! Dear, crippled Wickham! What a husband he shall make! In a short time I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well it sounds! And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in such a flutter, that I am sure I can’t write; so I will dictate, and you write for me. We will settle with your father about the money afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately.”
+
+She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and silver bedpans, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait till her father was at leisure to be consulted. One day’s delay, she observed, would be of small importance; and her mother was too happy to be quite so obstinate as usual. Other schemes, too, came into her head.
+
+“I will go to Meryton,” said she, “as soon as I am dressed, and tell the good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come back, I can call on Lady Lucas. Her grief for dear Charlotte will be much assuaged by this joyous development! Kitty, run down and order the carriage. An airing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do anything for you in Meryton? Oh! Here comes Hill! My dear Hill, have you heard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be married; and you shall all have a bowl of punch to make merry at her wedding.”
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 50
+
+
+
+
+MR. BENNET HAD VERY OFTEN wished before this period of his life that, instead of spending his whole income every year, he had set aside an annual sum for the better provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived him. He now wished it more than ever. Had he done his duty in that respect, Lydia need not have been indebted to her uncle for whatever of honour or credit could now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of prevailing on one of the most worthless young men in Great Britain might have been a trifle less disappointing than it now was.
+
+He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage to anyone should be forwarded at the sole expense of his brother-in-law, and he was determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his assistance, and to discharge the obligation as soon as he could.
+
+When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly useless, for, of course, they were to have a son. The son was to join in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age, and the widow and younger children would by that means be provided for. Five daughters successively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs. Bennet, for many years after Lydia’s birth, had been certain that he would. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then too late to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy, and her husband’s love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their income.
+
+Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs. Bennet and the children. But in what proportions it should be divided amongst the latter depended on the will of the parents. This was one point, with regard to Lydia, at least, which was now to be settled, for Mr. Bennet felt no obligation to leave her a single sixpence. In terms of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother, though expressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfill the engagements that had been made for him. He had never before supposed that, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would be done with so little inconvenience to himself as by the present arrangement.
+
+That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was another very welcome surprise; for his wish at present was to have as little trouble in the business as possible. When the first transports of rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were over, he naturally returned to all his former lethargy. His letter was soon dispatched; for, though dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick in its execution. He begged to know further particulars of what he was indebted to his brother, but was too angry with Lydia to send any message to her.
+
+The good news spread quickly through the house, and with proportionate speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter with decent philosophy. To be sure, it would have been more for the advantage of conversation had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the happiest alternative, been secluded from the world, in some distant Eastern land. But there was much to be talked of in marrying her; and the good-natured wishes for her well-doing which had proceeded before from all the spiteful old ladies in Meryton lost but a little of their spirit in this change of circumstances, because with such a lame, indebted husband her misery was considered certain.
+
+It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been downstairs; but on this happy day she again took her seat at the head of her table, and in spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object of her wishes since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of accomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on those attendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new muskets, and servants. She was busily searching through the neighbourhood for a proper house for her daughter, and, without knowing or considering what their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and importance.
+
+“Haye Park might do,” said she, “if the Gouldings could quit it—or the great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but Ashworth is too far off! I could not bear to have her ten miles from me; and as for Pulvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful.”
+
+Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her:
+
+“Mrs. Bennet, before you take any or all of these houses for your son and daughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into one house in this neighbourhood they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage the impudence of either, by receiving them at Longbourn.”
+
+A long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was firm. It soon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with amazement and horror, that her husband would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his daughter. He protested that she should receive from him no mark of affection whatever on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend it. That his anger could be carried to such a point of inconceivable resentment as to refuse his daughter a privilege without which her marriage would scarcely seem valid, exceeded all she could believe possible. She was more alive to the disgrace which her want of new clothes must reflect on her daughter’s nuptials, than to any sense of shame at her future son’s having abducted her daughter a fortnight before they took place.
+
+Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the distress of the moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted with their fears for her sister; for since her marriage would so shortly give the proper termination to the elopement, they might hope to conceal its unfavourable beginning from all those who were not immediately on the spot.
+
+She had no fear of its spreading farther through his means. There were few people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently depended; but, at the same time, there was no one whose knowledge of a sister’s frailty would have mortified her so much—not, however, from any fear of disadvantage to herself, for she expected there would be no more civilities between them. Had Lydia’s marriage been concluded on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that Mr. Darcy would connect himself with a family where, to every other objection, would now be added an alliance with a man whom he so justly scorned.
+
+“What a triumph for him,” she often thought, “could he know that the proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago, would now have been most gladly and gratefully received!” He was as generous, she doubted not, as the most generous of his sex; but while he was mortal, there must be a triumph.
+
+She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It was an union that must have been to the advantage of both; by her aggression and liveliness, his introversion might have been softened, his manners improved; and from his judgement, information, and knowledge of the world, she must have received benefit of greater importance. What a pair of warriors they would make! Sparring by the river at Pemberley; crossing the Altai Mountains in a fine coach on their way to Kyoto or Shanghai—their children eager to master death as their mother and father had before them.
+
+But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what connubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and precluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their family. How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence, she could not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could belong to a couple who were only brought together by an abduction, an attempted murder, and a carriage accident, she could easily conjecture.
+
+Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. The principal purport of his letter was to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved on quitting the militia.
+
+
+It was greatly my wish that he should do so, as soon as his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me, in considering that he can do little good in the fight against the zombies given his present condition. It is Mr. Wickham’s intention to enter the priesthood; and among his former friends, there are still some who are able and willing to assist him in this endeavour. He has the promise of joining a special seminary for the lame in northernmost Ireland. It is an advantage to have it so far from this part of the kingdom. He promises fairly; and I hope among different people, where they may each have a character to preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have written to Colonel Forster, to inform him of our present arrangements, and to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr. Wickham in and near Brighton, with assurances of speedy payment, for which I have pledged myself. And will you give yourself the trouble of carrying similar assurances to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin a list according to his information? He has given in all his debts; I hope at least he has not deceived us. I understand from Mrs. Gardiner, that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all before she leaves for Ireland. She is well, and begs to be dutifully remembered to you and your mother.
+
+Yours, etc.,
+
+E. GARDINER.
+
+
+
+
+
+Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham’s removal from England as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But Mrs. Bennet was not so well pleased with it. Lydia’s being settled in the north, just when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her company, was a severe disappointment; and, besides, it was such a pity that Lydia should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted with everybody, and could instruct soldiers in new methods of annihilating the walking dead.
+
+“She is so fond of Mrs. Forster,” said she, “it will be quite shocking to send her away! And there are several of the young men, too, that she likes very much.”
+
+His daughter’s request, for such it might be considered, of being admitted into her family again before she set off for the North, received at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth, who agreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister’s feelings and consequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by her parents, urged him so earnestly yet so rationally and so mildly, to receive her and her husband at Longbourn, as soon as they were married, that he was prevailed on to think as they thought, and act as they wished. And their mother had the satisfaction of knowing that she would be able to show her married daughter in the neighbourhood before she was banished to St. Lazarus Seminary for the Lame at Kilkenny. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore, he sent his permission for them to come; and it was settled, that as soon as the ceremony was over, they should proceed to Longbourn. Elizabeth was surprised, however, that Wickham should consent to such a scheme, considering what a dreadful visage he must present in his sorry condition.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 51
+
+
+
+
+THEIR SISTER’S WEDDING DAY arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt for her probably more than Lydia felt for herself. The carriage was sent to meet them, and they were to return in it by dinner-time. Their arrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets, and Jane more especially, who imagined the feelings which would have attended herself, had she been forced to marry her crippled abductor, and was wretched in the thought of what her sister must endure for the rest of her miserable life.
+
+They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room to receive them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet as the carriage drove up to the door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed, anxious, uneasy.
+
+Lydia’s voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown open, and she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand, with an affectionate smile, to Wickham, who was carried through the door by servants. Leather straps kept him fastened to his traveling bed, which was redo-lent of stale piss; and Elizabeth, who had been expecting as much, was nevertheless shocked at the severity of his injuries. His face remained bruised—his eyes half closed with swelling. His legs were broken and bent beyond hope, and his speech much affected. “Dear, sweet Wickham!” cried Mrs. Bennet. “What a fine priest you shall make! What a delightful husband!” Wickham replied with a polite moan.
+
+Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely opened his lips. The stench of Wickham’s bed, indeed, was enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their congratulations; and when at length they all sat down—save Wickham, who was placed by the fire—looked eagerly round the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and observed, with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been there.
+
+There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither of them talk fast enough. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the world. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led voluntarily to subjects which her sisters would not have alluded to for the world.
+
+“Only think of its being three months,” she cried, “since I went away; it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been things enough happened in the time. Good gracious! When I went away, I am sure I had no more idea of being married till I came back again! Though I thought it would be very good fun if I was.”
+
+Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw anything of which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, “Oh! Mamma, do the people hereabouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might not; and we passed William Goulding, whose curricle had been overturned and horses devoured, so I was determined he should know it, and so I let down the side-glass next to him, and took off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like anything. He yelled after us—something about his son being trapped; but oh! Mamma, I am sure he saw the ring. Oh! Think of how the news will spread!”
+
+Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room; and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to the dining parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with anxious parade, walk up to her mother’s right hand, and hear her say to her eldest sister, “Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a married woman.”
+
+It was not to be supposed that time or the odor of stale piss would give Lydia that embarrassment from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Philips, the Lucases, and all their other neighbours, and to hear herself called “Mrs. Wickham” by each of them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to show her ring, and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.
+
+“Well, mamma,” said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast room, “and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go.”
+
+“Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don’t at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?”
+
+“Oh, Lord! Yes—there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come to the seminary and see us. We shall be at Kilkerry these next three years, and I will take care to get good husbands for them all.”
+
+“I should like it beyond anything!” said her mother.
+
+“Oh! So many young priests! And each of them in dire need of a loving, caring wife!
+
+I dare say I shall see each of my sisters married before winter!”
+
+“I thank you for my share of the favour,” said Elizabeth; “but I do not particularly desire the rest of my life spent emptying piss pots.”
+
+Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham had received his letter of acceptance to Kilkerry, and given his condition, the journey North would be frightfully slow.
+
+No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so short; and she made the most of the time by visiting about with her daughter, and having very frequent parties at home, so that their neighbors might congratulate Mr. Wickham, who remained by the fire during the whole of their stay.
+
+Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every occasion. He did every thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more zombies this season, than any body else in the country, in spite of the fact that he had no use of his arms. One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth:
+
+“Lizzy, I never gave you an account of my wedding. Are not you curious to hear how it was managed?”
+
+“No really,” replied Elizabeth; “I think there cannot be too little said on the subject.”
+
+“La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were married, you know, at St. Clement’s, because it had the fewest steps to carry my beloved up. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven o’clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others were to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss! I was so afraid, you know, that something would happen to put it off, for there had lately been some trouble on the east wall, and everywhere one heard talk of relinquishing the neighborhood for safety. And there was my aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to know whether he would be married in his blue coat, or if he had soiled it like the others.”
+
+“Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you’ll believe me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a fortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or anything. To be sure London was rather thin because of the attacks, but, however, the Little Theatre was open. Well, and so just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon business to that horrid powder factory. Well, I was so frightened I did not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we were beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he came back again in ten minutes’ time, and then we all set out. However, I recollected afterwards that if he had been prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well.”
+
+“Mr. Darcy!” repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.
+
+“Oh, yes! He was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!”
+
+“If it was to be secret,” said Jane, “say not another word on the subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further.”
+
+“Oh! Certainly,” said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; “we will ask you no questions.”
+
+“Thank you,” said Lydia, “for if you did, I should certainly tell you all, and then Wickham would surely punish me with an ill-timed soiling.”
+
+On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her power by running away.
+
+But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at her sister’s wedding. What possible motive could he have had? Conjectures, rapid and wild, hurried into her brain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as placing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She could not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what Lydia had dropt.
+
+“You may readily comprehend,” she added, “what my curiosity must be to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively speaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such a time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it—unless it is, for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with ignorance.”
+
+“And my dear aunt,” she added to herself, as she finished the letter; “if you do not tell me in an honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it out.”
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 52
+
+
+
+
+ELIZABETH HAD THE SATISFACTION of receiving an answer to her letter as soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it than, hurrying into the dojo, where she was least likely to be interrupted, she sat down and prepared to be happy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not contain a denial.
+
+
+Section Six East, Sept. 6.
+
+MY DEAR NIECE,
+
+I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole morning to answering it, as I foresee that a little writing will not comprise what I have to tell you.
+
+On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up with him several hours. It was all over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so dreadfully racked as yours seems to have been. He came to tell Mr. Gardiner that he had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day after ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting for them. Mr. Darcy felt himself to blame for not making Wickham’s worthlessness more known—for if he had, no young woman of character would have dared love or confide in him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his private actions open to the world. He called it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and endeavour to remedy an evil which had been brought on by himself.
+
+There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago governess to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed from her charge on some cause of disapprobation, though he did not say what. She then took a large house in Edward Street, and has since maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs. Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham; and he went to her for intelligence of him as soon as he got to town. But it was two or three minutes of savage beating before he could get from her what he wanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without an application of severe blows about the head and neck. At length, however, our kind friend procured the wished-for direction. They were in Hen’s Quarry Street. Mr. Darcy saw Wickham, and with no want of force, insisted on seeing Lydia. His first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade her to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her, offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But he found Lydia absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared for none of her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not hear of leaving Wickham, who, in spite of his abducting her, she claimed to love more than anything on earth. Since such were her feelings, Mr. Darcy had but one choice to restore her honour—to secure and expedite a marriage between she and Wickham. But the latter had no intentions of marrying, and as to his future situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He must go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew he should have nothing to live on.
+
+Mr. Darcy asked him why he did not marry your sister at once. Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would be able to do something for him, and his situation would be benefited by marriage. But he found, in reply to this question, that Wickham still cherished the hope of more effectually making his fortune by marriage into a family of greater means.
+
+Mr. Darcy saw an opportunity here, and met with Wickham again to propose a solution beneficial to all parties. Mr. Wickham, after a great deal of consideration, agreed.
+
+Every thing being settled between them, Mr. Darcy’s next step was to make your uncle acquainted with the arrangement, and he first called in Section Six East the evening before I came home, and they had a great deal of talk together.
+
+They met again on Sunday, and then I saw him too. It was not all settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express was sent off to Longbourn. The terms were as follows: Wickham’s debts were to be paid, amounting, I believe, to considerably more than a thousand pounds, plus another thousand per annum to sustain him. In return, he would marry Lydia, thus restoring her honour, and that of the Bennet family. Second, he would allow Mr. Darcy to render him lame, as punishment for a lifetime of vice and betrayal, and to ensure that he would never lay another hand in anger, nor leave another bastard behind. To spare what little of his reputation remained, the injuries would be attributed to a carriage accident. Finally, he would pursue the priesthood, in hopes that the teachings of Christ would improve his general character. Darcy personally saw to it that all of this was attended to with the greatest expedience. (I dare say he took particular pleasure in beating Mr. Wickham lame.)
+
+I fancy, Lizzy, that stubbornness is the real defect of his character, after all. He has been accused of many faults at different times, but this is the true one. He insisted on shouldering the entire burden himself; though I am sure (and I do not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it), your uncle would most readily have settled the whole.
+
+He and your uncle battled it together for a long time, which was more than either the gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your uncle was forced to yield, and instead of being allowed to be of use to his niece, was forced to put up with only having the probable credit of it, which went sorely against the grain; and I really believe your letter this morning gave him great pleasure, because it required an explanation that would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where it was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no farther than yourself, or Jane at most.
+
+The reason why all this was to be done by him alone, was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his reserve, that Wickham’s character had been so misunderstood. Perhaps there was some truth in this; though I doubt whether his reserve, or anybody’s reserve, can be answerable to anything so scandalous. But in spite of all this fine talking, my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured that your uncle would never have yielded, if we had not been convinced of Mr. Darcy’s having another interest in the affair.
+
+When all this was resolved on, he returned again to his friends, who were still staying at Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be in London once more when the wedding took place, and all money matters were then to receive the last finish.
+
+I believe I have now told you every thing. It is a relation which you tell me is to give you great surprise; I hope at least it will not afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to us; and Wickham, newly lame, was carried to the house to recover, and to be fitted for his traveling bed, which Mr. Darcy generously paid for. I would not tell you how little I was satisfied with your sister’s behaviour while she remained with us, if I had not perceived, by Jane’s letter last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home was exactly as reprehensible, and therefore what I now tell you can give you no fresh pain.
+
+Mr. Darcy was punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you, attended the wedding. He dined with us the next day, gave his congratulations to the new couple, and took leave. Will you be very angry with me, my dear Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying 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 Pemberley. I shall never be quite happy till I have been all round the park. A low phaeton, pulled by a pair of captured zombies, would be the very thing.
+
+But I must write no more. There is some commotion on the street, and I fear the east gate has fallen again.
+
+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 of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister’s match, which she had feared too great to be probable, and at the same time wished for more than anything, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true! He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on himself to defile his hands with the blood of a woman whom he surely never wished to see again, and he was reduced to 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 Lydia—a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. 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. Oh! How she longed to see her seven scabs opened and bleeding once more! True, Darcy 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; 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 Elizabeth and her family were under obligations to a person who could never receive a return. They owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, every thing, 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 reflections by some one’s approach. She scarcely had time to fold the letter and remove it from sight before a pair of servants entered the dojo carrying Mr. Wickham on his traveling bed. They set him down on the floor beside her and took their leave.
+
+“I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?” mumbled he through a shattered jaw.
+
+“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. I thought the peace of the dojo a most refreshing change from my little corner of the breakfast parlor.”
+
+“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 in my sorry state. And you saw the old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of me—to see me thus affected would be quite a shock to her. 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 that—that you 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:
+
+“Did you see Darcy while you were there? 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 some rather extraordinary challenges.”
+
+“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 house! It would have suited me in every respect.”
+
+“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 you were a most disagreeable child, exceedingly cruel to the elder Darcy’s servants, and disrespectful of his wishes. As to your more recent behaviour, I have heard nothing that would persuade me of your having improved; whether it be your debts of honour, or the countless bastards strewn about His Majesty’s empire.”
+
+To this, Wickham could find no reply other than a fresh, aromatic soiling. Elizabeth stood and grabbed one end of his traveling bed, lifting it to her waist. Then, with a good-humoured smile, she said:
+
+“Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let us quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of one mind.”
+
+She dragged his bed across the dojo floor, through the grass, and towards the house.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 53
+
+
+
+
+MR. WICKHAM WAS SO PERFECTLY DISMAYED by this conversation that he never again provoked his dear sister Elizabeth by introducing the subject of it; and she was pleased to find that she had said enough to keep him quiet.
+
+The day of his and Lydia’s departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet was forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means entered into her scheme of their all going to Ireland, was likely to continue at least a twelvemonth.
+
+“Oh! My dear Lydia,” she cried, “when shall we meet again?”
+
+“Oh, Lord! I don’t know. Not these two or three years, perhaps.”
+
+“Write to me very often, my dear.”
+
+“As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for writing. My sisters may write to me. They will have nothing else to do.”
+
+Mr. Wickham’s adieus were no more affectionate than his wife’s. He said little as his traveling bed was hoisted into the carriage, accompanied by spare linens and feeding jars.
+
+“He is as fine a fellow,” said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of the house, “as ever I saw. I dare say I much prefer him in this relaxed state.”
+
+The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days.
+
+“I often think,” said she, “that there is nothing so bad as parting with one’s friends. One seems so forlorn without them.”
+
+“This is the consequence of marrying a daughter,” said Elizabeth. “It must make you better satisfied that your other four are single.”
+
+“It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is married, but only because St. Lazarus happens to be so far off. If it had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon.”
+
+But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was shortly relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope, by an article of news which then began to be in circulation. The housekeeper at Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the arrival of her master, who was coming down in a day or two to inspect his new staff, and the reinforcements made to the kitchen. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and smiled, and shook her head by turns.
+
+“Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down. Not that I care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am sure I never want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome to come to Netherfield, if he likes it. Is it quite certain he is coming?”
+
+“You may depend on it,” replied the other, “for Mrs. Nicholls was in Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was certain true. He comes down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was going to the butcher’s, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat on Wednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks just fit to be killed.”
+
+Jane Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without changing colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said:
+
+“I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the present report; and I know I appeared distressed. But don’t imagine it was from any silly cause. I was only confused for the moment, because I felt that I should be looked at. I do assure you that the news does not affect me either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes alone; because we shall see the less of him.”
+
+Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen Mr. Bingley in Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming there with no other view than what was acknowledged; but she still thought him partial to Jane, and she wavered as to the greater probability of his coming there with his friend’s permission, or being bold enough to come without it.
+
+“Yet it is hard,” she sometimes thought, “that this poor man cannot come to a house which he has legally hired, without raising all this speculation! I will leave him to himself.”
+
+In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be her feelings in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed, more unequal, than she had often seen them. No longer did she suggest morning games of Kiss Me Deer or evening games of Crypt and Coffin. So occupied were her thoughts that Mary was able to pin her during afternoon grappling for the first time.
+
+The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their parents, about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.
+
+“As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “you will wait on him of course.”
+
+“No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised, if I went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it ended in nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool’s errand again. Not by a fool such as yourself, anyhow.”
+
+His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his returning to Netherfield.
+
+“’Tis an etiquette I despise,” said he. “If he wants our society, let him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not spend my hours in running after my neighbours every time they go away and come back again.”
+
+“Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do not wait on him. But, however, that shan’t prevent my asking him to dine here, I am determined.”
+
+Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of servants, contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the period of anxiety and fretfulness on her side might be as long as it could. She counted the days that must intervene before their invitation could be sent; hopeless of seeing him before. But on the third morning after his arrival in Hertfordshire, she saw him, from her dressing-room window, enter the paddock and ride towards the house with his French musket.
+
+Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane resolutely kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother, went to the window—she looked, she saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat down again by her sister, suddenly alarmed beyond the capacity for rational thought.
+
+“There is a gentleman with him, mamma,” said Kitty; “who can it be?”
+
+“Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do not know.”
+
+“La!” replied Kitty, “it looks just like that man that used to be with him before. Mr. What’s-his-name. That tall, proud man.”
+
+“Good gracious! Mr. Darcy! And so it does, I vow. Well, any friend of Mr. Bingley’s will always be welcome here, to be sure; but else I must say that I hate the very sight of him.”
+
+Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness which must attend her sister, in seeing him almost for the first time after receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable enough. Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and their mother talked on, of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be civil to him only as Mr. Bingley’s friend, without being heard by either of them. But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to reveal her aunt’s letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him. To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she had refused, and whose head she had sent crashing into a mantle; but to her own more extensive information, he was the person to whom the whole family were indebted, and whom she regarded herself with an interest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and just as what Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his coming—at his coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again, was almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing his altered behaviour in Derbyshire.
+
+The colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half a minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to her eyes, as she thought for that space of time that his affection and wishes must still be unshaken. But she would not be secure.
+
+“Let me first see how he behaves,” said she.
+
+She sat intently at work whittling blowgun darts, striving to be composed, and without daring to lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of her sister as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little paler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the gentlemen’s appearing, her colour increased; yet she received them with tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any symptom of resentment or any unnecessary complaisance.
+
+Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not often command. She had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious, as usual; and, she thought, more as he had used to look in Hertfordshire, than as she had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother’s presence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but not an improbable, conjecture.
+
+Bingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs. Bennet with a degree of civility which made her two daughters ashamed, especially when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of her curtsey and address to his friend.
+
+Elizabeth, particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the latter the preservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy, was hurt and distressed to a most painful degree by a distinction so ill applied.
+
+Darcy, after inquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner fared in the collapse of the east gate, a question which she could not answer, said scarcely anything. She was in no humour for conversation with anyone but himself; and to him she had hardly courage to speak. “Me!” she thought. “Who fears no man! Who fears not death itself! And yet unable am I to summon but a single word.”
+
+“It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away,” said Mrs. Bennet.
+
+He readily agreed to it.
+
+“I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People did say you meant to quit the place entirely; but, however, I hope it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood, since you went away. The number of unmentionables has been happily reduced to but a fraction of what it was when first you came. Miss Lucas is sent to her grave by the plague. And one of my own daughters is newly married. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you must have seen it in the papers. It was in the Times and the Courier, I know; though it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, ‘Lately, George Wickham, Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,’ without there being a syllable said of her father, or her service to His Majesty, or anything. Did you see it?”
+
+Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could not tell.
+
+“It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married,” continued her mother, “but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very hard to have her taken such a way from me. They are gone down to Kilkenny, a place in Ireland, it seems, and there they are to stay I do not know how long. The St. Lazarus Seminary for the Lame is there; for I suppose you have heard of his being crippled in a carriage accident, and of his intention to enter the priesthood. Oh! My poor Wickham! If only he had as many friends as he deserves.”
+
+Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such misery of shame, that she could hardly keep her seat. Her misery received soon afterwards material relief, from observing how much the beauty of her sister rekindled the admiration of her former lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little; but every five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He found her as handsome as she had been last year; as good natured, and as unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no difference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded that she talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged, that she did not always know when she was silent.
+
+When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at Longbourn in a few days time.
+
+“You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley,” she added, “for when you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure you, I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep your engagement.”
+
+Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of his concern at having been prevented by business. They then went away.
+
+Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine there that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did not think anything less than two courses could be good enough for a man on whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride of one who had ten thousand a year.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 54
+
+
+
+
+AS SOON AS THEY WERE GONE, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits. Mr. Darcy’s behaviour astonished and vexed her.
+
+“Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,” said she, “did he come at all?”
+
+She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.
+
+“He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teasing, teasing, man! I will think no more about him. I am Death’s betrothed, after all. Sworn to honour and obey only the warrior code and my beloved Master Liu.”
+
+Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look. “Now,” said she, “that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by his coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly seen that, on both sides, we meet only as common and indifferent acquaintance.”
+
+“Yes, very indifferent indeed,” said Elizabeth, laughing. “Oh, Jane, take care.”
+
+“My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak.”
+
+“Weak? Not in the slightest. Rather I think you more powerful than ever, in making him fall very much in love with you.”
+
+They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs. Bennet, in the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes, which the good humour and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour’s visit, had revived.
+
+On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two who were most anxiously expected were in very good time. When they repaired to the dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take the place, which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by her sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore to invite him to sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to hesitate; but Jane happened to look round, and happened to smile: It was decided. He placed himself by her.
+
+Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards Mr. Darcy, who bore his friend’s choice of seat with noble indifference. She would have imagined that Bingley had received his permission to pursue Jane, had she not seen his eyes likewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing alarm.
+
+His behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as showed an admiration of her, which persuaded Elizabeth, that if left wholly to himself, Jane’s happiness, and his own, would be speedily secured. Though she dared not depend upon the consequence, she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It gave her all the animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in no cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her as the table could divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little such a situation would give pleasure to either. She was not near enough to hear any of their discourse, but she could see how seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and cold was their manner whenever they did. Her mother’s ungraciousness, made the sense of what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth’s mind; and she would, at times, have given anything to leap onto the table and administer the seven cuts of shame in front of Mr. Darcy—to see her pitiful blood drip onto his plate; atonement for her many prejudices against him.
+
+She was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity of bringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not pass away without enabling them to enter into something more of conversation than the mere ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious and uneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room, before the gentlemen came, was wearisome and dull to a degree that almost made her uncivil. She looked forward to their entrance as the point on which all her chance of pleasure for the evening must depend.
+
+“If he does not come to me, then,” said she, “I shall give him up for ever, and shall never again divert my eyes from the end of my blade.”
+
+The gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have answered her hopes; but, alas! The ladies had crowded round the table, where Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee, in so close a confederacy that there was not a single vacancy near her which would admit of a chair.
+
+Darcy walked away to another part of the room. She followed him with her eyes, envied everyone to whom he spoke, had scarcely patience enough to help anybody to coffee; and then was enraged against herself for being so silly!
+
+“A man who has been refused with foot and fist! How could I ever be foolish enough to expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex who would not protest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman? He should sooner make an offer to a zombie!”
+
+She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his coffee cup himself; and she seized the opportunity of saying:
+
+“Is your sister at Pemberley still?”
+
+“Yes, she will remain there till Christmas.”
+
+“And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?”
+
+“All but the servants and her personal guard.”
+
+She could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to converse with her, he might have better success. He stood by her, however, for some minutes, in silence; and, at last, walked away.
+
+When the tea-things were removed, and the card-tables placed, the ladies all rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined by Mr. Darcy, when all her hopes were overthrown by seeing him fall a victim to her mother’s voracious recruitment of Crypt and Coffin players. She now lost every expectation of pleasure. They were confined for the evening at different tables, and she had nothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side of the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.
+
+Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to supper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of the others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them.
+
+“Well girls,” said she, as soon as they were left to themselves, “What say you to the day? I think every thing has passed off uncommonly well, I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The venison was roasted to a turn—and everybody said they never saw so fat a haunch. Thank you, Lizzy, for wrestling us so fine a buck. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the Lucases’ last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges were remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French cooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater beauty.”
+
+Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen enough of Bingley’s behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she would get him at last; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy humour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at not seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals.
+
+“It has been a very agreeable day,” said Jane to Elizabeth. “The party seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we may often meet again.”
+
+Elizabeth smiled.
+
+“Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me. I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied, from what his manners now are, that he never had any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally pleasing, than any other man.”
+
+“You are very cruel,” said her sister, “you will not let me smile, and are provoking me to it every moment. I have half a mind to force a profession of love from you.”
+
+“How hard it is in some cases to be believed!”
+
+“And how impossible in others!”
+
+“But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I acknowledge?”
+
+“Oh! You are more obstinate than a Hunan mule! If you persist in indifference, do not make me your confidante.”
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 55
+
+
+
+
+A FEW DAYS AFTER this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dinewith them; but he confessed himself engaged elsewhere.
+
+“Next time you call,” said she, “I hope we shall be more lucky.” He should be particularly happy at any time, etc. etc.; and if she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them.
+
+“Can you come to-morrow?”
+
+Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was accepted with alacrity.
+
+He came, and in such very good time that the ladies were still in their sparring gowns, and none of them without considerable beads of exercise moisture on their skin. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter’s room, in her dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out:
+
+“My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come—Mr. Bingley is come. He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, wash away her exercise moisture, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Lizzy’s hair.”
+
+“We will be down as soon as we can,” said Jane; “but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago.”
+
+“Oh! Hang Kitty! What has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! Where is your sash, my dear?”
+
+But Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters.
+
+The same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her weights. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Kitty for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said, “What is the matter, mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?”
+
+“Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you.” She then sat still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, “Come here, my love, I want to speak to you,” took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her entreaty that she would not give in to it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half-opened the door and called out:
+
+“Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you.”
+
+Elizabeth was forced to go.
+
+“We may as well leave them by themselves you know,” said her mother, as soon as she was in the hall. “Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in my dressing-room.”
+
+Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned into the drawing-room.
+
+Mrs. Bennet’s schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command of countenance particularly grateful to the daughter.
+
+He scarcely needed an invitation to stay for supper; and before he went away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet’s means, for his coming next morning to shoot the first autumn zombies with her husband.
+
+After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. However, she felt tolerably persuaded that Bingley’s attentiveness to Jane had met with that gentleman’s concurrence.
+
+Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the morning together hunting the first unmentionables to wander south in search of soft earth. Mr. Bennet lead his companion to Longbourn’s northernmost field, where they spent the better part of an hour setting several hand traps (of Mr. Bennet’s own design), which they baited with heads of cauliflower. Every so often, a zombie would stagger out of the woods and into the field, where Mr. Bennet and Mr. Bingley were concealed beneath a bundle of branches. The living would watch as the dead discovered the cauliflower, and, thinking it was a soft, succulent brain, reach down to grab it. Upon this, the trap would clamp shut around its arm, and the men would advance—beating the creature with their musket stocks, shooting it, and setting it alight.
+
+Bingely was much more agreeable than Mr. Bennet expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in the young man that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and for his part, Mr. Bennet was more communicative, and less eccentric, than Mr. Bingley had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; and in the evening Mrs. Bennet’s invention was again at work to get every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea.
+
+On returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she saw her sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of both, as they hastily turned round and moved away from each other, would have told it all. Their situation was awkward enough; but hers she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room.
+
+Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.
+
+“’Tis too much!” she added, “by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not everybody as happy?”
+
+Elizabeth’s congratulations were given with a sincerity which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said for the present.
+
+“I must go instantly to my mother,” she cried. “I would not on any account allow her to hear it from anyone but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family! How shall I bear so much happiness!”
+
+She then hastened away to her mother, who was sitting upstairs with Kitty.
+
+Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation.
+
+For the moment, it mattered little to Elizabeth that she would be losing her most trusted companion on the battlefield; her closest confidant, and the only sister she never feared the slightest silliness from. She was overcome by a feeling of complete victory; for after all of Darcy’s anxious circumspection, all of Miss Bingley’s falsehood and contrivance, the affair had reached the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end.
+
+In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her father had been short and to the purpose.
+
+“Where is your sister?” said he.
+
+“With my mother upstairs. She will be down in a moment, I dare say.”
+
+He then shut the door, and, coming up to her, claimed the good wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with great cordiality; and then, till her sister came down, she listened to all he had to say of his own happiness, and of Jane’s perfections; and in spite of his being little trained in the deadly arts, Elizabeth really believed all his expectations of felicity to be rationally founded, because he and Jane were so alike in every other imaginable way.
+
+It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of Miss Bennet’s mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as made her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent or speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings; and when Mr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly showed how really happy he was.
+
+Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he turned to his daughter, and said:
+
+“Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman.”
+
+Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his goodness.
+
+“You are a good girl,” he replied, “and I have great pleasure in thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are each of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so easy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will always exceed your income.”
+
+“I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters would be unpardonable in me.”
+
+“Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet,” cried his wife, “what are you talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year, and very likely more.” Then addressing her daughter, “Oh! My dear, dear Jane, I am so happy! I was sure you could not be so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when he first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was that you should come together. Oh! He is the handsomest young man that ever was seen!”
+
+Wickham, Lydia, all were forgotten. Jane was beyond competition her favourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her younger sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness which she might in future be able to dispense.
+
+Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and Kitty begged very hard for a few balls there every winter.
+
+Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at Longbourn; coming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after supper; unless when some barbarous neighbour, who could not be enough detested, had given him an invitation to dinner which he thought himself obliged to accept.
+
+As the days grew shorter, the number of zombies in Hertfordshire grew greater. The herds now came in droves, chased south by hardening earth and His Majesty’s muskets. Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister; for she, Kitty, and Mary were every day needed to dispense of this trouble or that; and Jane could bestow no attention on anyone else while Bingley was present. In the absence of Jane, he always attached himself to Elizabeth, for the pleasure of talking of her; and when Bingley was gone, Jane constantly sought the same means of relief.
+
+“He has made me so happy,” said she, one evening, “by telling me that he was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I had not believed it possible.”
+
+“I suspected as much,” replied Elizabeth. “But how did he account for it?”
+
+“It must have been his sister’s doing. They were certainly no friends to his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he might have chosen so much more advantageously in many respects. But when they see, as I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though we can never be what we once were to each other.”
+
+“That is the most unforgiving speech,” said Elizabeth, “that I ever heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again the dupe of Miss Bingley’s pretended regard.”
+
+“Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last November, he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of my being indifferent or another siege of London would have prevented his coming to the country again!”
+
+Elizabeth was pleased to find that he had not betrayed the interference of his friend; for, though Jane had the most generous and forgiving heart in the world, she knew it was a circumstance which must prejudice her against him.
+
+“I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!” cried Jane. “Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed above them all! If I could but see you as happy! If there were but such another man for you!”
+
+“If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy as you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your happiness. No, no, let me find comfort in cutting down dreadfuls; and, perhaps, if I have very good luck, I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time.”
+
+The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be long a secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Philips, and she ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all her neighbours in Meryton.
+
+The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the world, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run away, they had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 56
+
+
+
+
+ONE MORNING, about a week after Bingley’s engagement with Jane had been formed, as he and the females of the family were sitting together in the dining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window, by the sound of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and four driving up the lawn. The horses were post; and neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who preceded it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that somebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Jane to avoid the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the shrubbery, where she had promised to instruct him in buck wrestling. They both set off, and the conjectures of the remaining three continued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown open and their visitor entered, accompanied by a pair of ninjas.
+
+It was Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
+
+They were of course all intending to be surprised; but their astonishment was beyond their expectation.
+
+She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious, made no other reply to Elizabeth’s salutation than a slight inclination of the head, dismissed her guard, and sat down without saying a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her name to her mother on her ladyship’s entrance, though no request of introduction had been made.
+
+Mrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such high importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After sitting for a moment in silence, she said very stiffly to Elizabeth:
+
+“I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady, I suppose, is your mother.”
+
+Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was.
+
+“And that I suppose is one of your sisters.”
+
+“Yes, madam,” said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to a Lady Catherine. “She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all is lately married, and my eldest is somewhere about the grounds, walking with a young man who, I believe, will soon become a part of the family.”
+
+“You have a very small park here,” returned Lady Catherine after a short silence.
+
+“It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say.”
+
+Elizabeth now expected that she would bestow her condolences on the passing of Charlotte and Mr. Collins, as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But none were offered, and she was completely puzzled.
+
+Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take some refreshment; but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not very politely, declined eating anything; and then, rising up, said to Elizabeth:
+
+“Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish little dojo on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to examine it, if you will favour me with your company.”
+
+“Go, my dear,” cried her mother, “and show her ladyship about. I think she will be pleased with the artifacts.”
+
+Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her parasol, attended her noble guest downstairs. As they passed through the hall, Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and drawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be decent looking rooms, walked on.
+
+Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her waiting-geisha was in it. They proceeded in silence to the dojo; Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for conversation with a woman who was now more than usually insolent and disagreeable.
+
+“How could I ever think her like her nephew?” said she, as she looked in her face.
+
+As soon as they entered, Lady Catherine began in the following manner:
+
+“You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I come.”
+
+Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.
+
+“Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been able to account for the honour of seeing you here.”
+
+“Miss Bennet,” replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, “you ought to know, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere you may choose to be, you shall not find me so. My character has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, just as my killing powers have been celebrated as having no equal. A report of a most alarming nature reached me two days ago. I was told that not only was your sister on the point of being most advantageously married, but that you, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would, in all likelihood, be soon afterwards united to my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I know it must be a scandalous falsehood, though I would not injure him so much as to suppose him to take any interest in a girl of your low birth, I instantly resolved on setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to you.”
+
+“If you believed it impossible to be true,” said Elizabeth, colouring with astonishment and disdain, “I wonder you took the trouble of coming so far. What could your ladyship propose by it?”
+
+“To insist upon having such a report universally contradicted.”
+
+“Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family,” said Elizabeth coolly, “will be rather a confirmation of it; if, indeed, such a report is in existence.”
+
+“If! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a report is spread abroad?”
+
+“I never heard that it was.”
+
+“And can you likewise declare, that there is no foundation for it?”
+
+“I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. You may ask questions which I shall not choose to answer.”
+
+“This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied. Has he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?”
+
+“Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible.”
+
+“It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of his reason. But your arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation, have made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You may have drawn him in with your cheap Chinese parlour tricks.”
+
+“If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.”
+
+“Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? Have you not heard the songs of my victories over legions of Satan’s slaves? Have you not read of my unmatched skill? I am almost Mr. Darcy’s nearest relation in the world, and entitled to know all his dearest concerns.”
+
+“Such great skills! Such a slayer of zombies! And yet, when one was in your home, you had not perception enough to see her.”
+
+“Are you so daft as to suppose that I did not know Charlotte for what she was? Are you incapable of understanding my generous motives? That my new priest might know some measure of happiness? Tell me, why do you suppose she changed so slowly? Why did I invite her to tea so often—for the pleasure of her company? No! It was my serum which kept her alive those few happy months. A few drops at a time, unnoticed, into her cup.”
+
+“Such an experiment can hardly be called ‘generous.’ You did nothing but prolong her suffering!”
+
+“Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the presumption to aspire, can never take place. Never! Mr. Darcy is engaged to my daughter. Now what have you to say?”
+
+“Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will make an offer to me.”
+
+Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied:
+
+“The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy, they have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of his mother, as well as of hers. While in their cradles, we planned the union: and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would be accomplished in their marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and trained in China of all places! Are you lost to every feeling of propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say that from his earliest hours he was destined for his cousin?”
+
+“Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is no other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not be kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to marry Miss de Bourgh. If Mr. Darcy is neither by honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make another choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?”
+
+“Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it. Yes, Miss Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or friends, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will be censured, slighted, and despised, by everyone connected with him. Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned by any of us.”
+
+“These are heavy misfortunes,” replied Elizabeth. “But the wife of Mr. Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily attached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause to repine.”
+
+“Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that score? I am not in the habit of being refused!”
+
+“Nor am I in the habit of being intimidated.”
+
+“I will not be interrupted! Hear me in silence! My daughter and my nephew are formed for each other. Their fortune on both sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of every member of their respective houses; and what is to divide them? The upstart pretensions of a young woman whose sister was lately concerned in a scandalous elopement with the son of the elder Darcy’s musket-polisher? A woman without family, connections, or fortune?”
+
+“Your daughter’s fortune is indeed splendid. But pray tell, what other qualities does she possess? Is she fetching? Is she trained in the deadly arts? Has she even strength enough to lift a Katana?”
+
+“How dare you! Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?”
+
+Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady Catherine, have answered this question, she could not but say, after a moment’s deliberation:
+
+“I am not.”
+
+Lady Catherine seemed pleased.
+
+“And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?”
+
+“I would sooner die than see my honour so defiled.”
+
+“Then Miss Bennet,” said Lady Catherine, setting down her parasol and removing her coat, “die you shall.” Upon this, she set her feet for combat.
+
+“Do you mean to challenge me to a duel, your ladyship? Here, in my family dojo?”
+
+“I mean only to rid the world of an insolent little girl, and preserve the dignity of a superior man, lest Pemberley be forever polluted by your stench.”
+
+“If that be the case,” said Elizabeth, dropping her parasol, “then let this be our first and final battle.” Elizabeth set her feet in return.
+
+The two ladies—separated by more than fifty years, yet hardly at all in abilities—remained thus for a moment, until Lady Catherine, her plan of attack fully formed, leapt skyward with a strength quite striking for a woman of her advanced age. She flipped through the air, over Elizabeth’s head, and landed a blow on the top of her skull, the force of which brought the younger to her knees. Had Elizabeth been anything less than perfectly fit, the blow would have most assuredly splintered her spine.
+
+Lady Catherine landed gently on her feet, and seeing her opponent attempt to rise, sent her flying the length of the dojo with a ruinous kick to the back. Unable to gain her wind, Elizabeth struggled to stand as the aged warrior again approached.
+
+“You have no regard for the honour and credit of my nephew! Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?”
+
+Her ladyship grabbed Elizabeth’s gown and lifted her to her feet. “Well? Have you anything to say before I remit you to Satan?”
+
+“Just . . . one thing, your ladyship . . .”
+
+Lady Catherine’s eyes widened as she felt a sharp pain in her belly. She let go and stumbled backward, the handle of Elizabeth’s dagger protruding from her gown. The younger took full advantage of this confusion, striking her ladyship about the head, neck, and bosom with a severe combination of blows, and a final kick which drove her so high as to shatter two of the wooden rafters overhead.
+
+Outside, Lady Catherine’s ninjas turned towards the dojo, alarmed by this tumult.
+
+Inside, her ladyship lay motionless on the floor. Elizabeth stood over her, waiting for any sign of life—but none appeared. “Dear Lord,” she thought. “What have I done? How shall Darcy ever forgive me for killing his beloved aunt?”
+
+The thought was no sooner in her head than Elizabeth felt herself fall to the ground, brought down by Lady Catherine’s legs. The latter leapt to her feet, and with a hearty laugh, pulled the dagger from her belly, and flung it into Elizabeth’s hand—pinning her to the floor.
+
+“It would take skills far exceeding your own to draw but a single bead of exercise moisture from my skin. Weak, silly girl! So long as there is life in this old body, you shall never again be in the company of my nephew!”
+
+Lady Catherine’s ninjas entered, throwing stars at the ready, but were quickly put at ease by their master, who had the duel well in hand. “Remain thus, dear ninjas. When I have removed her head, you may do with the body as you please.”
+
+As Elizabeth struggled to free herself, her ladyship removed one of the swords from the wall. She unsheathed it and examined its glistening blade. “Remarkable. As fine a Katana as ever I saw in Kyoto. Pity it should have spent these many years in the charge of so unworthy a family.” Lady Catherine looked up from the blade, expecting to see her opponent. Instead, she saw nothing—nothing but an empty dojo, and a pair of broken, lifeless ninjas. She met this, too, with a hearty laugh.
+
+“What good fun! I must admit, had you been vanquished with so little effort, I should have been rather disappointed.”
+
+
+
+“‘WEAK, SILLY GIRL! SO LONG AS THERE IS LIFE IN THIS OLD BODY, YOU SHALL NEVER AGAIN BE IN THE COMPANY OF MY NEPHEW!’”
+
+Lady Catherine walked to the center of the dojo, sword in hand. She turned herself round, expecting an attack—but none came. “Such cowardice!” she cried. “Have you not courage enough to face me? Did your master teach you nothing more than retreat?”
+
+“My master,” said Elizabeth, “taught me that the shortest path to ruin was underestimating one’s opponent.” Her ladyship looked skyward and saw Elizabeth atop a rafter—sword in hand. The younger dove toward the floor as the elder leapt toward the ceiling; and their swords met in the air that separated the two. A ferocious contest of blades filled the dojo with the clanging of steel upon steel. The two women were evenly matched, but Elizabeth’s youth bestowed to her the advantage of vigor, and she tired more slowly than her ladyship.
+
+After several minutes of flying about, attacking one another with force that would have sent legions of lesser warriors to their graves, Lady Catherine’s sword was dispatched with a well-aimed butterfly kick. Defenseless, her ladyship retreated to the wall of weaponry, where she hastily procured a pair of nunchucks; but these were promptly cut in two by Elizabeth’s Katana.
+
+Elizabeth backed Lady Catherine against a wall, and held the tip of her sword to her wrinkled throat. “Well?” said Catherine, “Take my head then, but be quick about it.”
+
+Elizabeth lowered her blade, and with a voice much affected by exercise, said, “To what end, your ladyship? That I might procure the condemnation of a man for whom I care so much? No. No, your lady-ship—whether you shall live to see him married to your daughter, or married to me, I know not. But you shall live. And for the rest of your days, you shall know that you have been bested by a girl for whom you have no regard, and whose family and master you have insulted in the harshest possible manner. Now, I beg you take your leave.”
+
+Upon being walked to her carriage, Lady Catherine turned hastily round, and added, “My position remains unchanged. I send no compliments to your mother. You deserve no such attention. I am most seriously displeased.”
+
+“Her ladyship would be wise to climb into her carriage, lest I change my mind about taking her head.”
+
+With the deepest disgust, the elder did as she was told. Offering not so much as a slight bow, Elizabeth turned and walked toward the house.
+
+She heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded up stairs, taking care to conceal her injuries. Her mother impatiently followed her, to ask why Lady Catherine would not come in again and rest herself.
+
+“She did not choose it,” said her daughter.
+
+“She is a very fine-looking woman! And her calling here was prodigiously civil! For she only came, I suppose, to offer her condolences for the passing of Mr. Collins and his wife. She is on her road somewhere, I dare say, and so, passing through Meryton, thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had nothing particular to say to you, Lizzy?”
+
+Elizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for to acknowledge the truth of what has passed between them was impossible.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 57
+
+
+
+
+THE DISCOMFITURE OF SPIRITS which this extraordinary visit threw Elizabeth into, could not be easily overcome; nor could she, after burying the ninjas, learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine, it appeared, had actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings, for the sole purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr. Darcy. But from what the report of their engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine; till she recollected that his being the intimate friend of Bingley, and her being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the expectation of one wedding made everybody eager for another, to supply the idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her sister must bring them more frequently together.
+
+However, she could not help feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her duel with Lady Catherine. From what she had said of her resolution to prevent their marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she would relate the whole of their battle to her nephew; and how he might be swayed by her reasoning, and a natural admiration for his aunt.
+
+If he had been wavering before as to what he should do, which had often seemed likely, the advice and entreaty of so near a relation might settle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy as dignity unblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady Catherine might see him in her way through town; and the sight of his aunt so freshly bloodied might provoke any number of feelings—not the least of which was resentment for the one who bore responsibility for the injuries.
+
+The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their visitor had been, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied it, with the same kind of supposition which had appeased Mrs. Bennet’s curiosity; and Elizabeth was spared from much teasing on the subject.
+
+The next morning, as she was going downstairs, she was met by her father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.
+
+“Lizzy,” said he, “I was going to look for you; come into my room.”
+
+She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had to tell her was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it might be from Lady Catherine; and she anticipated with dismay all the consequent explanations.
+
+She followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat down. He then said:
+
+“I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its contents. I did not know before, that I had two daughters on the brink of matrimony. Let me congratulate you on a very important conquest.”
+
+The colour now rushed into Elizabeth’s cheeks in the instantaneous conviction of its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the aunt; and she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained himself at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to herself; when her father continued:
+
+“You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such matters as these; but I think I may defy even your sagacity, to discover the name of your admirer. This letter is from a Colonel Fitzwilliam—a man who, before receipt of this letter, I had never heard of in all my life.”
+
+“From Colonel Fitzwilliam! And what can he have to say?”
+
+“Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with congratulations on Jane’s approaching nuptials, of which, it seems, he has been told by some good natured gentleman. I shall not sport with your impatience, by reading what he says on that point. What relates to yourself, is as follows:
+
+
+Having thus offered you the sincere congratulations on this happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another; of which I have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after her elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate may be reasonably looked up to as one of the most illustrious personages in this land.
+
+“Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this?”
+
+
+
+This young gentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with every thing the heart of mortal can most desire—splendid property, noble kindred, and extensive patronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn you of what evils you may incur by a precipitate closure with this gentleman’s proposals, which, of course, you will be inclined to take immediate advantage of.
+
+
+
+
+
+“Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out:”
+
+
+My motive for cautioning you is as follows. We have reason to imagine that his aunt and mine, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with a friendly eye.
+
+
+
+
+
+“Mr. Darcy, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I have surprised you. Could he have pitched on any man within the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie more effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at you in his life! Imagine such a thing!”
+
+Elizabeth tried to join in her father’s pleasantry, but could only force one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so little agreeable to her.
+
+“Are you not surprised?”
+
+“Oh! Yes. Pray read on.”
+
+
+After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her last night, she immediately expressed what she felt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that on the score of some family objections on the part of your daughter, she would never give her consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty to give the speediest intelligence of this to you, that Elizabeth and her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned.
+
+
+
+
+
+“The rest of his letter is only about his sorrow upon hearing of Charlotte’s beheading and Mr. Collins’s suicide. But, Lizzy, you look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not, I hope, pretending to be affronted at an idle report.”
+
+“Oh!” cried Elizabeth, “I am excessively amused. But it is so strange!”
+
+“Yes—that is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man it would have been nothing; but his perfect indifference, and your pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine about this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?”
+
+To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as it had been asked without the least suspicion. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her feelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when she would rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her, by what he said of Mr. Darcy’s indifference, and she could do nothing but wonder at such a want of perception, or fear that perhaps, instead of his seeing too little, she might have fancied too much.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 58
+
+
+
+
+TO ELIZABETH’S GREAT SURPRISE, Mr. Bingley brought Darcy with him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine’s visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time to tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the habit of walking; Mary could never spare time; but the remaining five set off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty was too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a desperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same.
+
+They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for joining her, when Kitty left them she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the moment for her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was high, she immediately said:
+
+“Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding yours. I can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.”
+
+“I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,” replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise and emotion, “that you have ever been informed of what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardiner was so little to be trusted.”
+
+“You must not blame my aunt. Lydia’s carelessness first betrayed to me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again, in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble, and offer to kneel before you now and administer the seven cuts, that you might be honoured by trampling my blood.”
+
+“If you will thank me,” he replied, “let it be for yourself alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your family owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of you.”
+
+Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause, her companion added, “You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.”
+
+Elizabeth now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The happiness which this reply produced, was such as he had probably never felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him; but, though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of feelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his affection every moment more valuable.
+
+They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding to the efforts of his aunt, who did call on him in her return through London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the substance of her duel with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on the latter’s failure to kill her when she had the chance, in the belief that such a show of weakness would forever turn Darcy’s eye away. But, unluckily for her ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.
+
+“It taught me to hope,” said he, “as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain that, had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have beheaded Lady Catherine without a moment’s hesitation.”
+
+Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, “Yes, you know enough of my temper to believe me capable of that. After abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in beheading any number of your relations.”
+
+“What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.”
+
+“We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that evening,” said Elizabeth. “The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved in civility.”
+
+“I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: ‘had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.’Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me—though it was some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.”
+
+“I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a way.”
+
+Darcy mentioned his letter. “Did it make you think better of me?”
+
+She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her former prejudices had been removed.
+
+“I knew,” said he, “that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly make you hate me.”
+
+“Think no more of the letter. The feelings of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now so widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure.”
+
+“With me, it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude which cannot, which ought not, to be repelled. I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given the best training, but left to use it in pride and conceit. Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only child), I was spoilt by my parents, who, though good themselves (my father, particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable), allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing; to care for nothing beyond the defense of my estate; to think meanly of all the rest of the world. Such I was, from eight to eight-and-twenty; and such I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.”
+
+After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know anything about it, they found at last, on examining the precise position of the sun, that it was time to be at home.
+
+“What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!” was a wonder which introduced the discussion of their affairs. Darcy was delighted with their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information of it.
+
+“I must ask whether you were surprised?” said Elizabeth.
+
+“Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.”
+
+“That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much.” And though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much the case.
+
+“On the evening before my going to London,” said he, “I made a confession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I told him of all that had occurred to make my former interference in his affairs absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had the slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent to him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together.”
+
+Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his friend.
+
+“Did you speak from your own observation,” said she, “when you told him that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?”
+
+“From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visits which I had lately made here; and I was convinced of her affection.”
+
+“And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to him.”
+
+“It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His timidity had prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but his reliance on mine made every thing easy. I was obliged to confess one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months last winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was angry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained in any doubt of your sister’s sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me now.”
+
+As they made for the house, Elizabeth and Darcy happened upon a herd of unmentionables, no more than a dozen in number, which had quartered itself in a garden not ten yards from the road. The creatures were crawling on their hands and knees, biting into ripe heads of cauliflower, which they had mistaken for stray brains. Elizabeth and Darcy laughed at the sight, and for a moment, resolved to keep walking—as the zombies had failed to take notice of them. But, sharing a glance and a smile, the pair realised they had stumbled onto their first opportunity to fight side by side.
+
+And so they did.
+
+
+
+“THE CREATURES WERE CRAWLING ON THEIR HANDS AND KNEES, BITING INTO RIPE HEADS OF CAULIFLOWER, WHICH THEY HAD MISTAKEN FOR STRAY BRAINS.”
+
+
+
+
+
+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. 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, anticipated what would be felt in the family when her situation became known.
+
+At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far from Jane’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.”
+
+Jane 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 our games of Kiss Me Deer. 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 the way his trousers clung to those most English parts.”
+
+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!”
+
+Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. But now she would no longer conceal from her Darcy’s 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 the burning grounds of Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has never seen the flames.”
+
+“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 flames of 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.
+
+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 best warrior, 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.
+
+“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, or the loss of my sword?”
+
+“None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; and Longbourn—indeed all of Hertfordshire would be the worse for losing you; 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 extraordinary skill in the deadly arts 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.”
+
+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; gave the money, paid the fellow’s debts, and rendered him lame! 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 Colonel Fitzwilliam’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 meditation 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; 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, and very likely more! ’Tis as good as a Lord! And a special license. You must and shall be married by a special license. 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 much to be wished for: peace in England, the approbation of Mr. Darcy’s relatives, and a mother with whom she had anything whatsoever in common. 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 more tea, or wipe crumbs from his trousers.
+
+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. “Though Wickham,” he said with a sly smile, “is perhaps my favourite, for he fidgets the least.”
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 60
+
+
+
+
+ELIZABETH’S SPIRITS SOON rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr. Darcy to account for his falling in love with her. “How could you begin?” said she. “I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first place?”
+
+“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.”
+
+“It could not have been my beauty, or my killing skills, for they are each quite equal to your own. As for my manners—my behaviour to you was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke to you without wishing to give you pain. Now be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?”
+
+“For the liveliness of your mind, I did.”
+
+“You may as well call it impertinence. It was very little else. The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious attention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking, and looking, and thinking for your approbation alone. I roused, and interested you, because I was so unlike them. I knew the joy of standing over a vanquished foe; of painting my face and arms with their blood, yet warm, and screaming to the heavens—begging, nay daring, God to send me more enemies to kill. The gentle ladies who so assiduously courted you knew nothing of this joy, and therefore, could never offer you true happiness. There—I have saved you the trouble of accounting for it; and really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly reasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of me—but nobody thinks of that when they fall in love.”
+
+“Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane while she was ill at Netherfield?”
+
+“Dearest Jane! Who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are to exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me to find occasions for teasing and quarrelling with you as often as may be; and I shall begin directly by asking you what made you so unwilling to come to the point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first called, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you called, did you look as if you did not care about me?”
+
+“Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement.”
+
+“But I was embarrassed.”
+
+“And so was I.”
+
+“You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner.”
+
+“A man who had felt less, might.”
+
+“How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that I should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how long you would have gone on, if you had been left to yourself. I wonder when you would have spoken, if I had not asked you!”
+
+“Lady Catherine’s unjustifiable endeavour to separate us, and your head from its perch, were the means of removing all my doubts. Your refusal to finish her had given me hope, and I was determined at once to know every thing.”
+
+“Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy, for she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down to Netherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed? Or had you intended any more serious consequence?”
+
+“My real purpose was to see you, and to judge, if I could, whether I might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or what I avowed to myself, was to see whether Jane was still partial to Bingley, and if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since made.”
+
+“Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine what is to befall her?”
+
+“Like you, I am not wanting courage; but I am wanting time, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it shall be done directly.”
+
+“And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you and admire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady once did. But I have an aunt, too, who must not be longer neglected.”
+
+From an unwillingness to confess how her prospects with Mr. Darcy had been over-rated, Elizabeth had never answered Mrs. Gardiner’s long letter; but now, having news which she knew would be most welcome, she was almost ashamed to find that her uncle and aunt had already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as follows:
+
+
+I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have done, for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of particulars; but to say the truth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than really existed. But now suppose as much as you choose; give a loose rein to your fancy, indulge your imagination in every possible flight which the subject will afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you cannot greatly err. You must write again very soon, and praise him a great deal more than you did in your last. I thank you, again and again, for not going to the Lakes. How could I be so silly as to wish it! Your idea of the phaeton and zombies is delightful. We will go round the park every day, whipping them till their limbs fall off. I am the happiest creature in the world. Perhaps other people have said so before, but not one with such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she only smiles, I laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world that he can spare from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas.
+
+YOURS, ETC.
+
+
+
+
+
+The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar information, was as sincere as her brother’s in sending it. Four sides of paper were insufficient to contain all her delight, and all her earnest desire of being loved and trained by her sister.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 61
+
+
+
+
+HAPPY FOR ALL HER MATERNAL feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride she afterwards visited the new Mrs. Bingley, and talked of the new Mrs. Darcy, may be guessed. I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the accomplishment of seeing so many of her children happily settled made her a sensible, amiable, well-informed woman for the rest of her life; though perhaps it was lucky for her husband, who took such pleasure in teasing her, that she still was occasionally nervous and invariably silly.
+
+Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection for her drew him oftener from home than anything else could do. He delighted in going to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected.
+
+As Mr. Bennet had predicted, Hertfordshire also longed for the company of its two fiercest protectors. In the days and months proceeding, with only two of the younger Bennet sisters to ward them off, the zombies descended in ever greater numbers, until Colonel Forster returned with the militia and set the burning grounds afire once more.
+
+Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. Jane could not bear to be so close to Longbourn as a married woman; for every unmentionable attack made her long for her sword. The darling wish of Mr. Bingley’s sisters was then gratified; he bought an estate in a neighbouring county to Derbyshire, and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source of happiness, were within thirty miles of each other. Determined that they should keep their skills sharp, though His Majesty no longer required them to do so, their husbands built them a sparring cottage precisely between the two estates, in which the sisters met joyously and often.
+
+Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had generally known, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable a temper as Lydia; and, removed from the influence of Lydia’s example, she became, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less ignorant, and less insipid. When she announced that she should like to return to Shaolin, for two or three years, in hopes of becoming as fine a warrior as Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy was only too happy to pay for the whole.
+
+Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; both by the necessity of there being at least one warrior to protect Hertfordshire, and Mrs. Bennet’s being quite unable to sit alone. As she was no longer mortified by comparisons between her sisters’ beauty and her own, Mary began to mix more with the world, eventually taking up rather intimate, infrequent, friendships with several soldiers of the returned militia.
+
+As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution from the marriage of her sisters. In spite of every thing, they were not wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be prevailed on to make Wickham’s fortune. The congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received from Lydia on her marriage, explained to her that, by his wife at least, if not by himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this effect:
+
+
+MY DEAR LIZZY,
+
+I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my Dear, lame Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you so rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will think of us. I am sure Wickham would like a parsonage very much when he is finished at seminary, and I do not think we shall have quite money enough to live upon without some help. Any parsonage would do, of about three or four hundred a year; but however, do not speak to Mr. Darcy about it, if you had rather not. I must be off, as my beloved has soiled himself anew.
+
+YOURS, ETC.
+
+
+
+
+
+Elizabeth endeavoured in her answer to put an end to every entreaty and expectation of the kind. Such relief, however, as it was in her power to afford, in the form of fresh linens and salted beef, she frequently sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an income as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in their wants, and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to their support; and whenever Wickham’s studies required the purchase of a new hymnal for the lame, or lectern for the lame, or altar for the lame; either Jane or herself were sure of being applied to for some little assistance towards discharging their bills.
+
+Though Darcy could never receive him at Pemberley, for Elizabeth’s sake, he assisted him further in his profession. Lydia was occasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone to minister in the asylums of London; and with the Bingleys they both of them frequently stayed so long, that even Bingley’s good humour was overcome, and he proceeded so far as to talk of giving them a hint to be gone.
+
+Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy’s marriage; but as she thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility to Elizabeth.
+
+Pemberley was now Georgiana’s home; and the attachment of the sisters was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each other even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion in the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with an astonishment bordering on alarm at her lively, sportive, manner of talking to her brother, and cringed at her tales of ripping the beating hearts from the chests of untold enemies. Through Elizabeth’s instructions, Miss Darcy became a finer warrior than she ever dared hope—for beyond improving her musketry and bladesmanship, she also began to comprehend that a woman may take liberties with her husband which a brother will not always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself.
+
+Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew; and her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement came not in written form, but in the form of an attack on Pemberley by five-and-ten of her ladyship’s ninjas. For some time after this was thwarted, all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth’s persuasion, he was prevailed on to seek a reconciliation; and, after a little further resistance on the part of his aunt, her resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity to see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait on them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the visits of her uncle and aunt—with whom Darcy and Elizabeth were always on the most intimate terms.
+
+Like so many before it, her ladyship’s serum proved folly, for while it slowed some effects of the strange plague, it was helpless to stop them all. England remained in the shadow of Satan. The dead continued to claw their way through crypt and coffin alike, feasting on British brains. Victories were celebrated, defeats lamented. And the sisters Bennet—servants of His Majesty, protectors of Hertfordshire, beholders of the secrets of Shaolin, and brides of death—were now, three of them, brides of man, their swords quieted by that only force more powerful than any warrior.
+
+THE END.
+
+
+
+Pride and Prejudice and Zombies A Reader’s Discussion Guide
+
+
+
+Pride and Prejudice and Zombies is a rich, multilayered study of love, war, and the supernatural. We hope these questions will deepen your appreciation and enjoyment of this towering work of classical zombie literature.
+
+
+1. Many critics have addressed the dual nature of Elizabeth’s personality. On one hand, she can be a savage, remorseless killer, as we see in her vanquishing of Lady Catherine’s ninjas. On the other hand, she can be tender and merciful, as in her relationships with Jane, Charlotte, and the young bucks that roam her family’s estate. In your opinion, which of these “halves” best represents the real Elizabeth at the beginning—and end of the novel?
+
+
+
+
+2. Is Mr. Collins merely too fat and stupid to notice his wife’s gradual transformation into a zombie, or could there be another explanation for his failure to acknowledge the problem? If so, what might that explanation be? How might his occupation (as a pastor) relate to his denial of the obvious, or his decision to hang himself?
+
+
+
+
+3. The strange plague has been the scourge of England for “five-and-fifty years.” Why do the English stay and fight, rather than retreat to the safety of eastern Europe or Africa?
+
+
+
+
+4. Who receives the sorrier fate: Wickham, left paralyzed in a seminary for the lame, forever soiling himself and studying ankle-high books of scripture? Or Lydia, removed from her family, married to an invalid, and childless, yet forever changing filthy diapers?
+
+
+
+
+5. Due to her fierce independence, devotion to exercise, and penchant for boots, some critics have called Elizabeth Bennett “the first literary lesbian.” Do you think the authors intended her to be gay? And if so, how would this Sapphic twist serve to explain her relationships with Darcy, Jane, Charlotte, Lady Catherine, and Wickham?
+
+
+
+
+6. Some critics have suggested that the zombies represent the authors’ views toward marriage—an endless curse that sucks the life out of you and just won’t die. Do you agree, or do you have another opinion about the symbolism of the unmentionables?
+
+
+
+
+7. Does Mrs. Bennett have a single redeeming quality?
+
+
+
+
+8. Vomit plays an important role in Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Mrs. Bennett frequently vomits when she’s nervous, coachmen vomit in disgust when they witness zombies feasting on corpses, even the steady Elizabeth can’t help but vomit at the sight of Charlotte lapping up her own bloody pus. Do the authors mean for this regurgitation to symbolize something greater, or is it a cheap device to get laughs?
+
+
+
+
+9. Is Lady Catherine’s objection to Elizabeth (as a bride for her nephew) merely a matter of Elizabeth’s inferior wealth and rank? Or could there be another explanation? Could she be intimidated by Elizabeth’s fighting skills? Is she herself secretly in love with Darcy? Or is she bitter about the shortcomings of her own daughter?
+
+
+
+
+10. Some scholars believe that the zombies were a last-minute addition to the novel, requested by the publisher in a shameless attempt to boost sales. Others argue that the hordes of living dead are integral to Jane Austen’s plot and social commentary. What do you think? Can you imagine what this novel might be like without the violent zombie mayhem?
+
+
+
+
+
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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: The Great Gatsby
+
+Author: F. Scott Fitzgerald
+
+Release Date: January 17, 2021 [eBook #64317]
+[Most recently updated: January 24 2021]
+
+Language: English
+
+
+Produced by: Alex Cabal for the Standard Ebooks project, based on a
+             transcription produced for Project Gutenberg Australia.
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT GATSBY ***
+
+
+			   The Great Gatsby
+				  by
+			 F. Scott Fitzgerald
+
+
+                           Table of Contents
+
+I
+II
+III
+IV
+V
+VI
+VII
+VIII
+IX
+
+
+                              Once again
+                                  to
+                                 Zelda
+
+  Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;
+  If you can bounce high, bounce for her too,
+  Till she cry “Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,
+  I must have you!”
+
+  Thomas Parke d’Invilliers
+
+
+                                  I
+
+In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice
+that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.
+
+“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just
+remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages
+that you’ve had.”
+
+He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative
+in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more
+than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a
+habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me
+the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to
+detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal
+person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of
+being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild,
+unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have
+feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by
+some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on
+the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least
+the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and
+marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of
+infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I
+forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly
+repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out
+unequally at birth.
+
+And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission
+that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the
+wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded
+on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted
+the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I
+wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the
+human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was
+exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I
+have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of
+successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some
+heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related
+to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten
+thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that
+flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the
+“creative temperament”—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a
+romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and
+which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out
+all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust
+floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my
+interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle
+Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a
+clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of
+Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s
+brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil
+War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father
+carries on today.
+
+I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with
+special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in
+father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of
+a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that
+delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the
+counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being
+the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the
+ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond
+business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it
+could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it
+over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said,
+“Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance
+me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I
+thought, in the spring of twenty-two.
+
+The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm
+season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly
+trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a
+house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He
+found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a
+month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and
+I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a
+few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who
+made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to
+herself over the electric stove.
+
+It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more
+recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.
+
+“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly.
+
+I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide,
+a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the
+freedom of the neighbourhood.
+
+And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the
+trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar
+conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
+
+There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to
+be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen
+volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they
+stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint,
+promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and
+Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other
+books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a
+series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now
+I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become
+again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.”
+This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at
+from a single window, after all.
+
+It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of
+the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender
+riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where
+there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of
+land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in
+contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most
+domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great
+wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the
+egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact
+end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual
+wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more
+interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular
+except shape and size.
+
+I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though
+this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little
+sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the
+egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge
+places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on
+my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual
+imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one
+side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble
+swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was
+Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a
+mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an
+eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I
+had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and
+the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a
+month.
+
+Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg
+glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins
+on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom
+Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom
+in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in
+Chicago.
+
+Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of
+the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a
+national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute
+limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of
+anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his
+freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago
+and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for
+instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake
+Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was
+wealthy enough to do that.
+
+Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for
+no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully
+wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a
+permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe
+it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift
+on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of
+some irrecoverable football game.
+
+And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East
+Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house
+was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white
+Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at
+the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile,
+jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when
+it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though
+from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French
+windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm
+windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with
+his legs apart on the front porch.
+
+He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy
+straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a
+supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established
+dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning
+aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding
+clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill
+those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could
+see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his
+thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body.
+
+His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of
+fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in
+it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who
+had hated his guts.
+
+“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to
+say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We
+were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I
+always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like
+him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.
+
+We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.
+
+“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about
+restlessly.
+
+Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the
+front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half
+acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped
+the tide offshore.
+
+“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again,
+politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”
+
+We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space,
+fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The
+windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside
+that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through
+the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale
+flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the
+ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow
+on it as wind does on the sea.
+
+The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous
+couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an
+anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were
+rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a
+short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments
+listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a
+picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the
+rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the
+curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the
+floor.
+
+The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full
+length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her
+chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which
+was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes
+she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring
+an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.
+
+The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly
+forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd,
+charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the
+room.
+
+“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”
+
+She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my
+hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was
+no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she
+had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was
+Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people
+lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less
+charming.)
+
+At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost
+imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object
+she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her
+something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips.
+Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned
+tribute from me.
+
+I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low,
+thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and
+down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be
+played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it,
+bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement
+in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget:
+a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had
+done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay,
+exciting things hovering in the next hour.
+
+I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East,
+and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.
+
+“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.
+
+“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel
+painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all
+night along the north shore.”
+
+“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added
+irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”
+
+“I’d like to.”
+
+“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”
+
+“Never.”
+
+“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”
+
+Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped
+and rested his hand on my shoulder.
+
+“What you doing, Nick?”
+
+“I’m a bond man.”
+
+“Who with?”
+
+I told him.
+
+“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively.
+
+This annoyed me.
+
+“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”
+
+“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at
+Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something
+more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”
+
+At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that
+I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the
+room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned
+and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.
+
+“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long
+as I can remember.”
+
+“Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to
+New York all afternoon.”
+
+“No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the
+pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.”
+
+Her host looked at her incredulously.
+
+“You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom
+of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.”
+
+I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I
+enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with
+an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward
+at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked
+back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming,
+discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a
+picture of her, somewhere before.
+
+“You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody
+there.”
+
+“I don’t know a single—”
+
+“You must know Gatsby.”
+
+“Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?”
+
+Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced;
+wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled
+me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.
+
+Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two
+young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward
+the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the
+diminished wind.
+
+“Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her
+fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She
+looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day
+of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in
+the year and then miss it.”
+
+“We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the
+table as if she were getting into bed.
+
+“All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me
+helplessly: “What do people plan?”
+
+Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her
+little finger.
+
+“Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.”
+
+We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue.
+
+“You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to,
+but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a
+great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—”
+
+“I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in
+kidding.”
+
+“Hulking,” insisted Daisy.
+
+Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a
+bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool
+as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all
+desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a
+polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew
+that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too
+would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the
+West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its
+close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer
+nervous dread of the moment itself.
+
+“You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass
+of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or
+something?”
+
+I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in
+an unexpected way.
+
+“Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve
+gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise
+of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?”
+
+“Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone.
+
+“Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is
+if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly
+submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.”
+
+“Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of
+unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in
+them. What was that word we—”
+
+“Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her
+impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to
+us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will
+have control of things.”
+
+“We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously
+toward the fervent sun.
+
+“You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom
+interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.
+
+“This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are,
+and—” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a
+slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve produced all the
+things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art, and all
+that. Do you see?”
+
+There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his
+complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more.
+When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler
+left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned
+towards me.
+
+“I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically.
+“It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s
+nose?”
+
+“That’s why I came over tonight.”
+
+“Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher
+for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred
+people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it
+began to affect his nose—”
+
+“Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker.
+
+“Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up
+his position.”
+
+For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her
+glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I
+listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering
+regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.
+
+The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear,
+whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went
+inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned
+forward again, her voice glowing and singing.
+
+“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an
+absolute rose. Doesn’t he?” She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation:
+“An absolute rose?”
+
+This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only
+extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart
+was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless,
+thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and
+excused herself and went into the house.
+
+Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of
+meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!”
+in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the
+room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to
+hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down,
+mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.
+
+“This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbour—” I began.
+
+“Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.”
+
+“Is something happening?” I inquired innocently.
+
+“You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised.
+“I thought everybody knew.”
+
+“I don’t.”
+
+“Why—” she said hesitantly. “Tom’s got some woman in New York.”
+
+“Got some woman?” I repeated blankly.
+
+Miss Baker nodded.
+
+“She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time.
+Don’t you think?”
+
+Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a
+dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at
+the table.
+
+“It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety.
+
+She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and
+continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic
+outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a
+nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing
+away—” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?”
+
+“Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light
+enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.”
+
+The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head
+decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects,
+vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes
+at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I
+was conscious of wanting to look squarely at everyone, and yet to
+avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but
+I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain
+hardy scepticism, was able utterly to put this fifth guest’s shrill
+metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation
+might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone
+immediately for the police.
+
+The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss
+Baker, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into
+the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while,
+trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed
+Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In
+its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.
+
+Daisy took her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape, and
+her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that
+turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be
+some sedative questions about her little girl.
+
+“We don’t know each other very well, Nick,” she said suddenly. “Even
+if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.”
+
+“I wasn’t back from the war.”
+
+“That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well, I’ve had a very bad time, Nick,
+and I’m pretty cynical about everything.”
+
+Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn’t say any more,
+and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her
+daughter.
+
+“I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything.”
+
+“Oh, yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen, Nick; let me tell you
+what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?”
+
+“Very much.”
+
+“It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was
+less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of
+the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right
+away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I
+turned my head away and wept. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a
+girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be
+in this world, a beautiful little fool.’
+
+“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on in a
+convinced way. “Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I
+know. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.”
+Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom’s, and
+she laughed with thrilling scorn. “Sophisticated—God, I’m
+sophisticated!”
+
+The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my
+belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me
+uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to
+exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a
+moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face, as
+if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret
+society to which she and Tom belonged.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at
+either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the
+Saturday Evening Post—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running
+together in a soothing tune. The lamplight, bright on his boots and
+dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as
+she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms.
+
+When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.
+
+“To be continued,” she said, tossing the magazine on the table, “in
+our very next issue.”
+
+Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she
+stood up.
+
+“Ten o’clock,” she remarked, apparently finding the time on the
+ceiling. “Time for this good girl to go to bed.”
+
+“Jordan’s going to play in the tournament tomorrow,” explained Daisy,
+“over at Westchester.”
+
+“Oh—you’re Jordan Baker.”
+
+I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing contemptuous
+expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the
+sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard
+some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I
+had forgotten long ago.
+
+“Good night,” she said softly. “Wake me at eight, won’t you.”
+
+“If you’ll get up.”
+
+“I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon.”
+
+“Of course you will,” confirmed Daisy. “In fact I think I’ll arrange a
+marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I’ll sort of—oh—fling you
+together. You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push
+you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing—”
+
+“Good night,” called Miss Baker from the stairs. “I haven’t heard a
+word.”
+
+“She’s a nice girl,” said Tom after a moment. “They oughtn’t to let
+her run around the country this way.”
+
+“Who oughtn’t to?” inquired Daisy coldly.
+
+“Her family.”
+
+“Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick’s
+going to look after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots
+of weekends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be
+very good for her.”
+
+Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.
+
+“Is she from New York?” I asked quickly.
+
+“From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our
+beautiful white—”
+
+“Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?”
+demanded Tom suddenly.
+
+“Did I?” She looked at me. “I can’t seem to remember, but I think we
+talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I’m sure we did. It sort of crept
+up on us and first thing you know—”
+
+“Don’t believe everything you hear, Nick,” he advised me.
+
+I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes
+later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood
+side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor
+Daisy peremptorily called: “Wait!”
+
+“I forgot to ask you something, and it’s important. We heard you were
+engaged to a girl out West.”
+
+“That’s right,” corroborated Tom kindly. “We heard that you were
+engaged.”
+
+“It’s a libel. I’m too poor.”
+
+“But we heard it,” insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again
+in a flower-like way. “We heard it from three people, so it must be
+true.”
+
+Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn’t even
+vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one
+of the reasons I had come East. You can’t stop going with an old
+friend on account of rumours, and on the other hand I had no intention
+of being rumoured into marriage.
+
+Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely
+rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove
+away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out
+of the house, child in arms—but apparently there were no such
+intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he “had some woman
+in New York” was really less surprising than that he had been
+depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of
+stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his
+peremptory heart.
+
+Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside
+garages, where new red petrol-pumps sat out in pools of light, and
+when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and
+sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had
+blown off, leaving a loud, bright night, with wings beating in the
+trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth
+blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered
+across the moonlight, and, turning my head to watch it, I saw that I
+was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of
+my neighbour’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets
+regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely
+movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested
+that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was
+his of our local heavens.
+
+I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and
+that would do for an introduction. But I didn’t call to him, for he
+gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched
+out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was
+from him, I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced
+seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute
+and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked
+once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the
+unquiet darkness.
+
+
+                                  II
+
+About halfway between West Egg and New York the motor road hastily
+joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as
+to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley
+of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and
+hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and
+chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of
+ash-grey men, who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery
+air. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track,
+gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the
+ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable
+cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight.
+
+But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift
+endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T.
+J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and
+gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face,
+but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass
+over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set
+them there to fatten his practice in the borough of Queens, and then
+sank down himself into eternal blindness, or forgot them and moved
+away. But his eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days, under sun
+and rain, brood on over the solemn dumping ground.
+
+The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small foul river, and,
+when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on
+waiting trains can stare at the dismal scene for as long as half an
+hour. There is always a halt there of at least a minute, and it was
+because of this that I first met Tom Buchanan’s mistress.
+
+The fact that he had one was insisted upon wherever he was known. His
+acquaintances resented the fact that he turned up in popular cafés
+with her and, leaving her at a table, sauntered about, chatting with
+whomsoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her, I had no desire
+to meet her—but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one
+afternoon, and when we stopped by the ash-heaps he jumped to his feet
+and, taking hold of my elbow, literally forced me from the car.
+
+“We’re getting off,” he insisted. “I want you to meet my girl.”
+
+I think he’d tanked up a good deal at luncheon, and his determination
+to have my company bordered on violence. The supercilious assumption
+was that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do.
+
+I followed him over a low whitewashed railroad fence, and we walked
+back a hundred yards along the road under Doctor Eckleburg’s
+persistent stare. The only building in sight was a small block of
+yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land, a sort of compact
+Main Street ministering to it, and contiguous to absolutely nothing.
+One of the three shops it contained was for rent and another was an
+all-night restaurant, approached by a trail of ashes; the third was a
+garage—Repairs. George B. Wilson. Cars bought and sold.—and I followed
+Tom inside.
+
+The interior was unprosperous and bare; the only car visible was the
+dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched in a dim corner. It had
+occurred to me that this shadow of a garage must be a blind, and that
+sumptuous and romantic apartments were concealed overhead, when the
+proprietor himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands
+on a piece of waste. He was a blond, spiritless man, anaemic, and
+faintly handsome. When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his
+light blue eyes.
+
+“Hello, Wilson, old man,” said Tom, slapping him jovially on the
+shoulder. “How’s business?”
+
+“I can’t complain,” answered Wilson unconvincingly. “When are you
+going to sell me that car?”
+
+“Next week; I’ve got my man working on it now.”
+
+“Works pretty slow, don’t he?”
+
+“No, he doesn’t,” said Tom coldly. “And if you feel that way about it,
+maybe I’d better sell it somewhere else after all.”
+
+“I don’t mean that,” explained Wilson quickly. “I just meant—”
+
+His voice faded off and Tom glanced impatiently around the garage.
+Then I heard footsteps on a stairs, and in a moment the thickish
+figure of a woman blocked out the light from the office door. She was
+in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her flesh
+sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark
+blue crêpe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty, but there
+was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of
+her body were continually smouldering. She smiled slowly and, walking
+through her husband as if he were a ghost, shook hands with Tom,
+looking him flush in the eye. Then she wet her lips, and without
+turning around spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice:
+
+“Get some chairs, why don’t you, so somebody can sit down.”
+
+“Oh, sure,” agreed Wilson hurriedly, and went toward the little
+office, mingling immediately with the cement colour of the walls. A
+white ashen dust veiled his dark suit and his pale hair as it veiled
+everything in the vicinity—except his wife, who moved close to Tom.
+
+“I want to see you,” said Tom intently. “Get on the next train.”
+
+“All right.”
+
+“I’ll meet you by the newsstand on the lower level.”
+
+She nodded and moved away from him just as George Wilson emerged with
+two chairs from his office door.
+
+We waited for her down the road and out of sight. It was a few days
+before the Fourth of July, and a grey, scrawny Italian child was
+setting torpedoes in a row along the railroad track.
+
+“Terrible place, isn’t it,” said Tom, exchanging a frown with Doctor
+Eckleburg.
+
+“Awful.”
+
+“It does her good to get away.”
+
+“Doesn’t her husband object?”
+
+“Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He’s so
+dumb he doesn’t know he’s alive.”
+
+So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York—or not
+quite together, for Mrs. Wilson sat discreetly in another car. Tom
+deferred that much to the sensibilities of those East Eggers who might
+be on the train.
+
+She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin, which stretched
+tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in
+New York. At the newsstand she bought a copy of Town Tattle and a
+moving-picture magazine, and in the station drugstore some cold cream
+and a small flask of perfume. Upstairs, in the solemn echoing drive
+she let four taxicabs drive away before she selected a new one,
+lavender-coloured with grey upholstery, and in this we slid out from
+the mass of the station into the glowing sunshine. But immediately she
+turned sharply from the window and, leaning forward, tapped on the
+front glass.
+
+“I want to get one of those dogs,” she said earnestly. “I want to get
+one for the apartment. They’re nice to have—a dog.”
+
+We backed up to a grey old man who bore an absurd resemblance to John
+D. Rockefeller. In a basket swung from his neck cowered a dozen very
+recent puppies of an indeterminate breed.
+
+“What kind are they?” asked Mrs. Wilson eagerly, as he came to the
+taxi-window.
+
+“All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?”
+
+“I’d like to get one of those police dogs; I don’t suppose you got
+that kind?”
+
+The man peered doubtfully into the basket, plunged in his hand and
+drew one up, wriggling, by the back of the neck.
+
+“That’s no police dog,” said Tom.
+
+“No, it’s not exactly a police dog,” said the man with disappointment
+in his voice. “It’s more of an Airedale.” He passed his hand over the
+brown washrag of a back. “Look at that coat. Some coat. That’s a dog
+that’ll never bother you with catching cold.”
+
+“I think it’s cute,” said Mrs. Wilson enthusiastically. “How much is
+it?”
+
+“That dog?” He looked at it admiringly. “That dog will cost you ten
+dollars.”
+
+The Airedale—undoubtedly there was an Airedale concerned in it
+somewhere, though its feet were startlingly white—changed hands and
+settled down into Mrs. Wilson’s lap, where she fondled the
+weatherproof coat with rapture.
+
+“Is it a boy or a girl?” she asked delicately.
+
+“That dog? That dog’s a boy.”
+
+“It’s a bitch,” said Tom decisively. “Here’s your money. Go and buy
+ten more dogs with it.”
+
+We drove over to Fifth Avenue, warm and soft, almost pastoral, on the
+summer Sunday afternoon. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a great
+flock of white sheep turn the corner.
+
+“Hold on,” I said, “I have to leave you here.”
+
+“No you don’t,” interposed Tom quickly. “Myrtle’ll be hurt if you
+don’t come up to the apartment. Won’t you, Myrtle?”
+
+“Come on,” she urged. “I’ll telephone my sister Catherine. She’s said
+to be very beautiful by people who ought to know.”
+
+“Well, I’d like to, but—”
+
+We went on, cutting back again over the Park toward the West Hundreds.
+At 158th Street the cab stopped at one slice in a long white cake of
+apartment-houses. Throwing a regal homecoming glance around the
+neighbourhood, Mrs. Wilson gathered up her dog and her other
+purchases, and went haughtily in.
+
+“I’m going to have the McKees come up,” she announced as we rose in
+the elevator. “And, of course, I got to call up my sister, too.”
+
+The apartment was on the top floor—a small living-room, a small
+dining-room, a small bedroom, and a bath. The living-room was crowded
+to the doors with a set of tapestried furniture entirely too large for
+it, so that to move about was to stumble continually over scenes of
+ladies swinging in the gardens of Versailles. The only picture was an
+over-enlarged photograph, apparently a hen sitting on a blurred rock.
+Looked at from a distance, however, the hen resolved itself into a
+bonnet, and the countenance of a stout old lady beamed down into the
+room. Several old copies of Town Tattle lay on the table together with
+a copy of Simon Called Peter, and some of the small scandal magazines
+of Broadway. Mrs. Wilson was first concerned with the dog. A reluctant
+elevator boy went for a box full of straw and some milk, to which he
+added on his own initiative a tin of large, hard dog biscuits—one of
+which decomposed apathetically in the saucer of milk all
+afternoon. Meanwhile Tom brought out a bottle of whisky from a locked
+bureau door.
+
+I have been drunk just twice in my life, and the second time was that
+afternoon; so everything that happened has a dim, hazy cast over it,
+although until after eight o’clock the apartment was full of cheerful
+sun. Sitting on Tom’s lap Mrs. Wilson called up several people on the
+telephone; then there were no cigarettes, and I went out to buy some
+at the drugstore on the corner. When I came back they had both
+disappeared, so I sat down discreetly in the living-room and read a
+chapter of Simon Called Peter—either it was terrible stuff or the
+whisky distorted things, because it didn’t make any sense to me.
+
+Just as Tom and Myrtle (after the first drink Mrs. Wilson and I called
+each other by our first names) reappeared, company commenced to arrive
+at the apartment door.
+
+The sister, Catherine, was a slender, worldly girl of about thirty,
+with a solid, sticky bob of red hair, and a complexion powdered milky
+white. Her eyebrows had been plucked and then drawn on again at a more
+rakish angle, but the efforts of nature toward the restoration of the
+old alignment gave a blurred air to her face. When she moved about
+there was an incessant clicking as innumerable pottery bracelets
+jingled up and down upon her arms. She came in with such a proprietary
+haste, and looked around so possessively at the furniture that I
+wondered if she lived here. But when I asked her she laughed
+immoderately, repeated my question aloud, and told me she lived with a
+girl friend at a hotel.
+
+Mr. McKee was a pale, feminine man from the flat below. He had just
+shaved, for there was a white spot of lather on his cheekbone, and he
+was most respectful in his greeting to everyone in the room. He
+informed me that he was in the “artistic game,” and I gathered later
+that he was a photographer and had made the dim enlargement of
+Mrs. Wilson’s mother which hovered like an ectoplasm on the wall. His
+wife was shrill, languid, handsome, and horrible. She told me with
+pride that her husband had photographed her a hundred and twenty-seven
+times since they had been married.
+
+Mrs. Wilson had changed her costume some time before, and was now
+attired in an elaborate afternoon dress of cream-coloured chiffon,
+which gave out a continual rustle as she swept about the room. With
+the influence of the dress her personality had also undergone a
+change. The intense vitality that had been so remarkable in the garage
+was converted into impressive hauteur. Her laughter, her gestures, her
+assertions became more violently affected moment by moment, and as she
+expanded the room grew smaller around her, until she seemed to be
+revolving on a noisy, creaking pivot through the smoky air.
+
+“My dear,” she told her sister in a high, mincing shout, “most of
+these fellas will cheat you every time. All they think of is money. I
+had a woman up here last week to look at my feet, and when she gave me
+the bill you’d of thought she had my appendicitis out.”
+
+“What was the name of the woman?” asked Mrs. McKee.
+
+“Mrs. Eberhardt. She goes around looking at people’s feet in their own
+homes.”
+
+“I like your dress,” remarked Mrs. McKee, “I think it’s adorable.”
+
+Mrs. Wilson rejected the compliment by raising her eyebrow in disdain.
+
+“It’s just a crazy old thing,” she said. “I just slip it on sometimes
+when I don’t care what I look like.”
+
+“But it looks wonderful on you, if you know what I mean,” pursued Mrs.
+McKee. “If Chester could only get you in that pose I think he could
+make something of it.”
+
+We all looked in silence at Mrs. Wilson, who removed a strand of hair
+from over her eyes and looked back at us with a brilliant smile. Mr.
+McKee regarded her intently with his head on one side, and then moved
+his hand back and forth slowly in front of his face.
+
+“I should change the light,” he said after a moment. “I’d like to
+bring out the modelling of the features. And I’d try to get hold of
+all the back hair.”
+
+“I wouldn’t think of changing the light,” cried Mrs. McKee. “I think
+it’s—”
+
+Her husband said “Sh!” and we all looked at the subject again,
+whereupon Tom Buchanan yawned audibly and got to his feet.
+
+“You McKees have something to drink,” he said. “Get some more ice and
+mineral water, Myrtle, before everybody goes to sleep.”
+
+“I told that boy about the ice.” Myrtle raised her eyebrows in despair
+at the shiftlessness of the lower orders. “These people! You have to
+keep after them all the time.”
+
+She looked at me and laughed pointlessly. Then she flounced over to
+the dog, kissed it with ecstasy, and swept into the kitchen, implying
+that a dozen chefs awaited her orders there.
+
+“I’ve done some nice things out on Long Island,” asserted Mr. McKee.
+
+Tom looked at him blankly.
+
+“Two of them we have framed downstairs.”
+
+“Two what?” demanded Tom.
+
+“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the
+other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.”
+
+The sister Catherine sat down beside me on the couch.
+
+“Do you live down on Long Island, too?” she inquired.
+
+“I live at West Egg.”
+
+“Really? I was down there at a party about a month ago. At a man named
+Gatsby’s. Do you know him?”
+
+“I live next door to him.”
+
+“Well, they say he’s a nephew or a cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm’s. That’s
+where all his money comes from.”
+
+“Really?”
+
+She nodded.
+
+“I’m scared of him. I’d hate to have him get anything on me.”
+
+This absorbing information about my neighbour was interrupted by Mrs.
+McKee’s pointing suddenly at Catherine:
+
+“Chester, I think you could do something with her,” she broke out, but
+Mr. McKee only nodded in a bored way, and turned his attention to Tom.
+
+“I’d like to do more work on Long Island, if I could get the entry.
+All I ask is that they should give me a start.”
+
+“Ask Myrtle,” said Tom, breaking into a short shout of laughter as
+Mrs. Wilson entered with a tray. “She’ll give you a letter of
+introduction, won’t you, Myrtle?”
+
+“Do what?” she asked, startled.
+
+“You’ll give McKee a letter of introduction to your husband, so he can
+do some studies of him.” His lips moved silently for a moment as he
+invented, “ ‘George B. Wilson at the Gasoline Pump,’ or something like
+that.”
+
+Catherine leaned close to me and whispered in my ear:
+
+“Neither of them can stand the person they’re married to.”
+
+“Can’t they?”
+
+“Can’t stand them.” She looked at Myrtle and then at Tom. “What I say
+is, why go on living with them if they can’t stand them? If I was them
+I’d get a divorce and get married to each other right away.”
+
+“Doesn’t she like Wilson either?”
+
+The answer to this was unexpected. It came from Myrtle, who had
+overheard the question, and it was violent and obscene.
+
+“You see,” cried Catherine triumphantly. She lowered her voice again.
+“It’s really his wife that’s keeping them apart. She’s a Catholic, and
+they don’t believe in divorce.”
+
+Daisy was not a Catholic, and I was a little shocked at the
+elaborateness of the lie.
+
+“When they do get married,” continued Catherine, “they’re going West
+to live for a while until it blows over.”
+
+“It’d be more discreet to go to Europe.”
+
+“Oh, do you like Europe?” she exclaimed surprisingly. “I just got back
+from Monte Carlo.”
+
+“Really.”
+
+“Just last year. I went over there with another girl.”
+
+“Stay long?”
+
+“No, we just went to Monte Carlo and back. We went by way of
+Marseilles. We had over twelve hundred dollars when we started, but we
+got gyped out of it all in two days in the private rooms. We had an
+awful time getting back, I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!”
+
+The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the
+blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee
+called me back into the room.
+
+“I almost made a mistake, too,” she declared vigorously. “I almost
+married a little kike who’d been after me for years. I knew he was
+below me. Everybody kept saying to me: ‘Lucille, that man’s way below
+you!’ But if I hadn’t met Chester, he’d of got me sure.”
+
+“Yes, but listen,” said Myrtle Wilson, nodding her head up and down,
+“at least you didn’t marry him.”
+
+“I know I didn’t.”
+
+“Well, I married him,” said Myrtle, ambiguously. “And that’s the
+difference between your case and mine.”
+
+“Why did you, Myrtle?” demanded Catherine. “Nobody forced you to.”
+
+Myrtle considered.
+
+“I married him because I thought he was a gentleman,” she said
+finally. “I thought he knew something about breeding, but he wasn’t
+fit to lick my shoe.”
+
+“You were crazy about him for a while,” said Catherine.
+
+“Crazy about him!” cried Myrtle incredulously. “Who said I was crazy
+about him? I never was any more crazy about him than I was about that
+man there.”
+
+She pointed suddenly at me, and everyone looked at me accusingly. I
+tried to show by my expression that I expected no affection.
+
+“The only crazy I was was when I married him. I knew right away I made
+a mistake. He borrowed somebody’s best suit to get married in, and
+never even told me about it, and the man came after it one day when he
+was out: ‘Oh, is that your suit?’ I said. ‘This is the first I ever
+heard about it.’ But I gave it to him and then I lay down and cried to
+beat the band all afternoon.”
+
+“She really ought to get away from him,” resumed Catherine to me.
+“They’ve been living over that garage for eleven years. And Tom’s the
+first sweetie she ever had.”
+
+The bottle of whisky—a second one—was now in constant demand by all
+present, excepting Catherine, who “felt just as good on nothing at
+all.” Tom rang for the janitor and sent him for some celebrated
+sandwiches, which were a complete supper in themselves. I wanted to
+get out and walk eastward toward the park through the soft twilight,
+but each time I tried to go I became entangled in some wild, strident
+argument which pulled me back, as if with ropes, into my chair. Yet
+high over the city our line of yellow windows must have contributed
+their share of human secrecy to the casual watcher in the darkening
+streets, and I saw him too, looking up and wondering. I was within and
+without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible
+variety of life.
+
+Myrtle pulled her chair close to mine, and suddenly her warm breath
+poured over me the story of her first meeting with Tom.
+
+“It was on the two little seats facing each other that are always the
+last ones left on the train. I was going up to New York to see my
+sister and spend the night. He had on a dress suit and patent leather
+shoes, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, but every time he looked
+at me I had to pretend to be looking at the advertisement over his
+head. When we came into the station he was next to me, and his white
+shirtfront pressed against my arm, and so I told him I’d have to call
+a policeman, but he knew I lied. I was so excited that when I got into
+a taxi with him I didn’t hardly know I wasn’t getting into a subway
+train. All I kept thinking about, over and over, was ‘You can’t live
+forever; you can’t live forever.’ ”
+
+She turned to Mrs. McKee and the room rang full of her artificial
+laughter.
+
+“My dear,” she cried, “I’m going to give you this dress as soon as I’m
+through with it. I’ve got to get another one tomorrow. I’m going to
+make a list of all the things I’ve got to get. A massage and a wave,
+and a collar for the dog, and one of those cute little ashtrays where
+you touch a spring, and a wreath with a black silk bow for mother’s
+grave that’ll last all summer. I got to write down a list so I won’t
+forget all the things I got to do.”
+
+It was nine o’clock—almost immediately afterward I looked at my watch
+and found it was ten. Mr. McKee was asleep on a chair with his fists
+clenched in his lap, like a photograph of a man of action. Taking out
+my handkerchief I wiped from his cheek the spot of dried lather that
+had worried me all the afternoon.
+
+The little dog was sitting on the table looking with blind eyes
+through the smoke, and from time to time groaning faintly. People
+disappeared, reappeared, made plans to go somewhere, and then lost
+each other, searched for each other, found each other a few feet
+away. Some time toward midnight Tom Buchanan and Mrs. Wilson stood
+face to face discussing, in impassioned voices, whether Mrs. Wilson
+had any right to mention Daisy’s name.
+
+“Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!” shouted Mrs. Wilson. “I’ll say it whenever I
+want to! Daisy! Dai—”
+
+Making a short deft movement, Tom Buchanan broke her nose with his
+open hand.
+
+Then there were bloody towels upon the bathroom floor, and women’s
+voices scolding, and high over the confusion a long broken wail of
+pain. Mr. McKee awoke from his doze and started in a daze toward the
+door. When he had gone halfway he turned around and stared at the
+scene—his wife and Catherine scolding and consoling as they stumbled
+here and there among the crowded furniture with articles of aid, and
+the despairing figure on the couch, bleeding fluently, and trying to
+spread a copy of Town Tattle over the tapestry scenes of
+Versailles. Then Mr. McKee turned and continued on out the door.
+Taking my hat from the chandelier, I followed.
+
+“Come to lunch some day,” he suggested, as we groaned down in the
+elevator.
+
+“Where?”
+
+“Anywhere.”
+
+“Keep your hands off the lever,” snapped the elevator boy.
+
+“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. McKee with dignity, “I didn’t know I was
+touching it.”
+
+“All right,” I agreed, “I’ll be glad to.”
+
+… I was standing beside his bed and he was sitting up between the
+sheets, clad in his underwear, with a great portfolio in his hands.
+
+“Beauty and the Beast … Loneliness … Old Grocery Horse … Brook’n
+Bridge …”
+
+Then I was lying half asleep in the cold lower level of the
+Pennsylvania Station, staring at the morning Tribune, and waiting for
+the four o’clock train.
+
+
+                                 III
+
+There was music from my neighbour’s house through the summer nights.
+In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the
+whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the
+afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or
+taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motorboats
+slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of
+foam. On weekends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties
+to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past
+midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to
+meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra
+gardener, toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers
+and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before.
+
+Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a
+fruiterer in New York—every Monday these same oranges and lemons left
+his back door in a pyramid of pulpless halves. There was a machine in
+the kitchen which could extract the juice of two hundred oranges in
+half an hour if a little button was pressed two hundred times by a
+butler’s thumb.
+
+At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers came down with several
+hundred feet of canvas and enough coloured lights to make a Christmas
+tree of Gatsby’s enormous garden. On buffet tables, garnished with
+glistening hors-d’oeuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against salads of
+harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark
+gold. In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up, and
+stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials so long forgotten that
+most of his female guests were too young to know one from another.
+
+By seven o’clock the orchestra has arrived, no thin five-piece affair,
+but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and
+cornets and piccolos, and low and high drums. The last swimmers have
+come in from the beach now and are dressing upstairs; the cars from
+New York are parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and
+salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colours, and hair bobbed in
+strange new ways, and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is
+in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden
+outside, until the air is alive with chatter and laughter, and casual
+innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot, and enthusiastic
+meetings between women who never knew each other’s names.
+
+The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun, and
+now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music, and the opera of
+voices pitches a key higher. Laughter is easier minute by minute,
+spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word. The groups
+change more swiftly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the
+same breath; already there are wanderers, confident girls who weave
+here and there among the stouter and more stable, become for a sharp,
+joyous moment the centre of a group, and then, excited with triumph,
+glide on through the sea-change of faces and voices and colour under
+the constantly changing light.
+
+Suddenly one of these gypsies, in trembling opal, seizes a cocktail
+out of the air, dumps it down for courage and, moving her hands like
+Frisco, dances out alone on the canvas platform. A momentary hush; the
+orchestra leader varies his rhythm obligingly for her, and there is a
+burst of chatter as the erroneous news goes around that she is Gilda
+Gray’s understudy from the Follies. The party has begun.
+
+I believe that on the first night I went to Gatsby’s house I was one
+of the few guests who had actually been invited. People were not
+invited—they went there. They got into automobiles which bore them out
+to Long Island, and somehow they ended up at Gatsby’s door. Once there
+they were introduced by somebody who knew Gatsby, and after that they
+conducted themselves according to the rules of behaviour associated
+with an amusement park. Sometimes they came and went without having
+met Gatsby at all, came for the party with a simplicity of heart that
+was its own ticket of admission.
+
+I had been actually invited. A chauffeur in a uniform of robin’s-egg
+blue crossed my lawn early that Saturday morning with a surprisingly
+formal note from his employer: the honour would be entirely Gatsby’s,
+it said, if I would attend his “little party” that night. He had seen
+me several times, and had intended to call on me long before, but a
+peculiar combination of circumstances had prevented it—signed Jay
+Gatsby, in a majestic hand.
+
+Dressed up in white flannels I went over to his lawn a little after
+seven, and wandered around rather ill at ease among swirls and eddies
+of people I didn’t know—though here and there was a face I had noticed
+on the commuting train. I was immediately struck by the number of
+young Englishmen dotted about; all well dressed, all looking a little
+hungry, and all talking in low, earnest voices to solid and prosperous
+Americans. I was sure that they were selling something: bonds or
+insurance or automobiles. They were at least agonizingly aware of the
+easy money in the vicinity and convinced that it was theirs for a few
+words in the right key.
+
+As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find my host, but the two or
+three people of whom I asked his whereabouts stared at me in such an
+amazed way, and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements,
+that I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table—the only place
+in the garden where a single man could linger without looking
+purposeless and alone.
+
+I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment when
+Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble
+steps, leaning a little backward and looking with contemptuous
+interest down into the garden.
+
+Welcome or not, I found it necessary to attach myself to someone
+before I should begin to address cordial remarks to the passersby.
+
+“Hello!” I roared, advancing toward her. My voice seemed unnaturally
+loud across the garden.
+
+“I thought you might be here,” she responded absently as I came up.
+“I remembered you lived next door to—”
+
+She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that she’d take care of me
+in a minute, and gave ear to two girls in twin yellow dresses, who
+stopped at the foot of the steps.
+
+“Hello!” they cried together. “Sorry you didn’t win.”
+
+That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals the week
+before.
+
+“You don’t know who we are,” said one of the girls in yellow, “but we
+met you here about a month ago.”
+
+“You’ve dyed your hair since then,” remarked Jordan, and I started,
+but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to
+the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a
+caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine, we
+descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A tray of
+cocktails floated at us through the twilight, and we sat down at a
+table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced
+to us as Mr. Mumble.
+
+“Do you come to these parties often?” inquired Jordan of the girl
+beside her.
+
+“The last one was the one I met you at,” answered the girl, in an
+alert confident voice. She turned to her companion: “Wasn’t it for
+you, Lucille?”
+
+It was for Lucille, too.
+
+“I like to come,” Lucille said. “I never care what I do, so I always
+have a good time. When I was here last I tore my gown on a chair, and
+he asked me my name and address—inside of a week I got a package from
+Croirier’s with a new evening gown in it.”
+
+“Did you keep it?” asked Jordan.
+
+“Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too big in the
+bust and had to be altered. It was gas blue with lavender beads. Two
+hundred and sixty-five dollars.”
+
+“There’s something funny about a fellow that’ll do a thing like that,”
+said the other girl eagerly. “He doesn’t want any trouble with
+anybody.”
+
+“Who doesn’t?” I inquired.
+
+“Gatsby. Somebody told me—”
+
+The two girls and Jordan leaned together confidentially.
+
+“Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once.”
+
+A thrill passed over all of us. The three Mr. Mumbles bent forward and
+listened eagerly.
+
+“I don’t think it’s so much that,” argued Lucille sceptically; “It’s
+more that he was a German spy during the war.”
+
+One of the men nodded in confirmation.
+
+“I heard that from a man who knew all about him, grew up with him in
+Germany,” he assured us positively.
+
+“Oh, no,” said the first girl, “it couldn’t be that, because he was in
+the American army during the war.” As our credulity switched back to
+her she leaned forward with enthusiasm. “You look at him sometimes
+when he thinks nobody’s looking at him. I’ll bet he killed a man.”
+
+She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered. We all turned
+and looked around for Gatsby. It was testimony to the romantic
+speculation he inspired that there were whispers about him from those
+who had found little that it was necessary to whisper about in this
+world.
+
+The first supper—there would be another one after midnight—was now
+being served, and Jordan invited me to join her own party, who were
+spread around a table on the other side of the garden. There were
+three married couples and Jordan’s escort, a persistent undergraduate
+given to violent innuendo, and obviously under the impression that
+sooner or later Jordan was going to yield him up her person to a
+greater or lesser degree. Instead of rambling, this party had
+preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the function
+of representing the staid nobility of the countryside—East Egg
+condescending to West Egg and carefully on guard against its
+spectroscopic gaiety.
+
+“Let’s get out,” whispered Jordan, after a somehow wasteful and
+inappropriate half-hour; “this is much too polite for me.”
+
+We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host: I
+had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The
+undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melancholy way.
+
+The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not
+there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t
+on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and
+walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak,
+and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas.
+
+A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was
+sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with
+unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he
+wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot.
+
+“What do you think?” he demanded impetuously.
+
+“About what?”
+
+He waved his hand toward the bookshelves.
+
+“About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I
+ascertained. They’re real.”
+
+“The books?”
+
+He nodded.
+
+“Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice
+durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real.  Pages
+and—Here! Lemme show you.”
+
+Taking our scepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and
+returned with Volume One of the Stoddard Lectures.
+
+“See!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a bona-fide piece of printed
+matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s a
+triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when to stop,
+too—didn’t cut the pages. But what do you want? What do you expect?”
+
+He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf,
+muttering that if one brick was removed the whole library was liable
+to collapse.
+
+“Who brought you?” he demanded. “Or did you just come? I was brought.
+Most people were brought.”
+
+Jordan looked at him alertly, cheerfully, without answering.
+
+“I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt,” he continued. “Mrs. Claud
+Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I’ve been
+drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit
+in a library.”
+
+“Has it?”
+
+“A little bit, I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here an hour.
+Did I tell you about the books? They’re real. They’re—”
+
+“You told us.”
+
+We shook hands with him gravely and went back outdoors.
+
+There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden; old men pushing
+young girls backward in eternal graceless circles, superior couples
+holding each other tortuously, fashionably, and keeping in the
+corners—and a great number of single girls dancing individually or
+relieving the orchestra for a moment of the burden of the banjo or the
+traps. By midnight the hilarity had increased. A celebrated tenor had
+sung in Italian, and a notorious contralto had sung in jazz, and
+between the numbers people were doing “stunts” all over the garden,
+while happy, vacuous bursts of laughter rose toward the summer sky. A
+pair of stage twins, who turned out to be the girls in yellow, did a
+baby act in costume, and champagne was served in glasses bigger than
+finger-bowls. The moon had risen higher, and floating in the Sound was
+a triangle of silver scales, trembling a little to the stiff, tinny
+drip of the banjoes on the lawn.
+
+I was still with Jordan Baker. We were sitting at a table with a man
+of about my age and a rowdy little girl, who gave way upon the
+slightest provocation to uncontrollable laughter. I was enjoying
+myself now. I had taken two finger-bowls of champagne, and the scene
+had changed before my eyes into something significant, elemental, and
+profound.
+
+At a lull in the entertainment the man looked at me and smiled.
+
+“Your face is familiar,” he said politely. “Weren’t you in the First
+Division during the war?”
+
+“Why yes. I was in the Twenty-eighth Infantry.”
+
+“I was in the Sixteenth until June nineteen-eighteen. I knew I’d seen
+you somewhere before.”
+
+We talked for a moment about some wet, grey little villages in France.
+Evidently he lived in this vicinity, for he told me that he had just
+bought a hydroplane, and was going to try it out in the morning.
+
+“Want to go with me, old sport? Just near the shore along the Sound.”
+
+“What time?”
+
+“Any time that suits you best.”
+
+It was on the tip of my tongue to ask his name when Jordan looked
+around and smiled.
+
+“Having a gay time now?” she inquired.
+
+“Much better.” I turned again to my new acquaintance. “This is an
+unusual party for me. I haven’t even seen the host. I live over
+there—” I waved my hand at the invisible hedge in the distance, “and
+this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.”
+
+For a moment he looked at me as if he failed to understand.
+
+“I’m Gatsby,” he said suddenly.
+
+“What!” I exclaimed. “Oh, I beg your pardon.”
+
+“I thought you knew, old sport. I’m afraid I’m not a very good host.”
+
+He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one
+of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that
+you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to
+face—the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on
+you with an irresistible prejudice in your favour. It understood you
+just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you
+would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had
+precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to
+convey. Precisely at that point it vanished—and I was looking at an
+elegant young roughneck, a year or two over thirty, whose elaborate
+formality of speech just missed being absurd. Some time before he
+introduced himself I’d got a strong impression that he was picking his
+words with care.
+
+Almost at the moment when Mr. Gatsby identified himself a butler
+hurried toward him with the information that Chicago was calling him
+on the wire. He excused himself with a small bow that included each of
+us in turn.
+
+“If you want anything just ask for it, old sport,” he urged me.
+“Excuse me. I will rejoin you later.”
+
+When he was gone I turned immediately to Jordan—constrained to assure
+her of my surprise. I had expected that Mr. Gatsby would be a florid
+and corpulent person in his middle years.
+
+“Who is he?” I demanded. “Do you know?”
+
+“He’s just a man named Gatsby.”
+
+“Where is he from, I mean? And what does he do?”
+
+“Now you’re started on the subject,” she answered with a wan smile.
+“Well, he told me once he was an Oxford man.”
+
+A dim background started to take shape behind him, but at her next
+remark it faded away.
+
+“However, I don’t believe it.”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“I don’t know,” she insisted, “I just don’t think he went there.”
+
+Something in her tone reminded me of the other girl’s “I think he
+killed a man,” and had the effect of stimulating my curiosity. I would
+have accepted without question the information that Gatsby sprang from
+the swamps of Louisiana or from the lower East Side of New York. That
+was comprehensible. But young men didn’t—at least in my provincial
+inexperience I believed they didn’t—drift coolly out of nowhere and
+buy a palace on Long Island Sound.
+
+“Anyhow, he gives large parties,” said Jordan, changing the subject
+with an urban distaste for the concrete. “And I like large parties.
+They’re so intimate. At small parties there isn’t any privacy.”
+
+There was the boom of a bass drum, and the voice of the orchestra
+leader rang out suddenly above the echolalia of the garden.
+
+“Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried. “At the request of Mr. Gatsby we are
+going to play for you Mr. Vladmir Tostoff’s latest work, which
+attracted so much attention at Carnegie Hall last May. If you read the
+papers you know there was a big sensation.” He smiled with jovial
+condescension, and added: “Some sensation!” Whereupon everybody
+laughed.
+
+“The piece is known,” he concluded lustily, “as ‘Vladmir Tostoff’s
+Jazz History of the World!’ ”
+
+The nature of Mr. Tostoff’s composition eluded me, because just as it
+began my eyes fell on Gatsby, standing alone on the marble steps and
+looking from one group to another with approving eyes. His tanned skin
+was drawn attractively tight on his face and his short hair looked as
+though it were trimmed every day. I could see nothing sinister about
+him. I wondered if the fact that he was not drinking helped to set him
+off from his guests, for it seemed to me that he grew more correct as
+the fraternal hilarity increased. When the “Jazz History of the World”
+was over, girls were putting their heads on men’s shoulders in a
+puppyish, convivial way, girls were swooning backward playfully into
+men’s arms, even into groups, knowing that someone would arrest their
+falls—but no one swooned backward on Gatsby, and no French bob touched
+Gatsby’s shoulder, and no singing quartets were formed with Gatsby’s
+head for one link.
+
+“I beg your pardon.”
+
+Gatsby’s butler was suddenly standing beside us.
+
+“Miss Baker?” he inquired. “I beg your pardon, but Mr. Gatsby would
+like to speak to you alone.”
+
+“With me?” she exclaimed in surprise.
+
+“Yes, madame.”
+
+She got up slowly, raising her eyebrows at me in astonishment, and
+followed the butler toward the house. I noticed that she wore her
+evening-dress, all her dresses, like sports clothes—there was a
+jauntiness about her movements as if she had first learned to walk
+upon golf courses on clean, crisp mornings.
+
+I was alone and it was almost two. For some time confused and
+intriguing sounds had issued from a long, many-windowed room which
+overhung the terrace. Eluding Jordan’s undergraduate, who was now
+engaged in an obstetrical conversation with two chorus girls, and who
+implored me to join him, I went inside.
+
+The large room was full of people. One of the girls in yellow was
+playing the piano, and beside her stood a tall, red-haired young lady
+from a famous chorus, engaged in song. She had drunk a quantity of
+champagne, and during the course of her song she had decided, ineptly,
+that everything was very, very sad—she was not only singing, she was
+weeping too. Whenever there was a pause in the song she filled it with
+gasping, broken sobs, and then took up the lyric again in a quavering
+soprano. The tears coursed down her cheeks—not freely, however, for
+when they came into contact with her heavily beaded eyelashes they
+assumed an inky colour, and pursued the rest of their way in slow
+black rivulets. A humorous suggestion was made that she sing the notes
+on her face, whereupon she threw up her hands, sank into a chair, and
+went off into a deep vinous sleep.
+
+“She had a fight with a man who says he’s her husband,” explained a
+girl at my elbow.
+
+I looked around. Most of the remaining women were now having fights
+with men said to be their husbands. Even Jordan’s party, the quartet
+from East Egg, were rent asunder by dissension. One of the men was
+talking with curious intensity to a young actress, and his wife, after
+attempting to laugh at the situation in a dignified and indifferent
+way, broke down entirely and resorted to flank attacks—at intervals
+she appeared suddenly at his side like an angry diamond, and hissed:
+“You promised!” into his ear.
+
+The reluctance to go home was not confined to wayward men. The hall
+was at present occupied by two deplorably sober men and their highly
+indignant wives. The wives were sympathizing with each other in
+slightly raised voices.
+
+“Whenever he sees I’m having a good time he wants to go home.”
+
+“Never heard anything so selfish in my life.”
+
+“We’re always the first ones to leave.”
+
+“So are we.”
+
+“Well, we’re almost the last tonight,” said one of the men sheepishly.
+“The orchestra left half an hour ago.”
+
+In spite of the wives’ agreement that such malevolence was beyond
+credibility, the dispute ended in a short struggle, and both wives
+were lifted, kicking, into the night.
+
+As I waited for my hat in the hall the door of the library opened and
+Jordan Baker and Gatsby came out together. He was saying some last
+word to her, but the eagerness in his manner tightened abruptly into
+formality as several people approached him to say goodbye.
+
+Jordan’s party were calling impatiently to her from the porch, but she
+lingered for a moment to shake hands.
+
+“I’ve just heard the most amazing thing,” she whispered. “How long
+were we in there?”
+
+“Why, about an hour.”
+
+“It was … simply amazing,” she repeated abstractedly. “But I swore I
+wouldn’t tell it and here I am tantalizing you.” She yawned gracefully
+in my face. “Please come and see me … Phone book … Under the name of
+Mrs. Sigourney Howard … My aunt …” She was hurrying off as she
+talked—her brown hand waved a jaunty salute as she melted into her
+party at the door.
+
+Rather ashamed that on my first appearance I had stayed so late, I
+joined the last of Gatsby’s guests, who were clustered around him. I
+wanted to explain that I’d hunted for him early in the evening and to
+apologize for not having known him in the garden.
+
+“Don’t mention it,” he enjoined me eagerly. “Don’t give it another
+thought, old sport.” The familiar expression held no more familiarity
+than the hand which reassuringly brushed my shoulder. “And don’t
+forget we’re going up in the hydroplane tomorrow morning, at nine
+o’clock.”
+
+Then the butler, behind his shoulder:
+
+“Philadelphia wants you on the phone, sir.”
+
+“All right, in a minute. Tell them I’ll be right there … Good night.”
+
+“Good night.”
+
+“Good night.” He smiled—and suddenly there seemed to be a pleasant
+significance in having been among the last to go, as if he had desired
+it all the time. “Good night, old sport … Good night.”
+
+But as I walked down the steps I saw that the evening was not quite
+over. Fifty feet from the door a dozen headlights illuminated a
+bizarre and tumultuous scene. In the ditch beside the road, right side
+up, but violently shorn of one wheel, rested a new coupé which had
+left Gatsby’s drive not two minutes before. The sharp jut of a wall
+accounted for the detachment of the wheel, which was now getting
+considerable attention from half a dozen curious chauffeurs. However,
+as they had left their cars blocking the road, a harsh, discordant din
+from those in the rear had been audible for some time, and added to
+the already violent confusion of the scene.
+
+A man in a long duster had dismounted from the wreck and now stood in
+the middle of the road, looking from the car to the tyre and from the
+tyre to the observers in a pleasant, puzzled way.
+
+“See!” he explained. “It went in the ditch.”
+
+The fact was infinitely astonishing to him, and I recognized first the
+unusual quality of wonder, and then the man—it was the late patron of
+Gatsby’s library.
+
+“How’d it happen?”
+
+He shrugged his shoulders.
+
+“I know nothing whatever about mechanics,” he said decisively.
+
+“But how did it happen? Did you run into the wall?”
+
+“Don’t ask me,” said Owl Eyes, washing his hands of the whole
+matter. “I know very little about driving—next to nothing. It
+happened, and that’s all I know.”
+
+“Well, if you’re a poor driver you oughtn’t to try driving at night.”
+
+“But I wasn’t even trying,” he explained indignantly, “I wasn’t even
+trying.”
+
+An awed hush fell upon the bystanders.
+
+“Do you want to commit suicide?”
+
+“You’re lucky it was just a wheel! A bad driver and not even trying!”
+
+“You don’t understand,” explained the criminal. “I wasn’t driving.
+There’s another man in the car.”
+
+The shock that followed this declaration found voice in a sustained
+“Ah-h-h!” as the door of the coupé swung slowly open. The crowd—it was
+now a crowd—stepped back involuntarily, and when the door had opened
+wide there was a ghostly pause. Then, very gradually, part by part, a
+pale, dangling individual stepped out of the wreck, pawing tentatively
+at the ground with a large uncertain dancing shoe.
+
+Blinded by the glare of the headlights and confused by the incessant
+groaning of the horns, the apparition stood swaying for a moment
+before he perceived the man in the duster.
+
+“Wha’s matter?” he inquired calmly. “Did we run outa gas?”
+
+“Look!”
+
+Half a dozen fingers pointed at the amputated wheel—he stared at it
+for a moment, and then looked upward as though he suspected that it
+had dropped from the sky.
+
+“It came off,” someone explained.
+
+He nodded.
+
+“At first I din’ notice we’d stopped.”
+
+A pause. Then, taking a long breath and straightening his shoulders,
+he remarked in a determined voice:
+
+“Wonder’ff tell me where there’s a gas’line station?”
+
+At least a dozen men, some of them a little better off than he was,
+explained to him that wheel and car were no longer joined by any
+physical bond.
+
+“Back out,” he suggested after a moment. “Put her in reverse.”
+
+“But the wheel’s off!”
+
+He hesitated.
+
+“No harm in trying,” he said.
+
+The caterwauling horns had reached a crescendo and I turned away and
+cut across the lawn toward home. I glanced back once. A wafer of a
+moon was shining over Gatsby’s house, making the night fine as before,
+and surviving the laughter and the sound of his still glowing garden.
+A sudden emptiness seemed to flow now from the windows and the great
+doors, endowing with complete isolation the figure of the host, who
+stood on the porch, his hand up in a formal gesture of farewell.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+Reading over what I have written so far, I see I have given the
+impression that the events of three nights several weeks apart were
+all that absorbed me. On the contrary, they were merely casual events
+in a crowded summer, and, until much later, they absorbed me
+infinitely less than my personal affairs.
+
+Most of the time I worked. In the early morning the sun threw my
+shadow westward as I hurried down the white chasms of lower New York
+to the Probity Trust. I knew the other clerks and young bond-salesmen
+by their first names, and lunched with them in dark, crowded
+restaurants on little pig sausages and mashed potatoes and coffee. I
+even had a short affair with a girl who lived in Jersey City and
+worked in the accounting department, but her brother began throwing
+mean looks in my direction, so when she went on her vacation in July I
+let it blow quietly away.
+
+I took dinner usually at the Yale Club—for some reason it was the
+gloomiest event of my day—and then I went upstairs to the library and
+studied investments and securities for a conscientious hour. There
+were generally a few rioters around, but they never came into the
+library, so it was a good place to work. After that, if the night was
+mellow, I strolled down Madison Avenue past the old Murray Hill Hotel,
+and over 33rd Street to the Pennsylvania Station.
+
+I began to like New York, the racy, adventurous feel of it at night,
+and the satisfaction that the constant flicker of men and women and
+machines gives to the restless eye. I liked to walk up Fifth Avenue
+and pick out romantic women from the crowd and imagine that in a few
+minutes I was going to enter into their lives, and no one would ever
+know or disapprove. Sometimes, in my mind, I followed them to their
+apartments on the corners of hidden streets, and they turned and
+smiled back at me before they faded through a door into warm
+darkness. At the enchanted metropolitan twilight I felt a haunting
+loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others—poor young clerks who
+loitered in front of windows waiting until it was time for a solitary
+restaurant dinner—young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant
+moments of night and life.
+
+Again at eight o’clock, when the dark lanes of the Forties were lined
+five deep with throbbing taxicabs, bound for the theatre district, I
+felt a sinking in my heart. Forms leaned together in the taxis as they
+waited, and voices sang, and there was laughter from unheard jokes,
+and lighted cigarettes made unintelligible circles inside. Imagining
+that I, too, was hurrying towards gaiety and sharing their intimate
+excitement, I wished them well.
+
+For a while I lost sight of Jordan Baker, and then in midsummer I
+found her again. At first I was flattered to go places with her,
+because she was a golf champion, and everyone knew her name. Then it
+was something more. I wasn’t actually in love, but I felt a sort of
+tender curiosity. The bored haughty face that she turned to the world
+concealed something—most affectations conceal something eventually,
+even though they don’t in the beginning—and one day I found what it
+was. When we were on a house-party together up in Warwick, she left a
+borrowed car out in the rain with the top down, and then lied about
+it—and suddenly I remembered the story about her that had eluded me
+that night at Daisy’s. At her first big golf tournament there was a
+row that nearly reached the newspapers—a suggestion that she had moved
+her ball from a bad lie in the semifinal round. The thing approached
+the proportions of a scandal—then died away. A caddy retracted his
+statement, and the only other witness admitted that he might have been
+mistaken. The incident and the name had remained together in my mind.
+
+Jordan Baker instinctively avoided clever, shrewd men, and now I saw
+that this was because she felt safer on a plane where any divergence
+from a code would be thought impossible. She was incurably dishonest.
+She wasn’t able to endure being at a disadvantage and, given this
+unwillingness, I suppose she had begun dealing in subterfuges when she
+was very young in order to keep that cool, insolent smile turned to
+the world and yet satisfy the demands of her hard, jaunty body.
+
+It made no difference to me. Dishonesty in a woman is a thing you
+never blame deeply—I was casually sorry, and then I forgot. It was on
+that same house-party that we had a curious conversation about driving
+a car. It started because she passed so close to some workmen that our
+fender flicked a button on one man’s coat.
+
+“You’re a rotten driver,” I protested. “Either you ought to be more
+careful, or you oughtn’t to drive at all.”
+
+“I am careful.”
+
+“No, you’re not.”
+
+“Well, other people are,” she said lightly.
+
+“What’s that got to do with it?”
+
+“They’ll keep out of my way,” she insisted. “It takes two to make an
+accident.”
+
+“Suppose you met somebody just as careless as yourself.”
+
+“I hope I never will,” she answered. “I hate careless people. That’s
+why I like you.”
+
+Her grey, sun-strained eyes stared straight ahead, but she had
+deliberately shifted our relations, and for a moment I thought I loved
+her. But I am slow-thinking and full of interior rules that act as
+brakes on my desires, and I knew that first I had to get myself
+definitely out of that tangle back home. I’d been writing letters once
+a week and signing them: “Love, Nick,” and all I could think of was
+how, when that certain girl played tennis, a faint moustache of
+perspiration appeared on her upper lip. Nevertheless there was a vague
+understanding that had to be tactfully broken off before I was free.
+
+Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and
+this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever
+known.
+
+
+                                  IV
+
+On Sunday morning while church bells rang in the villages alongshore,
+the world and its mistress returned to Gatsby’s house and twinkled
+hilariously on his lawn.
+
+“He’s a bootlegger,” said the young ladies, moving somewhere between
+his cocktails and his flowers. “One time he killed a man who had found
+out that he was nephew to Von Hindenburg and second cousin to the
+devil. Reach me a rose, honey, and pour me a last drop into that there
+crystal glass.”
+
+Once I wrote down on the empty spaces of a timetable the names of
+those who came to Gatsby’s house that summer. It is an old timetable
+now, disintegrating at its folds, and headed “This schedule in effect
+July 5th, 1922.” But I can still read the grey names, and they will
+give you a better impression than my generalities of those who
+accepted Gatsby’s hospitality and paid him the subtle tribute of
+knowing nothing whatever about him.
+
+From East Egg, then, came the Chester Beckers and the Leeches, and a
+man named Bunsen, whom I knew at Yale, and Doctor Webster Civet, who
+was drowned last summer up in Maine. And the Hornbeams and the Willie
+Voltaires, and a whole clan named Blackbuck, who always gathered in a
+corner and flipped up their noses like goats at whosoever came
+near. And the Ismays and the Chrysties (or rather Hubert Auerbach and
+Mr. Chrystie’s wife), and Edgar Beaver, whose hair, they say, turned
+cotton-white one winter afternoon for no good reason at all.
+
+Clarence Endive was from East Egg, as I remember. He came only once,
+in white knickerbockers, and had a fight with a bum named Etty in the
+garden. From farther out on the Island came the Cheadles and the O.
+R. P. Schraeders, and the Stonewall Jackson Abrams of Georgia, and the
+Fishguards and the Ripley Snells. Snell was there three days before he
+went to the penitentiary, so drunk out on the gravel drive that
+Mrs. Ulysses Swett’s automobile ran over his right hand. The Dancies
+came, too, and S. B. Whitebait, who was well over sixty, and Maurice
+A. Flink, and the Hammerheads, and Beluga the tobacco importer, and
+Beluga’s girls.
+
+From West Egg came the Poles and the Mulreadys and Cecil Roebuck and
+Cecil Schoen and Gulick the State senator and Newton Orchid, who
+controlled Films Par Excellence, and Eckhaust and Clyde Cohen and Don
+S. Schwartz (the son) and Arthur McCarty, all connected with the
+movies in one way or another. And the Catlips and the Bembergs and G.
+Earl Muldoon, brother to that Muldoon who afterward strangled his
+wife. Da Fontano the promoter came there, and Ed Legros and James B.
+(“Rot-Gut”) Ferret and the De Jongs and Ernest Lilly—they came to
+gamble, and when Ferret wandered into the garden it meant he was
+cleaned out and Associated Traction would have to fluctuate profitably
+next day.
+
+A man named Klipspringer was there so often that he became known as
+“the boarder”—I doubt if he had any other home. Of theatrical people
+there were Gus Waize and Horace O’Donavan and Lester Myer and George
+Duckweed and Francis Bull. Also from New York were the Chromes and the
+Backhyssons and the Dennickers and Russel Betty and the Corrigans and
+the Kellehers and the Dewars and the Scullys and S. W. Belcher and the
+Smirkes and the young Quinns, divorced now, and Henry L. Palmetto, who
+killed himself by jumping in front of a subway train in Times Square.
+
+Benny McClenahan arrived always with four girls. They were never quite
+the same ones in physical person, but they were so identical one with
+another that it inevitably seemed they had been there before. I have
+forgotten their names—Jaqueline, I think, or else Consuela, or Gloria
+or Judy or June, and their last names were either the melodious names
+of flowers and months or the sterner ones of the great American
+capitalists whose cousins, if pressed, they would confess themselves
+to be.
+
+In addition to all these I can remember that Faustina O’Brien came
+there at least once and the Baedeker girls and young Brewer, who had
+his nose shot off in the war, and Mr. Albrucksburger and Miss Haag,
+his fiancée, and Ardita Fitz-Peters and Mr. P. Jewett, once head of
+the American Legion, and Miss Claudia Hip, with a man reputed to be
+her chauffeur, and a prince of something, whom we called Duke, and
+whose name, if I ever knew it, I have forgotten.
+
+All these people came to Gatsby’s house in the summer.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+At nine o’clock, one morning late in July, Gatsby’s gorgeous car
+lurched up the rocky drive to my door and gave out a burst of melody
+from its three-noted horn.
+
+It was the first time he had called on me, though I had gone to two of
+his parties, mounted in his hydroplane, and, at his urgent invitation,
+made frequent use of his beach.
+
+“Good morning, old sport. You’re having lunch with me today and I
+thought we’d ride up together.”
+
+He was balancing himself on the dashboard of his car with that
+resourcefulness of movement that is so peculiarly American—that comes,
+I suppose, with the absence of lifting work in youth and, even more,
+with the formless grace of our nervous, sporadic games. This quality
+was continually breaking through his punctilious manner in the shape
+of restlessness. He was never quite still; there was always a tapping
+foot somewhere or the impatient opening and closing of a hand.
+
+He saw me looking with admiration at his car.
+
+“It’s pretty, isn’t it, old sport?” He jumped off to give me a better
+view. “Haven’t you ever seen it before?”
+
+I’d seen it. Everybody had seen it. It was a rich cream colour, bright
+with nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous length with
+triumphant hatboxes and supper-boxes and toolboxes, and terraced with
+a labyrinth of windshields that mirrored a dozen suns. Sitting down
+behind many layers of glass in a sort of green leather conservatory,
+we started to town.
+
+I had talked with him perhaps half a dozen times in the past month and
+found, to my disappointment, that he had little to say. So my first
+impression, that he was a person of some undefined consequence, had
+gradually faded and he had become simply the proprietor of an
+elaborate roadhouse next door.
+
+And then came that disconcerting ride. We hadn’t reached West Egg
+village before Gatsby began leaving his elegant sentences unfinished
+and slapping himself indecisively on the knee of his caramel-coloured
+suit.
+
+“Look here, old sport,” he broke out surprisingly, “what’s your
+opinion of me, anyhow?”
+
+A little overwhelmed, I began the generalized evasions which that
+question deserves.
+
+“Well, I’m going to tell you something about my life,” he interrupted.
+“I don’t want you to get a wrong idea of me from all these stories you
+hear.”
+
+So he was aware of the bizarre accusations that flavoured conversation
+in his halls.
+
+“I’ll tell you God’s truth.” His right hand suddenly ordered divine
+retribution to stand by. “I am the son of some wealthy people in the
+Middle West—all dead now. I was brought up in America but educated at
+Oxford, because all my ancestors have been educated there for many
+years. It is a family tradition.”
+
+He looked at me sideways—and I knew why Jordan Baker had believed he
+was lying. He hurried the phrase “educated at Oxford,” or swallowed
+it, or choked on it, as though it had bothered him before. And with
+this doubt, his whole statement fell to pieces, and I wondered if
+there wasn’t something a little sinister about him, after all.
+
+“What part of the Middle West?” I inquired casually.
+
+“San Francisco.”
+
+“I see.”
+
+“My family all died and I came into a good deal of money.”
+
+His voice was solemn, as if the memory of that sudden extinction of a
+clan still haunted him. For a moment I suspected that he was pulling
+my leg, but a glance at him convinced me otherwise.
+
+“After that I lived like a young rajah in all the capitals of
+Europe—Paris, Venice, Rome—collecting jewels, chiefly rubies, hunting
+big game, painting a little, things for myself only, and trying to
+forget something very sad that had happened to me long ago.”
+
+With an effort I managed to restrain my incredulous laughter. The very
+phrases were worn so threadbare that they evoked no image except that
+of a turbaned “character” leaking sawdust at every pore as he pursued
+a tiger through the Bois de Boulogne.
+
+“Then came the war, old sport. It was a great relief, and I tried very
+hard to die, but I seemed to bear an enchanted life. I accepted a
+commission as first lieutenant when it began. In the Argonne Forest I
+took the remains of my machine-gun battalion so far forward that there
+was a half mile gap on either side of us where the infantry couldn’t
+advance. We stayed there two days and two nights, a hundred and thirty
+men with sixteen Lewis guns, and when the infantry came up at last
+they found the insignia of three German divisions among the piles of
+dead. I was promoted to be a major, and every Allied government gave
+me a decoration—even Montenegro, little Montenegro down on the
+Adriatic Sea!”
+
+Little Montenegro! He lifted up the words and nodded at them—with his
+smile. The smile comprehended Montenegro’s troubled history and
+sympathized with the brave struggles of the Montenegrin people. It
+appreciated fully the chain of national circumstances which had
+elicited this tribute from Montenegro’s warm little heart. My
+incredulity was submerged in fascination now; it was like skimming
+hastily through a dozen magazines.
+
+He reached in his pocket, and a piece of metal, slung on a ribbon,
+fell into my palm.
+
+“That’s the one from Montenegro.”
+
+To my astonishment, the thing had an authentic look. “Orderi di
+Danilo,” ran the circular legend, “Montenegro, Nicolas Rex.”
+
+“Turn it.”
+
+“Major Jay Gatsby,” I read, “For Valour Extraordinary.”
+
+“Here’s another thing I always carry. A souvenir of Oxford days. It
+was taken in Trinity Quad—the man on my left is now the Earl of
+Doncaster.”
+
+It was a photograph of half a dozen young men in blazers loafing in an
+archway through which were visible a host of spires. There was Gatsby,
+looking a little, not much, younger—with a cricket bat in his hand.
+
+Then it was all true. I saw the skins of tigers flaming in his palace
+on the Grand Canal; I saw him opening a chest of rubies to ease, with
+their crimson-lighted depths, the gnawings of his broken heart.
+
+“I’m going to make a big request of you today,” he said, pocketing his
+souvenirs with satisfaction, “so I thought you ought to know something
+about me. I didn’t want you to think I was just some nobody. You see,
+I usually find myself among strangers because I drift here and there
+trying to forget the sad things that happened to me.” He hesitated.
+“You’ll hear about it this afternoon.”
+
+“At lunch?”
+
+“No, this afternoon. I happened to find out that you’re taking Miss
+Baker to tea.”
+
+“Do you mean you’re in love with Miss Baker?”
+
+“No, old sport, I’m not. But Miss Baker has kindly consented to speak
+to you about this matter.”
+
+I hadn’t the faintest idea what “this matter” was, but I was more
+annoyed than interested. I hadn’t asked Jordan to tea in order to
+discuss Mr. Jay Gatsby. I was sure the request would be something
+utterly fantastic, and for a moment I was sorry I’d ever set foot upon
+his overpopulated lawn.
+
+He wouldn’t say another word. His correctness grew on him as we neared
+the city. We passed Port Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse of
+red-belted oceangoing ships, and sped along a cobbled slum lined with
+the dark, undeserted saloons of the faded-gilt nineteen-hundreds.
+Then the valley of ashes opened out on both sides of us, and I had a
+glimpse of Mrs. Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting
+vitality as we went by.
+
+With fenders spread like wings we scattered light through half
+Astoria—only half, for as we twisted among the pillars of the elevated
+I heard the familiar “jug-jug-spat!” of a motorcycle, and a frantic
+policeman rode alongside.
+
+“All right, old sport,” called Gatsby. We slowed down. Taking a white
+card from his wallet, he waved it before the man’s eyes.
+
+“Right you are,” agreed the policeman, tipping his cap. “Know you next
+time, Mr. Gatsby. Excuse me!”
+
+“What was that?” I inquired. “The picture of Oxford?”
+
+“I was able to do the commissioner a favour once, and he sends me a
+Christmas card every year.”
+
+Over the great bridge, with the sunlight through the girders making a
+constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across
+the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wish out of
+nonolfactory money. The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always
+the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the
+mystery and the beauty in the world.
+
+A dead man passed us in a hearse heaped with blooms, followed by two
+carriages with drawn blinds, and by more cheerful carriages for
+friends. The friends looked out at us with the tragic eyes and short
+upper lips of southeastern Europe, and I was glad that the sight of
+Gatsby’s splendid car was included in their sombre holiday. As we
+crossed Blackwell’s Island a limousine passed us, driven by a white
+chauffeur, in which sat three modish negroes, two bucks and a girl. I
+laughed aloud as the yolks of their eyeballs rolled toward us in
+haughty rivalry.
+
+“Anything can happen now that we’ve slid over this bridge,” I thought;
+“anything at all …”
+
+Even Gatsby could happen, without any particular wonder.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+Roaring noon. In a well-fanned Forty-second Street cellar I met Gatsby
+for lunch. Blinking away the brightness of the street outside, my eyes
+picked him out obscurely in the anteroom, talking to another man.
+
+“Mr. Carraway, this is my friend Mr. Wolfshiem.”
+
+A small, flat-nosed Jew raised his large head and regarded me with two
+fine growths of hair which luxuriated in either nostril. After a
+moment I discovered his tiny eyes in the half-darkness.
+
+“—So I took one look at him,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, shaking my hand
+earnestly, “and what do you think I did?”
+
+“What?” I inquired politely.
+
+But evidently he was not addressing me, for he dropped my hand and
+covered Gatsby with his expressive nose.
+
+“I handed the money to Katspaugh and I said: ‘All right, Katspaugh,
+don’t pay him a penny till he shuts his mouth.’ He shut it then and
+there.”
+
+Gatsby took an arm of each of us and moved forward into the
+restaurant, whereupon Mr. Wolfshiem swallowed a new sentence he was
+starting and lapsed into a somnambulatory abstraction.
+
+“Highballs?” asked the head waiter.
+
+“This is a nice restaurant here,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, looking at the
+presbyterian nymphs on the ceiling. “But I like across the street
+better!”
+
+“Yes, highballs,” agreed Gatsby, and then to Mr. Wolfshiem: “It’s too
+hot over there.”
+
+“Hot and small—yes,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “but full of memories.”
+
+“What place is that?” I asked.
+
+“The old Metropole.”
+
+“The old Metropole,” brooded Mr. Wolfshiem gloomily. “Filled with
+faces dead and gone. Filled with friends gone now forever. I can’t
+forget so long as I live the night they shot Rosy Rosenthal there. It
+was six of us at the table, and Rosy had eat and drunk a lot all
+evening. When it was almost morning the waiter came up to him with a
+funny look and says somebody wants to speak to him outside. ‘All
+right,’ says Rosy, and begins to get up, and I pulled him down in his
+chair.
+
+“ ‘Let the bastards come in here if they want you, Rosy, but don’t
+you, so help me, move outside this room.’
+
+“It was four o’clock in the morning then, and if we’d of raised the
+blinds we’d of seen daylight.”
+
+“Did he go?” I asked innocently.
+
+“Sure he went.” Mr. Wolfshiem’s nose flashed at me indignantly. “He
+turned around in the door and says: ‘Don’t let that waiter take away
+my coffee!’ Then he went out on the sidewalk, and they shot him three
+times in his full belly and drove away.”
+
+“Four of them were electrocuted,” I said, remembering.
+
+“Five, with Becker.” His nostrils turned to me in an interested way.
+“I understand you’re looking for a business gonnegtion.”
+
+The juxtaposition of these two remarks was startling. Gatsby answered
+for me:
+
+“Oh, no,” he exclaimed, “this isn’t the man.”
+
+“No?” Mr. Wolfshiem seemed disappointed.
+
+“This is just a friend. I told you we’d talk about that some other
+time.”
+
+“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “I had a wrong man.”
+
+A succulent hash arrived, and Mr. Wolfshiem, forgetting the more
+sentimental atmosphere of the old Metropole, began to eat with
+ferocious delicacy. His eyes, meanwhile, roved very slowly all around
+the room—he completed the arc by turning to inspect the people
+directly behind. I think that, except for my presence, he would have
+taken one short glance beneath our own table.
+
+“Look here, old sport,” said Gatsby, leaning toward me, “I’m afraid I
+made you a little angry this morning in the car.”
+
+There was the smile again, but this time I held out against it.
+
+“I don’t like mysteries,” I answered, “and I don’t understand why you
+won’t come out frankly and tell me what you want. Why has it all got
+to come through Miss Baker?”
+
+“Oh, it’s nothing underhand,” he assured me. “Miss Baker’s a great
+sportswoman, you know, and she’d never do anything that wasn’t all
+right.”
+
+Suddenly he looked at his watch, jumped up, and hurried from the room,
+leaving me with Mr. Wolfshiem at the table.
+
+“He has to telephone,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, following him with his
+eyes. “Fine fellow, isn’t he? Handsome to look at and a perfect
+gentleman.”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“He’s an Oggsford man.”
+
+“Oh!”
+
+“He went to Oggsford College in England. You know Oggsford College?”
+
+“I’ve heard of it.”
+
+“It’s one of the most famous colleges in the world.”
+
+“Have you known Gatsby for a long time?” I inquired.
+
+“Several years,” he answered in a gratified way. “I made the pleasure
+of his acquaintance just after the war. But I knew I had discovered a
+man of fine breeding after I talked with him an hour. I said to
+myself: ‘There’s the kind of man you’d like to take home and introduce
+to your mother and sister.’ ” He paused. “I see you’re looking at my
+cuff buttons.”
+
+I hadn’t been looking at them, but I did now. They were composed of
+oddly familiar pieces of ivory.
+
+“Finest specimens of human molars,” he informed me.
+
+“Well!” I inspected them. “That’s a very interesting idea.”
+
+“Yeah.” He flipped his sleeves up under his coat. “Yeah, Gatsby’s very
+careful about women. He would never so much as look at a friend’s
+wife.”
+
+When the subject of this instinctive trust returned to the table and
+sat down Mr. Wolfshiem drank his coffee with a jerk and got to his
+feet.
+
+“I have enjoyed my lunch,” he said, “and I’m going to run off from you
+two young men before I outstay my welcome.”
+
+“Don’t hurry Meyer,” said Gatsby, without enthusiasm. Mr. Wolfshiem
+raised his hand in a sort of benediction.
+
+“You’re very polite, but I belong to another generation,” he announced
+solemnly. “You sit here and discuss your sports and your young ladies
+and your—” He supplied an imaginary noun with another wave of his
+hand. “As for me, I am fifty years old, and I won’t impose myself on
+you any longer.”
+
+As he shook hands and turned away his tragic nose was trembling. I
+wondered if I had said anything to offend him.
+
+“He becomes very sentimental sometimes,” explained Gatsby. “This is
+one of his sentimental days. He’s quite a character around New York—a
+denizen of Broadway.”
+
+“Who is he, anyhow, an actor?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“A dentist?”
+
+“Meyer Wolfshiem? No, he’s a gambler.” Gatsby hesitated, then added,
+coolly: “He’s the man who fixed the World’s Series back in 1919.”
+
+“Fixed the World’s Series?” I repeated.
+
+The idea staggered me. I remembered, of course, that the World’s
+Series had been fixed in 1919, but if I had thought of it at all I
+would have thought of it as a thing that merely happened, the end of
+some inevitable chain. It never occurred to me that one man could
+start to play with the faith of fifty million people—with the
+single-mindedness of a burglar blowing a safe.
+
+“How did he happen to do that?” I asked after a minute.
+
+“He just saw the opportunity.”
+
+“Why isn’t he in jail?”
+
+“They can’t get him, old sport. He’s a smart man.”
+
+I insisted on paying the check. As the waiter brought my change I
+caught sight of Tom Buchanan across the crowded room.
+
+“Come along with me for a minute,” I said; “I’ve got to say hello to
+someone.”
+
+When he saw us Tom jumped up and took half a dozen steps in our
+direction.
+
+“Where’ve you been?” he demanded eagerly. “Daisy’s furious because you
+haven’t called up.”
+
+“This is Mr. Gatsby, Mr. Buchanan.”
+
+They shook hands briefly, and a strained, unfamiliar look of
+embarrassment came over Gatsby’s face.
+
+“How’ve you been, anyhow?” demanded Tom of me. “How’d you happen to
+come up this far to eat?”
+
+“I’ve been having lunch with Mr. Gatsby.”
+
+I turned toward Mr. Gatsby, but he was no longer there.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+One October day in nineteen-seventeen—
+
+(said Jordan Baker that afternoon, sitting up very straight on a
+straight chair in the tea-garden at the Plaza Hotel)
+
+—I was walking along from one place to another, half on the sidewalks
+and half on the lawns. I was happier on the lawns because I had on
+shoes from England with rubber knobs on the soles that bit into the
+soft ground. I had on a new plaid skirt also that blew a little in the
+wind, and whenever this happened the red, white, and blue banners in
+front of all the houses stretched out stiff and said tut-tut-tut-tut,
+in a disapproving way.
+
+The largest of the banners and the largest of the lawns belonged to
+Daisy Fay’s house. She was just eighteen, two years older than me, and
+by far the most popular of all the young girls in Louisville. She
+dressed in white, and had a little white roadster, and all day long
+the telephone rang in her house and excited young officers from Camp
+Taylor demanded the privilege of monopolizing her that
+night. “Anyways, for an hour!”
+
+When I came opposite her house that morning her white roadster was
+beside the kerb, and she was sitting in it with a lieutenant I had
+never seen before. They were so engrossed in each other that she
+didn’t see me until I was five feet away.
+
+“Hello, Jordan,” she called unexpectedly. “Please come here.”
+
+I was flattered that she wanted to speak to me, because of all the
+older girls I admired her most. She asked me if I was going to the Red
+Cross to make bandages. I was. Well, then, would I tell them that she
+couldn’t come that day? The officer looked at Daisy while she was
+speaking, in a way that every young girl wants to be looked at
+sometime, and because it seemed romantic to me I have remembered the
+incident ever since. His name was Jay Gatsby, and I didn’t lay eyes on
+him again for over four years—even after I’d met him on Long Island I
+didn’t realize it was the same man.
+
+That was nineteen-seventeen. By the next year I had a few beaux
+myself, and I began to play in tournaments, so I didn’t see Daisy very
+often. She went with a slightly older crowd—when she went with anyone
+at all. Wild rumours were circulating about her—how her mother had
+found her packing her bag one winter night to go to New York and say
+goodbye to a soldier who was going overseas. She was effectually
+prevented, but she wasn’t on speaking terms with her family for
+several weeks. After that she didn’t play around with the soldiers any
+more, but only with a few flat-footed, shortsighted young men in town,
+who couldn’t get into the army at all.
+
+By the next autumn she was gay again, gay as ever. She had a début
+after the armistice, and in February she was presumably engaged to a
+man from New Orleans. In June she married Tom Buchanan of Chicago,
+with more pomp and circumstance than Louisville ever knew before. He
+came down with a hundred people in four private cars, and hired a
+whole floor of the Muhlbach Hotel, and the day before the wedding he
+gave her a string of pearls valued at three hundred and fifty thousand
+dollars.
+
+I was a bridesmaid. I came into her room half an hour before the
+bridal dinner, and found her lying on her bed as lovely as the June
+night in her flowered dress—and as drunk as a monkey. She had a bottle
+of Sauterne in one hand and a letter in the other.
+
+“ ’Gratulate me,” she muttered. “Never had a drink before, but oh how
+I do enjoy it.”
+
+“What’s the matter, Daisy?”
+
+I was scared, I can tell you; I’d never seen a girl like that before.
+
+“Here, dearies.” She groped around in a wastebasket she had with her
+on the bed and pulled out the string of pearls. “Take ’em downstairs
+and give ’em back to whoever they belong to. Tell ’em all Daisy’s
+change’ her mine. Say: ‘Daisy’s change’ her mine!’ ”
+
+She began to cry—she cried and cried. I rushed out and found her
+mother’s maid, and we locked the door and got her into a cold bath.
+She wouldn’t let go of the letter. She took it into the tub with her
+and squeezed it up in a wet ball, and only let me leave it in the
+soap-dish when she saw that it was coming to pieces like snow.
+
+But she didn’t say another word. We gave her spirits of ammonia and
+put ice on her forehead and hooked her back into her dress, and half
+an hour later, when we walked out of the room, the pearls were around
+her neck and the incident was over. Next day at five o’clock she
+married Tom Buchanan without so much as a shiver, and started off on a
+three months’ trip to the South Seas.
+
+I saw them in Santa Barbara when they came back, and I thought I’d
+never seen a girl so mad about her husband. If he left the room for a
+minute she’d look around uneasily, and say: “Where’s Tom gone?” and
+wear the most abstracted expression until she saw him coming in the
+door. She used to sit on the sand with his head in her lap by the
+hour, rubbing her fingers over his eyes and looking at him with
+unfathomable delight. It was touching to see them together—it made you
+laugh in a hushed, fascinated way. That was in August. A week after I
+left Santa Barbara Tom ran into a wagon on the Ventura road one night,
+and ripped a front wheel off his car. The girl who was with him got
+into the papers, too, because her arm was broken—she was one of the
+chambermaids in the Santa Barbara Hotel.
+
+The next April Daisy had her little girl, and they went to France for
+a year. I saw them one spring in Cannes, and later in Deauville, and
+then they came back to Chicago to settle down. Daisy was popular in
+Chicago, as you know. They moved with a fast crowd, all of them young
+and rich and wild, but she came out with an absolutely perfect
+reputation. Perhaps because she doesn’t drink. It’s a great advantage
+not to drink among hard-drinking people. You can hold your tongue and,
+moreover, you can time any little irregularity of your own so that
+everybody else is so blind that they don’t see or care. Perhaps Daisy
+never went in for amour at all—and yet there’s something in that voice
+of hers …
+
+Well, about six weeks ago, she heard the name Gatsby for the first
+time in years. It was when I asked you—do you remember?—if you knew
+Gatsby in West Egg. After you had gone home she came into my room and
+woke me up, and said: “What Gatsby?” and when I described him—I was
+half asleep—she said in the strangest voice that it must be the man
+she used to know. It wasn’t until then that I connected this Gatsby
+with the officer in her white car.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+When Jordan Baker had finished telling all this we had left the Plaza
+for half an hour and were driving in a victoria through Central Park.
+The sun had gone down behind the tall apartments of the movie stars in
+the West Fifties, and the clear voices of children, already gathered
+like crickets on the grass, rose through the hot twilight:
+
+ “I’m the Sheik of Araby. Your love belongs to me. At night when
+ you’re asleep Into your tent I’ll creep—”
+
+“It was a strange coincidence,” I said.
+
+“But it wasn’t a coincidence at all.”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“Gatsby bought that house so that Daisy would be just across the bay.”
+
+Then it had not been merely the stars to which he had aspired on that
+June night. He came alive to me, delivered suddenly from the womb of
+his purposeless splendour.
+
+“He wants to know,” continued Jordan, “if you’ll invite Daisy to your
+house some afternoon and then let him come over.”
+
+The modesty of the demand shook me. He had waited five years and
+bought a mansion where he dispensed starlight to casual moths—so that
+he could “come over” some afternoon to a stranger’s garden.
+
+“Did I have to know all this before he could ask such a little thing?”
+
+“He’s afraid, he’s waited so long. He thought you might be
+offended. You see, he’s regular tough underneath it all.”
+
+Something worried me.
+
+“Why didn’t he ask you to arrange a meeting?”
+
+“He wants her to see his house,” she explained. “And your house is
+right next door.”
+
+“Oh!”
+
+“I think he half expected her to wander into one of his parties, some
+night,” went on Jordan, “but she never did. Then he began asking
+people casually if they knew her, and I was the first one he found. It
+was that night he sent for me at his dance, and you should have heard
+the elaborate way he worked up to it. Of course, I immediately
+suggested a luncheon in New York—and I thought he’d go mad:
+
+“ ‘I don’t want to do anything out of the way!’ he kept saying. ‘I
+want to see her right next door.’
+
+“When I said you were a particular friend of Tom’s, he started to
+abandon the whole idea. He doesn’t know very much about Tom, though he
+says he’s read a Chicago paper for years just on the chance of
+catching a glimpse of Daisy’s name.”
+
+It was dark now, and as we dipped under a little bridge I put my arm
+around Jordan’s golden shoulder and drew her toward me and asked her
+to dinner. Suddenly I wasn’t thinking of Daisy and Gatsby any more,
+but of this clean, hard, limited person, who dealt in universal
+scepticism, and who leaned back jauntily just within the circle of my
+arm. A phrase began to beat in my ears with a sort of heady
+excitement: “There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and
+the tired.”
+
+“And Daisy ought to have something in her life,” murmured Jordan to
+me.
+
+“Does she want to see Gatsby?”
+
+“She’s not to know about it. Gatsby doesn’t want her to know. You’re
+just supposed to invite her to tea.”
+
+We passed a barrier of dark trees, and then the façade of Fifty-Ninth
+Street, a block of delicate pale light, beamed down into the park.
+Unlike Gatsby and Tom Buchanan, I had no girl whose disembodied face
+floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs, and so I drew up
+the girl beside me, tightening my arms. Her wan, scornful mouth
+smiled, and so I drew her up again closer, this time to my face.
+
+
+                                  V
+
+When I came home to West Egg that night I was afraid for a moment that
+my house was on fire. Two o’clock and the whole corner of the
+peninsula was blazing with light, which fell unreal on the shrubbery
+and made thin elongating glints upon the roadside wires. Turning a
+corner, I saw that it was Gatsby’s house, lit from tower to cellar.
+
+At first I thought it was another party, a wild rout that had resolved
+itself into “hide-and-go-seek” or “sardines-in-the-box” with all the
+house thrown open to the game. But there wasn’t a sound. Only wind in
+the trees, which blew the wires and made the lights go off and on
+again as if the house had winked into the darkness. As my taxi groaned
+away I saw Gatsby walking toward me across his lawn.
+
+“Your place looks like the World’s Fair,” I said.
+
+“Does it?” He turned his eyes toward it absently. “I have been
+glancing into some of the rooms. Let’s go to Coney Island, old
+sport. In my car.”
+
+“It’s too late.”
+
+“Well, suppose we take a plunge in the swimming pool? I haven’t made
+use of it all summer.”
+
+“I’ve got to go to bed.”
+
+“All right.”
+
+He waited, looking at me with suppressed eagerness.
+
+“I talked with Miss Baker,” I said after a moment. “I’m going to call
+up Daisy tomorrow and invite her over here to tea.”
+
+“Oh, that’s all right,” he said carelessly. “I don’t want to put you
+to any trouble.”
+
+“What day would suit you?”
+
+“What day would suit you?” he corrected me quickly. “I don’t want to
+put you to any trouble, you see.”
+
+“How about the day after tomorrow?”
+
+He considered for a moment. Then, with reluctance: “I want to get the
+grass cut,” he said.
+
+We both looked down at the grass—there was a sharp line where my
+ragged lawn ended and the darker, well-kept expanse of his began. I
+suspected that he meant my grass.
+
+“There’s another little thing,” he said uncertainly, and hesitated.
+
+“Would you rather put it off for a few days?” I asked.
+
+“Oh, it isn’t about that. At least—” He fumbled with a series of
+beginnings. “Why, I thought—why, look here, old sport, you don’t make
+much money, do you?”
+
+“Not very much.”
+
+This seemed to reassure him and he continued more confidently.
+
+“I thought you didn’t, if you’ll pardon my—you see, I carry on a
+little business on the side, a sort of side line, you understand. And
+I thought that if you don’t make very much—You’re selling bonds,
+aren’t you, old sport?”
+
+“Trying to.”
+
+“Well, this would interest you. It wouldn’t take up much of your time
+and you might pick up a nice bit of money. It happens to be a rather
+confidential sort of thing.”
+
+I realize now that under different circumstances that conversation
+might have been one of the crises of my life. But, because the offer
+was obviously and tactlessly for a service to be rendered, I had no
+choice except to cut him off there.
+
+“I’ve got my hands full,” I said. “I’m much obliged but I couldn’t
+take on any more work.”
+
+“You wouldn’t have to do any business with Wolfshiem.” Evidently he
+thought that I was shying away from the “gonnegtion” mentioned at
+lunch, but I assured him he was wrong. He waited a moment longer,
+hoping I’d begin a conversation, but I was too absorbed to be
+responsive, so he went unwillingly home.
+
+The evening had made me lightheaded and happy; I think I walked into a
+deep sleep as I entered my front door. So I don’t know whether or not
+Gatsby went to Coney Island, or for how many hours he “glanced into
+rooms” while his house blazed gaudily on. I called up Daisy from the
+office next morning, and invited her to come to tea.
+
+“Don’t bring Tom,” I warned her.
+
+“What?”
+
+“Don’t bring Tom.”
+
+“Who is ‘Tom’?” she asked innocently.
+
+The day agreed upon was pouring rain. At eleven o’clock a man in a
+raincoat, dragging a lawn-mower, tapped at my front door and said that
+Mr. Gatsby had sent him over to cut my grass. This reminded me that I
+had forgotten to tell my Finn to come back, so I drove into West Egg
+Village to search for her among soggy whitewashed alleys and to buy
+some cups and lemons and flowers.
+
+The flowers were unnecessary, for at two o’clock a greenhouse arrived
+from Gatsby’s, with innumerable receptacles to contain it. An hour
+later the front door opened nervously, and Gatsby in a white flannel
+suit, silver shirt, and gold-coloured tie, hurried in. He was pale,
+and there were dark signs of sleeplessness beneath his eyes.
+
+“Is everything all right?” he asked immediately.
+
+“The grass looks fine, if that’s what you mean.”
+
+“What grass?” he inquired blankly. “Oh, the grass in the yard.” He
+looked out the window at it, but, judging from his expression, I don’t
+believe he saw a thing.
+
+“Looks very good,” he remarked vaguely. “One of the papers said they
+thought the rain would stop about four. I think it was The
+Journal. Have you got everything you need in the shape of—of tea?”
+
+I took him into the pantry, where he looked a little reproachfully at
+the Finn. Together we scrutinized the twelve lemon cakes from the
+delicatessen shop.
+
+“Will they do?” I asked.
+
+“Of course, of course! They’re fine!” and he added hollowly, “… old
+sport.”
+
+The rain cooled about half-past three to a damp mist, through which
+occasional thin drops swam like dew. Gatsby looked with vacant eyes
+through a copy of Clay’s Economics, starting at the Finnish tread that
+shook the kitchen floor, and peering towards the bleared windows from
+time to time as if a series of invisible but alarming happenings were
+taking place outside. Finally he got up and informed me, in an
+uncertain voice, that he was going home.
+
+“Why’s that?”
+
+“Nobody’s coming to tea. It’s too late!” He looked at his watch as if
+there was some pressing demand on his time elsewhere. “I can’t wait
+all day.”
+
+“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.”
+
+He sat down miserably, as if I had pushed him, and simultaneously
+there was the sound of a motor turning into my lane. We both jumped
+up, and, a little harrowed myself, I went out into the yard.
+
+Under the dripping bare lilac-trees a large open car was coming up the
+drive. It stopped. Daisy’s face, tipped sideways beneath a
+three-cornered lavender hat, looked out at me with a bright ecstatic
+smile.
+
+“Is this absolutely where you live, my dearest one?”
+
+The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain. I
+had to follow the sound of it for a moment, up and down, with my ear
+alone, before any words came through. A damp streak of hair lay like a
+dash of blue paint across her cheek, and her hand was wet with
+glistening drops as I took it to help her from the car.
+
+“Are you in love with me,” she said low in my ear, “or why did I have
+to come alone?”
+
+“That’s the secret of Castle Rackrent. Tell your chauffeur to go far
+away and spend an hour.”
+
+“Come back in an hour, Ferdie.” Then in a grave murmur: “His name is
+Ferdie.”
+
+“Does the gasoline affect his nose?”
+
+“I don’t think so,” she said innocently. “Why?”
+
+We went in. To my overwhelming surprise the living-room was deserted.
+
+“Well, that’s funny,” I exclaimed.
+
+“What’s funny?”
+
+She turned her head as there was a light dignified knocking at the
+front door. I went out and opened it. Gatsby, pale as death, with his
+hands plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was standing in a
+puddle of water glaring tragically into my eyes.
+
+With his hands still in his coat pockets he stalked by me into the
+hall, turned sharply as if he were on a wire, and disappeared into the
+living-room. It wasn’t a bit funny. Aware of the loud beating of my
+own heart I pulled the door to against the increasing rain.
+
+For half a minute there wasn’t a sound. Then from the living-room I
+heard a sort of choking murmur and part of a laugh, followed by
+Daisy’s voice on a clear artificial note:
+
+“I certainly am awfully glad to see you again.”
+
+A pause; it endured horribly. I had nothing to do in the hall, so I
+went into the room.
+
+Gatsby, his hands still in his pockets, was reclining against the
+mantelpiece in a strained counterfeit of perfect ease, even of
+boredom. His head leaned back so far that it rested against the face
+of a defunct mantelpiece clock, and from this position his distraught
+eyes stared down at Daisy, who was sitting, frightened but graceful,
+on the edge of a stiff chair.
+
+“We’ve met before,” muttered Gatsby. His eyes glanced momentarily at
+me, and his lips parted with an abortive attempt at a laugh. Luckily
+the clock took this moment to tilt dangerously at the pressure of his
+head, whereupon he turned and caught it with trembling fingers, and
+set it back in place. Then he sat down, rigidly, his elbow on the arm
+of the sofa and his chin in his hand.
+
+“I’m sorry about the clock,” he said.
+
+My own face had now assumed a deep tropical burn. I couldn’t muster up
+a single commonplace out of the thousand in my head.
+
+“It’s an old clock,” I told them idiotically.
+
+I think we all believed for a moment that it had smashed in pieces on
+the floor.
+
+“We haven’t met for many years,” said Daisy, her voice as
+matter-of-fact as it could ever be.
+
+“Five years next November.”
+
+The automatic quality of Gatsby’s answer set us all back at least
+another minute. I had them both on their feet with the desperate
+suggestion that they help me make tea in the kitchen when the demoniac
+Finn brought it in on a tray.
+
+Amid the welcome confusion of cups and cakes a certain physical
+decency established itself. Gatsby got himself into a shadow and,
+while Daisy and I talked, looked conscientiously from one to the other
+of us with tense, unhappy eyes. However, as calmness wasn’t an end in
+itself, I made an excuse at the first possible moment, and got to my
+feet.
+
+“Where are you going?” demanded Gatsby in immediate alarm.
+
+“I’ll be back.”
+
+“I’ve got to speak to you about something before you go.”
+
+He followed me wildly into the kitchen, closed the door, and
+whispered: “Oh, God!” in a miserable way.
+
+“What’s the matter?”
+
+“This is a terrible mistake,” he said, shaking his head from side to
+side, “a terrible, terrible mistake.”
+
+“You’re just embarrassed, that’s all,” and luckily I added: “Daisy’s
+embarrassed too.”
+
+“She’s embarrassed?” he repeated incredulously.
+
+“Just as much as you are.”
+
+“Don’t talk so loud.”
+
+“You’re acting like a little boy,” I broke out impatiently. “Not only
+that, but you’re rude. Daisy’s sitting in there all alone.”
+
+He raised his hand to stop my words, looked at me with unforgettable
+reproach, and, opening the door cautiously, went back into the other
+room.
+
+I walked out the back way—just as Gatsby had when he had made his
+nervous circuit of the house half an hour before—and ran for a huge
+black knotted tree, whose massed leaves made a fabric against the
+rain. Once more it was pouring, and my irregular lawn, well-shaved by
+Gatsby’s gardener, abounded in small muddy swamps and prehistoric
+marshes. There was nothing to look at from under the tree except
+Gatsby’s enormous house, so I stared at it, like Kant at his church
+steeple, for half an hour. A brewer had built it early in the “period”
+craze, a decade before, and there was a story that he’d agreed to pay
+five years’ taxes on all the neighbouring cottages if the owners would
+have their roofs thatched with straw. Perhaps their refusal took the
+heart out of his plan to Found a Family—he went into an immediate
+decline. His children sold his house with the black wreath still on
+the door. Americans, while willing, even eager, to be serfs, have
+always been obstinate about being peasantry.
+
+After half an hour, the sun shone again, and the grocer’s automobile
+rounded Gatsby’s drive with the raw material for his servants’
+dinner—I felt sure he wouldn’t eat a spoonful. A maid began opening
+the upper windows of his house, appeared momentarily in each, and,
+leaning from the large central bay, spat meditatively into the
+garden. It was time I went back. While the rain continued it had
+seemed like the murmur of their voices, rising and swelling a little
+now and then with gusts of emotion. But in the new silence I felt that
+silence had fallen within the house too.
+
+I went in—after making every possible noise in the kitchen, short of
+pushing over the stove—but I don’t believe they heard a sound. They
+were sitting at either end of the couch, looking at each other as if
+some question had been asked, or was in the air, and every vestige of
+embarrassment was gone. Daisy’s face was smeared with tears, and when
+I came in she jumped up and began wiping at it with her handkerchief
+before a mirror. But there was a change in Gatsby that was simply
+confounding. He literally glowed; without a word or a gesture of
+exultation a new well-being radiated from him and filled the little
+room.
+
+“Oh, hello, old sport,” he said, as if he hadn’t seen me for years. I
+thought for a moment he was going to shake hands.
+
+“It’s stopped raining.”
+
+“Has it?” When he realized what I was talking about, that there were
+twinkle-bells of sunshine in the room, he smiled like a weather man,
+like an ecstatic patron of recurrent light, and repeated the news to
+Daisy. “What do you think of that? It’s stopped raining.”
+
+“I’m glad, Jay.” Her throat, full of aching, grieving beauty, told
+only of her unexpected joy.
+
+“I want you and Daisy to come over to my house,” he said, “I’d like to
+show her around.”
+
+“You’re sure you want me to come?”
+
+“Absolutely, old sport.”
+
+Daisy went upstairs to wash her face—too late I thought with
+humiliation of my towels—while Gatsby and I waited on the lawn.
+
+“My house looks well, doesn’t it?” he demanded. “See how the whole
+front of it catches the light.”
+
+I agreed that it was splendid.
+
+“Yes.” His eyes went over it, every arched door and square tower. “It
+took me just three years to earn the money that bought it.”
+
+“I thought you inherited your money.”
+
+“I did, old sport,” he said automatically, “but I lost most of it in
+the big panic—the panic of the war.”
+
+I think he hardly knew what he was saying, for when I asked him what
+business he was in he answered: “That’s my affair,” before he realized
+that it wasn’t an appropriate reply.
+
+“Oh, I’ve been in several things,” he corrected himself. “I was in the
+drug business and then I was in the oil business. But I’m not in
+either one now.” He looked at me with more attention. “Do you mean
+you’ve been thinking over what I proposed the other night?”
+
+Before I could answer, Daisy came out of the house and two rows of
+brass buttons on her dress gleamed in the sunlight.
+
+“That huge place there?” she cried pointing.
+
+“Do you like it?”
+
+“I love it, but I don’t see how you live there all alone.”
+
+“I keep it always full of interesting people, night and day. People
+who do interesting things. Celebrated people.”
+
+Instead of taking the shortcut along the Sound we went down to the
+road and entered by the big postern. With enchanting murmurs Daisy
+admired this aspect or that of the feudal silhouette against the sky,
+admired the gardens, the sparkling odour of jonquils and the frothy
+odour of hawthorn and plum blossoms and the pale gold odour of
+kiss-me-at-the-gate. It was strange to reach the marble steps and find
+no stir of bright dresses in and out the door, and hear no sound but
+bird voices in the trees.
+
+And inside, as we wandered through Marie Antoinette music-rooms and
+Restoration Salons, I felt that there were guests concealed behind
+every couch and table, under orders to be breathlessly silent until we
+had passed through. As Gatsby closed the door of “the Merton College
+Library” I could have sworn I heard the owl-eyed man break into
+ghostly laughter.
+
+We went upstairs, through period bedrooms swathed in rose and lavender
+silk and vivid with new flowers, through dressing-rooms and poolrooms,
+and bathrooms with sunken baths—intruding into one chamber where a
+dishevelled man in pyjamas was doing liver exercises on the floor. It
+was Mr. Klipspringer, the “boarder.” I had seen him wandering hungrily
+about the beach that morning. Finally we came to Gatsby’s own
+apartment, a bedroom and a bath, and an Adam’s study, where we sat
+down and drank a glass of some Chartreuse he took from a cupboard in
+the wall.
+
+He hadn’t once ceased looking at Daisy, and I think he revalued
+everything in his house according to the measure of response it drew
+from her well-loved eyes. Sometimes too, he stared around at his
+possessions in a dazed way, as though in her actual and astounding
+presence none of it was any longer real. Once he nearly toppled down a
+flight of stairs.
+
+His bedroom was the simplest room of all—except where the dresser was
+garnished with a toilet set of pure dull gold. Daisy took the brush
+with delight, and smoothed her hair, whereupon Gatsby sat down and
+shaded his eyes and began to laugh.
+
+“It’s the funniest thing, old sport,” he said hilariously. “I
+can’t—When I try to—”
+
+He had passed visibly through two states and was entering upon a
+third. After his embarrassment and his unreasoning joy he was consumed
+with wonder at her presence. He had been full of the idea so long,
+dreamed it right through to the end, waited with his teeth set, so to
+speak, at an inconceivable pitch of intensity. Now, in the reaction,
+he was running down like an over-wound clock.
+
+Recovering himself in a minute he opened for us two hulking patent
+cabinets which held his massed suits and dressing-gowns and ties, and
+his shirts, piled like bricks in stacks a dozen high.
+
+“I’ve got a man in England who buys me clothes. He sends over a
+selection of things at the beginning of each season, spring and fall.”
+
+He took out a pile of shirts and began throwing them, one by one,
+before us, shirts of sheer linen and thick silk and fine flannel,
+which lost their folds as they fell and covered the table in
+many-coloured disarray. While we admired he brought more and the soft
+rich heap mounted higher—shirts with stripes and scrolls and plaids in
+coral and apple-green and lavender and faint orange, with monograms of
+indian blue. Suddenly, with a strained sound, Daisy bent her head into
+the shirts and began to cry stormily.
+
+“They’re such beautiful shirts,” she sobbed, her voice muffled in the
+thick folds. “It makes me sad because I’ve never seen such—such
+beautiful shirts before.”
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+After the house, we were to see the grounds and the swimming pool, and
+the hydroplane, and the midsummer flowers—but outside Gatsby’s window
+it began to rain again, so we stood in a row looking at the corrugated
+surface of the Sound.
+
+“If it wasn’t for the mist we could see your home across the bay,”
+said Gatsby. “You always have a green light that burns all night at
+the end of your dock.”
+
+Daisy put her arm through his abruptly, but he seemed absorbed in what
+he had just said. Possibly it had occurred to him that the colossal
+significance of that light had now vanished forever. Compared to the
+great distance that had separated him from Daisy it had seemed very
+near to her, almost touching her. It had seemed as close as a star to
+the moon. Now it was again a green light on a dock. His count of
+enchanted objects had diminished by one.
+
+I began to walk about the room, examining various indefinite objects
+in the half darkness. A large photograph of an elderly man in yachting
+costume attracted me, hung on the wall over his desk.
+
+“Who’s this?”
+
+“That? That’s Mr. Dan Cody, old sport.”
+
+The name sounded faintly familiar.
+
+“He’s dead now. He used to be my best friend years ago.”
+
+There was a small picture of Gatsby, also in yachting costume, on the
+bureau—Gatsby with his head thrown back defiantly—taken apparently
+when he was about eighteen.
+
+“I adore it,” exclaimed Daisy. “The pompadour! You never told me you
+had a pompadour—or a yacht.”
+
+“Look at this,” said Gatsby quickly. “Here’s a lot of clippings—about
+you.”
+
+They stood side by side examining it. I was going to ask to see the
+rubies when the phone rang, and Gatsby took up the receiver.
+
+“Yes … Well, I can’t talk now … I can’t talk now, old sport … I said a
+small town … He must know what a small town is … Well, he’s no use to
+us if Detroit is his idea of a small town …”
+
+He rang off.
+
+“Come here quick!” cried Daisy at the window.
+
+The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west,
+and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea.
+
+“Look at that,” she whispered, and then after a moment: “I’d like to
+just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you
+around.”
+
+I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence
+made them feel more satisfactorily alone.
+
+“I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer play the
+piano.”
+
+He went out of the room calling “Ewing!” and returned in a few minutes
+accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with
+shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently
+clothed in a “sport shirt,” open at the neck, sneakers, and duck
+trousers of a nebulous hue.
+
+“Did we interrupt your exercise?” inquired Daisy politely.
+
+“I was asleep,” cried Mr. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment.
+“That is, I’d been asleep. Then I got up …”
+
+“Klipspringer plays the piano,” said Gatsby, cutting him off. “Don’t
+you, Ewing, old sport?”
+
+“I don’t play well. I don’t—hardly play at all. I’m all out of prac—”
+
+“We’ll go downstairs,” interrupted Gatsby. He flipped a switch. The
+grey windows disappeared as the house glowed full of light.
+
+In the music-room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside the piano.
+He lit Daisy’s cigarette from a trembling match, and sat down with her
+on a couch far across the room, where there was no light save what the
+gleaming floor bounced in from the hall.
+
+When Klipspringer had played “The Love Nest” he turned around on the
+bench and searched unhappily for Gatsby in the gloom.
+
+“I’m all out of practice, you see. I told you I couldn’t play. I’m all
+out of prac—”
+
+“Don’t talk so much, old sport,” commanded Gatsby. “Play!”
+
+ “In the morning, In the evening, Ain’t we got fun—”
+
+Outside the wind was loud and there was a faint flow of thunder along
+the Sound. All the lights were going on in West Egg now; the electric
+trains, men-carrying, were plunging home through the rain from New
+York. It was the hour of a profound human change, and excitement was
+generating on the air.
+
+ “One thing’s sure and nothing’s surer The rich get richer and the
+ poor get—children. In the meantime, In between time—”
+
+As I went over to say goodbye I saw that the expression of
+bewilderment had come back into Gatsby’s face, as though a faint doubt
+had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost
+five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when
+Daisy tumbled short of his dreams—not through her own fault, but
+because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond
+her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative
+passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright
+feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can
+challenge what a man can store up in his ghostly heart.
+
+As I watched him he adjusted himself a little, visibly. His hand took
+hold of hers, and as she said something low in his ear he turned
+toward her with a rush of emotion. I think that voice held him most,
+with its fluctuating, feverish warmth, because it couldn’t be
+over-dreamed—that voice was a deathless song.
+
+They had forgotten me, but Daisy glanced up and held out her hand;
+Gatsby didn’t know me now at all. I looked once more at them and they
+looked back at me, remotely, possessed by intense life. Then I went
+out of the room and down the marble steps into the rain, leaving them
+there together.
+
+
+                                  VI
+
+About this time an ambitious young reporter from New York arrived one
+morning at Gatsby’s door and asked him if he had anything to say.
+
+“Anything to say about what?” inquired Gatsby politely.
+
+“Why—any statement to give out.”
+
+It transpired after a confused five minutes that the man had heard
+Gatsby’s name around his office in a connection which he either
+wouldn’t reveal or didn’t fully understand. This was his day off and
+with laudable initiative he had hurried out “to see.”
+
+It was a random shot, and yet the reporter’s instinct was right.
+Gatsby’s notoriety, spread about by the hundreds who had accepted his
+hospitality and so become authorities upon his past, had increased all
+summer until he fell just short of being news. Contemporary legends
+such as the “underground pipeline to Canada” attached themselves to
+him, and there was one persistent story that he didn’t live in a house
+at all, but in a boat that looked like a house and was moved secretly
+up and down the Long Island shore. Just why these inventions were a
+source of satisfaction to James Gatz of North Dakota, isn’t easy to
+say.
+
+James Gatz—that was really, or at least legally, his name. He had
+changed it at the age of seventeen and at the specific moment that
+witnessed the beginning of his career—when he saw Dan Cody’s yacht
+drop anchor over the most insidious flat on Lake Superior. It was
+James Gatz who had been loafing along the beach that afternoon in a
+torn green jersey and a pair of canvas pants, but it was already Jay
+Gatsby who borrowed a rowboat, pulled out to the Tuolomee, and
+informed Cody that a wind might catch him and break him up in half an
+hour.
+
+I suppose he’d had the name ready for a long time, even then. His
+parents were shiftless and unsuccessful farm people—his imagination
+had never really accepted them as his parents at all. The truth was
+that Jay Gatsby of West Egg, Long Island, sprang from his Platonic
+conception of himself. He was a son of God—a phrase which, if it means
+anything, means just that—and he must be about His Father’s business,
+the service of a vast, vulgar, and meretricious beauty. So he invented
+just the sort of Jay Gatsby that a seventeen-year-old boy would be
+likely to invent, and to this conception he was faithful to the end.
+
+For over a year he had been beating his way along the south shore of
+Lake Superior as a clam-digger and a salmon-fisher or in any other
+capacity that brought him food and bed. His brown, hardening body
+lived naturally through the half-fierce, half-lazy work of the bracing
+days. He knew women early, and since they spoiled him he became
+contemptuous of them, of young virgins because they were ignorant, of
+the others because they were hysterical about things which in his
+overwhelming self-absorption he took for granted.
+
+But his heart was in a constant, turbulent riot. The most grotesque
+and fantastic conceits haunted him in his bed at night. A universe of
+ineffable gaudiness spun itself out in his brain while the clock
+ticked on the washstand and the moon soaked with wet light his tangled
+clothes upon the floor. Each night he added to the pattern of his
+fancies until drowsiness closed down upon some vivid scene with an
+oblivious embrace. For a while these reveries provided an outlet for
+his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of
+reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on
+a fairy’s wing.
+
+An instinct toward his future glory had led him, some months before,
+to the small Lutheran College of St. Olaf’s in southern Minnesota. He
+stayed there two weeks, dismayed at its ferocious indifference to the
+drums of his destiny, to destiny itself, and despising the janitor’s
+work with which he was to pay his way through. Then he drifted back to
+Lake Superior, and he was still searching for something to do on the
+day that Dan Cody’s yacht dropped anchor in the shallows alongshore.
+
+Cody was fifty years old then, a product of the Nevada silver fields,
+of the Yukon, of every rush for metal since seventy-five. The
+transactions in Montana copper that made him many times a millionaire
+found him physically robust but on the verge of soft-mindedness, and,
+suspecting this, an infinite number of women tried to separate him
+from his money. The none too savoury ramifications by which Ella Kaye,
+the newspaper woman, played Madame de Maintenon to his weakness and
+sent him to sea in a yacht, were common property of the turgid
+journalism in 1902. He had been coasting along all too hospitable
+shores for five years when he turned up as James Gatz’s destiny in
+Little Girl Bay.
+
+To young Gatz, resting on his oars and looking up at the railed deck,
+that yacht represented all the beauty and glamour in the world. I
+suppose he smiled at Cody—he had probably discovered that people liked
+him when he smiled. At any rate Cody asked him a few questions (one of
+them elicited the brand new name) and found that he was quick and
+extravagantly ambitious. A few days later he took him to Duluth and
+bought him a blue coat, six pairs of white duck trousers, and a
+yachting cap. And when the Tuolomee left for the West Indies and the
+Barbary Coast, Gatsby left too.
+
+He was employed in a vague personal capacity—while he remained with
+Cody he was in turn steward, mate, skipper, secretary, and even
+jailor, for Dan Cody sober knew what lavish doings Dan Cody drunk
+might soon be about, and he provided for such contingencies by
+reposing more and more trust in Gatsby. The arrangement lasted five
+years, during which the boat went three times around the Continent.
+It might have lasted indefinitely except for the fact that Ella Kaye
+came on board one night in Boston and a week later Dan Cody
+inhospitably died.
+
+I remember the portrait of him up in Gatsby’s bedroom, a grey, florid
+man with a hard, empty face—the pioneer debauchee, who during one
+phase of American life brought back to the Eastern seaboard the savage
+violence of the frontier brothel and saloon. It was indirectly due to
+Cody that Gatsby drank so little. Sometimes in the course of gay
+parties women used to rub champagne into his hair; for himself he
+formed the habit of letting liquor alone.
+
+And it was from Cody that he inherited money—a legacy of twenty-five
+thousand dollars. He didn’t get it. He never understood the legal
+device that was used against him, but what remained of the millions
+went intact to Ella Kaye. He was left with his singularly appropriate
+education; the vague contour of Jay Gatsby had filled out to the
+substantiality of a man.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+He told me all this very much later, but I’ve put it down here with
+the idea of exploding those first wild rumours about his antecedents,
+which weren’t even faintly true. Moreover he told it to me at a time
+of confusion, when I had reached the point of believing everything and
+nothing about him. So I take advantage of this short halt, while
+Gatsby, so to speak, caught his breath, to clear this set of
+misconceptions away.
+
+It was a halt, too, in my association with his affairs. For several
+weeks I didn’t see him or hear his voice on the phone—mostly I was in
+New York, trotting around with Jordan and trying to ingratiate myself
+with her senile aunt—but finally I went over to his house one Sunday
+afternoon. I hadn’t been there two minutes when somebody brought Tom
+Buchanan in for a drink. I was startled, naturally, but the really
+surprising thing was that it hadn’t happened before.
+
+They were a party of three on horseback—Tom and a man named Sloane and
+a pretty woman in a brown riding-habit, who had been there previously.
+
+“I’m delighted to see you,” said Gatsby, standing on his porch. “I’m
+delighted that you dropped in.”
+
+As though they cared!
+
+“Sit right down. Have a cigarette or a cigar.” He walked around the
+room quickly, ringing bells. “I’ll have something to drink for you in
+just a minute.”
+
+He was profoundly affected by the fact that Tom was there. But he
+would be uneasy anyhow until he had given them something, realizing in
+a vague way that that was all they came for. Mr. Sloane wanted
+nothing. A lemonade? No, thanks. A little champagne? Nothing at all,
+thanks … I’m sorry—
+
+“Did you have a nice ride?”
+
+“Very good roads around here.”
+
+“I suppose the automobiles—”
+
+“Yeah.”
+
+Moved by an irresistible impulse, Gatsby turned to Tom, who had
+accepted the introduction as a stranger.
+
+“I believe we’ve met somewhere before, Mr. Buchanan.”
+
+“Oh, yes,” said Tom, gruffly polite, but obviously not remembering.
+“So we did. I remember very well.”
+
+“About two weeks ago.”
+
+“That’s right. You were with Nick here.”
+
+“I know your wife,” continued Gatsby, almost aggressively.
+
+“That so?”
+
+Tom turned to me.
+
+“You live near here, Nick?”
+
+“Next door.”
+
+“That so?”
+
+Mr. Sloane didn’t enter into the conversation, but lounged back
+haughtily in his chair; the woman said nothing either—until
+unexpectedly, after two highballs, she became cordial.
+
+“We’ll all come over to your next party, Mr. Gatsby,” she suggested.
+“What do you say?”
+
+“Certainly; I’d be delighted to have you.”
+
+“Be ver’ nice,” said Mr. Sloane, without gratitude. “Well—think ought
+to be starting home.”
+
+“Please don’t hurry,” Gatsby urged them. He had control of himself
+now, and he wanted to see more of Tom. “Why don’t you—why don’t you
+stay for supper? I wouldn’t be surprised if some other people dropped
+in from New York.”
+
+“You come to supper with me,” said the lady enthusiastically. “Both of
+you.”
+
+This included me. Mr. Sloane got to his feet.
+
+“Come along,” he said—but to her only.
+
+“I mean it,” she insisted. “I’d love to have you. Lots of room.”
+
+Gatsby looked at me questioningly. He wanted to go and he didn’t see
+that Mr. Sloane had determined he shouldn’t.
+
+“I’m afraid I won’t be able to,” I said.
+
+“Well, you come,” she urged, concentrating on Gatsby.
+
+Mr. Sloane murmured something close to her ear.
+
+“We won’t be late if we start now,” she insisted aloud.
+
+“I haven’t got a horse,” said Gatsby. “I used to ride in the army, but
+I’ve never bought a horse. I’ll have to follow you in my car. Excuse
+me for just a minute.”
+
+The rest of us walked out on the porch, where Sloane and the lady
+began an impassioned conversation aside.
+
+“My God, I believe the man’s coming,” said Tom. “Doesn’t he know she
+doesn’t want him?”
+
+“She says she does want him.”
+
+“She has a big dinner party and he won’t know a soul there.” He
+frowned. “I wonder where in the devil he met Daisy. By God, I may be
+old-fashioned in my ideas, but women run around too much these days to
+suit me. They meet all kinds of crazy fish.”
+
+Suddenly Mr. Sloane and the lady walked down the steps and mounted
+their horses.
+
+“Come on,” said Mr. Sloane to Tom, “we’re late. We’ve got to go.”  And
+then to me: “Tell him we couldn’t wait, will you?”
+
+Tom and I shook hands, the rest of us exchanged a cool nod, and they
+trotted quickly down the drive, disappearing under the August foliage
+just as Gatsby, with hat and light overcoat in hand, came out the
+front door.
+
+Tom was evidently perturbed at Daisy’s running around alone, for on
+the following Saturday night he came with her to Gatsby’s
+party. Perhaps his presence gave the evening its peculiar quality of
+oppressiveness—it stands out in my memory from Gatsby’s other parties
+that summer. There were the same people, or at least the same sort of
+people, the same profusion of champagne, the same many-coloured,
+many-keyed commotion, but I felt an unpleasantness in the air, a
+pervading harshness that hadn’t been there before. Or perhaps I had
+merely grown used to it, grown to accept West Egg as a world complete
+in itself, with its own standards and its own great figures, second to
+nothing because it had no consciousness of being so, and now I was
+looking at it again, through Daisy’s eyes. It is invariably saddening
+to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your
+own powers of adjustment.
+
+They arrived at twilight, and, as we strolled out among the sparkling
+hundreds, Daisy’s voice was playing murmurous tricks in her throat.
+
+“These things excite me so,” she whispered. “If you want to kiss me
+any time during the evening, Nick, just let me know and I’ll be glad
+to arrange it for you. Just mention my name. Or present a green card.
+I’m giving out green—”
+
+“Look around,” suggested Gatsby.
+
+“I’m looking around. I’m having a marvellous—”
+
+“You must see the faces of many people you’ve heard about.”
+
+Tom’s arrogant eyes roamed the crowd.
+
+“We don’t go around very much,” he said; “in fact, I was just thinking
+I don’t know a soul here.”
+
+“Perhaps you know that lady.” Gatsby indicated a gorgeous, scarcely
+human orchid of a woman who sat in state under a white-plum tree. Tom
+and Daisy stared, with that peculiarly unreal feeling that accompanies
+the recognition of a hitherto ghostly celebrity of the movies.
+
+“She’s lovely,” said Daisy.
+
+“The man bending over her is her director.”
+
+He took them ceremoniously from group to group:
+
+“Mrs. Buchanan … and Mr. Buchanan—” After an instant’s hesitation he
+added: “the polo player.”
+
+“Oh no,” objected Tom quickly, “not me.”
+
+But evidently the sound of it pleased Gatsby for Tom remained “the
+polo player” for the rest of the evening.
+
+“I’ve never met so many celebrities,” Daisy exclaimed. “I liked that
+man—what was his name?—with the sort of blue nose.”
+
+Gatsby identified him, adding that he was a small producer.
+
+“Well, I liked him anyhow.”
+
+“I’d a little rather not be the polo player,” said Tom pleasantly,
+“I’d rather look at all these famous people in—in oblivion.”
+
+Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful,
+conservative foxtrot—I had never seen him dance before. Then they
+sauntered over to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour,
+while at her request I remained watchfully in the garden. “In case
+there’s a fire or a flood,” she explained, “or any act of God.”
+
+Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper
+together. “Do you mind if I eat with some people over here?” he
+said. “A fellow’s getting off some funny stuff.”
+
+“Go ahead,” answered Daisy genially, “and if you want to take down any
+addresses here’s my little gold pencil.” … She looked around after a
+moment and told me the girl was “common but pretty,” and I knew that
+except for the half-hour she’d been alone with Gatsby she wasn’t
+having a good time.
+
+We were at a particularly tipsy table. That was my fault—Gatsby had
+been called to the phone, and I’d enjoyed these same people only two
+weeks before. But what had amused me then turned septic on the air
+now.
+
+“How do you feel, Miss Baedeker?”
+
+The girl addressed was trying, unsuccessfully, to slump against my
+shoulder. At this inquiry she sat up and opened her eyes.
+
+“Wha’?”
+
+A massive and lethargic woman, who had been urging Daisy to play golf
+with her at the local club tomorrow, spoke in Miss Baedeker’s defence:
+
+“Oh, she’s all right now. When she’s had five or six cocktails she
+always starts screaming like that. I tell her she ought to leave it
+alone.”
+
+“I do leave it alone,” affirmed the accused hollowly.
+
+“We heard you yelling, so I said to Doc Civet here: ‘There’s somebody
+that needs your help, Doc.’ ”
+
+“She’s much obliged, I’m sure,” said another friend, without
+gratitude, “but you got her dress all wet when you stuck her head in
+the pool.”
+
+“Anything I hate is to get my head stuck in a pool,” mumbled Miss
+Baedeker. “They almost drowned me once over in New Jersey.”
+
+“Then you ought to leave it alone,” countered Doctor Civet.
+
+“Speak for yourself!” cried Miss Baedeker violently. “Your hand
+shakes. I wouldn’t let you operate on me!”
+
+It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with
+Daisy and watching the moving-picture director and his Star. They were
+still under the white-plum tree and their faces were touching except
+for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he
+had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this
+proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate
+degree and kiss at her cheek.
+
+“I like her,” said Daisy, “I think she’s lovely.”
+
+But the rest offended her—and inarguably because it wasn’t a gesture
+but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented
+“place” that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing
+village—appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old
+euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants
+along a shortcut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in
+the very simplicity she failed to understand.
+
+I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car.
+It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet
+of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow
+moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow,
+an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an
+invisible glass.
+
+“Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big
+bootlegger?”
+
+“Where’d you hear that?” I inquired.
+
+“I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are
+just big bootleggers, you know.”
+
+“Not Gatsby,” I said shortly.
+
+He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under
+his feet.
+
+“Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie
+together.”
+
+A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar.
+
+“At least they are more interesting than the people we know,” she said
+with an effort.
+
+“You didn’t look so interested.”
+
+“Well, I was.”
+
+Tom laughed and turned to me.
+
+“Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under
+a cold shower?”
+
+Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper,
+bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and
+would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up
+sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change
+tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air.
+
+“Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,” she said
+suddenly. “That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way
+in and he’s too polite to object.”
+
+“I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I
+think I’ll make a point of finding out.”
+
+“I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drugstores, a
+lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.”
+
+The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive.
+
+“Good night, Nick,” said Daisy.
+
+Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where
+“Three O’Clock in the Morning,” a neat, sad little waltz of that year,
+was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness of
+Gatsby’s party there were romantic possibilities totally absent from
+her world. What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling
+her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours?
+Perhaps some unbelievable guest would arrive, a person infinitely rare
+and to be marvelled at, some authentically radiant young girl who with
+one fresh glance at Gatsby, one moment of magical encounter, would
+blot out those five years of unwavering devotion.
+
+I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free,
+and I lingered in the garden until the inevitable swimming party had
+run up, chilled and exalted, from the black beach, until the lights
+were extinguished in the guestrooms overhead. When he came down the
+steps at last the tanned skin was drawn unusually tight on his face,
+and his eyes were bright and tired.
+
+“She didn’t like it,” he said immediately.
+
+“Of course she did.”
+
+“She didn’t like it,” he insisted. “She didn’t have a good time.”
+
+He was silent, and I guessed at his unutterable depression.
+
+“I feel far away from her,” he said. “It’s hard to make her
+understand.”
+
+“You mean about the dance?”
+
+“The dance?” He dismissed all the dances he had given with a snap of
+his fingers. “Old sport, the dance is unimportant.”
+
+He wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and
+say: “I never loved you.” After she had obliterated four years with
+that sentence they could decide upon the more practical measures to be
+taken. One of them was that, after she was free, they were to go back
+to Louisville and be married from her house—just as if it were five
+years ago.
+
+“And she doesn’t understand,” he said. “She used to be able to
+understand. We’d sit for hours—”
+
+He broke off and began to walk up and down a desolate path of fruit
+rinds and discarded favours and crushed flowers.
+
+“I wouldn’t ask too much of her,” I ventured. “You can’t repeat the
+past.”
+
+“Can’t repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course you
+can!”
+
+He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the
+shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand.
+
+“I’m going to fix everything just the way it was before,” he said,
+nodding determinedly. “She’ll see.”
+
+He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to
+recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into
+loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then,
+but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it
+all slowly, he could find out what that thing was …
+
+… One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the
+street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where
+there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They
+stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night
+with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes
+of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the
+darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the
+corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really
+formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees—he could
+climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the
+pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder.
+
+His heart beat faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He
+knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable
+visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like
+the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the
+tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At
+his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the
+incarnation was complete.
+
+Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was
+reminded of something—an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words,
+that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase
+tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man’s,
+as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled
+air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was
+uncommunicable forever.
+
+
+                                 VII
+
+It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights
+in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as
+it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over. Only gradually did I
+become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his
+drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering
+if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a
+villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door.
+
+“Is Mr. Gatsby sick?”
+
+“Nope.” After a pause he added “sir” in a dilatory, grudging way.
+
+“I hadn’t seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr.
+Carraway came over.”
+
+“Who?” he demanded rudely.
+
+“Carraway.”
+
+“Carraway. All right, I’ll tell him.”
+
+Abruptly he slammed the door.
+
+My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his
+house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never
+went into West Egg village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered
+moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that
+the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the
+village was that the new people weren’t servants at all.
+
+Next day Gatsby called me on the phone.
+
+“Going away?” I inquired.
+
+“No, old sport.”
+
+“I hear you fired all your servants.”
+
+“I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite
+often—in the afternoons.”
+
+So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the
+disapproval in her eyes.
+
+“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all
+brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.”
+
+“I see.”
+
+He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her
+house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy
+herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was
+coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would
+choose this occasion for a scene—especially for the rather harrowing
+scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden.
+
+The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of
+the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only
+the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering
+hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of
+combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into
+her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her
+fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her
+pocketbook slapped to the floor.
+
+“Oh, my!” she gasped.
+
+I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it
+at arm’s length and by the extreme tip of the corners to indicate that
+I had no designs upon it—but everyone near by, including the woman,
+suspected me just the same.
+
+“Hot!” said the conductor to familiar faces. “Some weather! … Hot! …
+Hot! … Hot! … Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it … ?”
+
+My commutation ticket came back to me with a dark stain from his hand.
+That anyone should care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed,
+whose head made damp the pyjama pocket over his heart!
+
+… Through the hall of the Buchanans’ house blew a faint wind, carrying
+the sound of the telephone bell out to Gatsby and me as we waited at
+the door.
+
+“The master’s body?” roared the butler into the mouthpiece. “I’m
+sorry, madame, but we can’t furnish it—it’s far too hot to touch this
+noon!”
+
+What he really said was: “Yes … Yes … I’ll see.”
+
+He set down the receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly, to
+take our stiff straw hats.
+
+“Madame expects you in the salon!” he cried, needlessly indicating the
+direction. In this heat every extra gesture was an affront to the
+common store of life.
+
+The room, shadowed well with awnings, was dark and cool. Daisy and
+Jordan lay upon an enormous couch, like silver idols weighing down
+their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans.
+
+“We can’t move,” they said together.
+
+Jordan’s fingers, powdered white over their tan, rested for a moment
+in mine.
+
+“And Mr. Thomas Buchanan, the athlete?” I inquired.
+
+Simultaneously I heard his voice, gruff, muffled, husky, at the hall
+telephone.
+
+Gatsby stood in the centre of the crimson carpet and gazed around with
+fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting
+laugh; a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom into the air.
+
+“The rumour is,” whispered Jordan, “that that’s Tom’s girl on the
+telephone.”
+
+We were silent. The voice in the hall rose high with annoyance: “Very
+well, then, I won’t sell you the car at all … I’m under no obligations
+to you at all … and as for your bothering me about it at lunch time, I
+won’t stand that at all!”
+
+“Holding down the receiver,” said Daisy cynically.
+
+“No, he’s not,” I assured her. “It’s a bona-fide deal. I happen to
+know about it.”
+
+Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his
+thick body, and hurried into the room.
+
+“Mr. Gatsby!” He put out his broad, flat hand with well-concealed
+dislike. “I’m glad to see you, sir … Nick …”
+
+“Make us a cold drink,” cried Daisy.
+
+As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and
+pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth.
+
+“You know I love you,” she murmured.
+
+“You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan.
+
+Daisy looked around doubtfully.
+
+“You kiss Nick too.”
+
+“What a low, vulgar girl!”
+
+“I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace.
+Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just
+as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room.
+
+“Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms. “Come to your
+own mother that loves you.”
+
+The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and
+rooted shyly into her mother’s dress.
+
+“The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy
+hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.”
+
+Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand.
+Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he
+had ever really believed in its existence before.
+
+“I got dressed before luncheon,” said the child, turning eagerly to
+Daisy.
+
+“That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent
+into the single wrinkle of the small white neck. “You dream, you. You
+absolute little dream.”
+
+“Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress
+too.”
+
+“How do you like mother’s friends?” Daisy turned her around so that
+she faced Gatsby. “Do you think they’re pretty?”
+
+“Where’s Daddy?”
+
+“She doesn’t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She looks like
+me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.”
+
+Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held
+out her hand.
+
+“Come, Pammy.”
+
+“Goodbye, sweetheart!”
+
+With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to
+her nurse’s hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back,
+preceding four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice.
+
+Gatsby took up his drink.
+
+“They certainly look cool,” he said, with visible tension.
+
+We drank in long, greedy swallows.
+
+“I read somewhere that the sun’s getting hotter every year,” said Tom
+genially. “It seems that pretty soon the earth’s going to fall into
+the sun—or wait a minute—it’s just the opposite—the sun’s getting
+colder every year.
+
+“Come outside,” he suggested to Gatsby, “I’d like you to have a look
+at the place.”
+
+I went with them out to the veranda. On the green Sound, stagnant in
+the heat, one small sail crawled slowly toward the fresher sea.
+Gatsby’s eyes followed it momentarily; he raised his hand and pointed
+across the bay.
+
+“I’m right across from you.”
+
+“So you are.”
+
+Our eyes lifted over the rose-beds and the hot lawn and the weedy
+refuse of the dog-days alongshore. Slowly the white wings of the boat
+moved against the blue cool limit of the sky. Ahead lay the scalloped
+ocean and the abounding blessed isles.
+
+“There’s sport for you,” said Tom, nodding. “I’d like to be out there
+with him for about an hour.”
+
+We had luncheon in the dining-room, darkened too against the heat, and
+drank down nervous gaiety with the cold ale.
+
+“What’ll we do with ourselves this afternoon?” cried Daisy, “and the
+day after that, and the next thirty years?”
+
+“Don’t be morbid,” Jordan said. “Life starts all over again when it
+gets crisp in the fall.”
+
+“But it’s so hot,” insisted Daisy, on the verge of tears, “and
+everything’s so confused. Let’s all go to town!”
+
+Her voice struggled on through the heat, beating against it, moulding
+its senselessness into forms.
+
+“I’ve heard of making a garage out of a stable,” Tom was saying to
+Gatsby, “but I’m the first man who ever made a stable out of a
+garage.”
+
+“Who wants to go to town?” demanded Daisy insistently. Gatsby’s eyes
+floated toward her. “Ah,” she cried, “you look so cool.”
+
+Their eyes met, and they stared together at each other, alone in
+space. With an effort she glanced down at the table.
+
+“You always look so cool,” she repeated.
+
+She had told him that she loved him, and Tom Buchanan saw. He was
+astounded. His mouth opened a little, and he looked at Gatsby, and
+then back at Daisy as if he had just recognized her as someone he knew
+a long time ago.
+
+“You resemble the advertisement of the man,” she went on innocently.
+“You know the advertisement of the man—”
+
+“All right,” broke in Tom quickly, “I’m perfectly willing to go to
+town. Come on—we’re all going to town.”
+
+He got up, his eyes still flashing between Gatsby and his wife. No one
+moved.
+
+“Come on!” His temper cracked a little. “What’s the matter, anyhow?
+If we’re going to town, let’s start.”
+
+His hand, trembling with his effort at self-control, bore to his lips
+the last of his glass of ale. Daisy’s voice got us to our feet and out
+on to the blazing gravel drive.
+
+“Are we just going to go?” she objected. “Like this? Aren’t we going
+to let anyone smoke a cigarette first?”
+
+“Everybody smoked all through lunch.”
+
+“Oh, let’s have fun,” she begged him. “It’s too hot to fuss.”
+
+He didn’t answer.
+
+“Have it your own way,” she said. “Come on, Jordan.”
+
+They went upstairs to get ready while we three men stood there
+shuffling the hot pebbles with our feet. A silver curve of the moon
+hovered already in the western sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed
+his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly.
+
+“Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort.
+
+“About a quarter of a mile down the road.”
+
+“Oh.”
+
+A pause.
+
+“I don’t see the idea of going to town,” broke out Tom savagely.
+“Women get these notions in their heads—”
+
+“Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window.
+
+“I’ll get some whisky,” answered Tom. He went inside.
+
+Gatsby turned to me rigidly:
+
+“I can’t say anything in his house, old sport.”
+
+“She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked. “It’s full of—” I
+hesitated.
+
+“Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly.
+
+That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money—that
+was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of
+it, the cymbals’ song of it … High in a white palace the king’s
+daughter, the golden girl …
+
+Tom came out of the house wrapping a quart bottle in a towel, followed
+by Daisy and Jordan wearing small tight hats of metallic cloth and
+carrying light capes over their arms.
+
+“Shall we all go in my car?” suggested Gatsby. He felt the hot, green
+leather of the seat. “I ought to have left it in the shade.”
+
+“Is it standard shift?” demanded Tom.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Well, you take my coupé and let me drive your car to town.”
+
+The suggestion was distasteful to Gatsby.
+
+“I don’t think there’s much gas,” he objected.
+
+“Plenty of gas,” said Tom boisterously. He looked at the gauge. “And
+if it runs out I can stop at a drugstore. You can buy anything at a
+drugstore nowadays.”
+
+A pause followed this apparently pointless remark. Daisy looked at Tom
+frowning, and an indefinable expression, at once definitely unfamiliar
+and vaguely recognizable, as if I had only heard it described in
+words, passed over Gatsby’s face.
+
+“Come on, Daisy” said Tom, pressing her with his hand toward Gatsby’s
+car. “I’ll take you in this circus wagon.”
+
+He opened the door, but she moved out from the circle of his arm.
+
+“You take Nick and Jordan. We’ll follow you in the coupé.”
+
+She walked close to Gatsby, touching his coat with her hand. Jordan
+and Tom and I got into the front seat of Gatsby’s car, Tom pushed the
+unfamiliar gears tentatively, and we shot off into the oppressive
+heat, leaving them out of sight behind.
+
+“Did you see that?” demanded Tom.
+
+“See what?”
+
+He looked at me keenly, realizing that Jordan and I must have known
+all along.
+
+“You think I’m pretty dumb, don’t you?” he suggested. “Perhaps I am,
+but I have a—almost a second sight, sometimes, that tells me what to
+do. Maybe you don’t believe that, but science—”
+
+He paused. The immediate contingency overtook him, pulled him back
+from the edge of theoretical abyss.
+
+“I’ve made a small investigation of this fellow,” he continued. “I
+could have gone deeper if I’d known—”
+
+“Do you mean you’ve been to a medium?” inquired Jordan humorously.
+
+“What?” Confused, he stared at us as we laughed. “A medium?”
+
+“About Gatsby.”
+
+“About Gatsby! No, I haven’t. I said I’d been making a small
+investigation of his past.”
+
+“And you found he was an Oxford man,” said Jordan helpfully.
+
+“An Oxford man!” He was incredulous. “Like hell he is! He wears a pink
+suit.”
+
+“Nevertheless he’s an Oxford man.”
+
+“Oxford, New Mexico,” snorted Tom contemptuously, “or something like
+that.”
+
+“Listen, Tom. If you’re such a snob, why did you invite him to lunch?”
+demanded Jordan crossly.
+
+“Daisy invited him; she knew him before we were married—God knows
+where!”
+
+We were all irritable now with the fading ale, and aware of it we
+drove for a while in silence. Then as Doctor T. J. Eckleburg’s faded
+eyes came into sight down the road, I remembered Gatsby’s caution
+about gasoline.
+
+“We’ve got enough to get us to town,” said Tom.
+
+“But there’s a garage right here,” objected Jordan. “I don’t want to
+get stalled in this baking heat.”
+
+Tom threw on both brakes impatiently, and we slid to an abrupt dusty
+stop under Wilson’s sign. After a moment the proprietor emerged from
+the interior of his establishment and gazed hollow-eyed at the car.
+
+“Let’s have some gas!” cried Tom roughly. “What do you think we
+stopped for—to admire the view?”
+
+“I’m sick,” said Wilson without moving. “Been sick all day.”
+
+“What’s the matter?”
+
+“I’m all run down.”
+
+“Well, shall I help myself?” Tom demanded. “You sounded well enough on
+the phone.”
+
+With an effort Wilson left the shade and support of the doorway and,
+breathing hard, unscrewed the cap of the tank. In the sunlight his
+face was green.
+
+“I didn’t mean to interrupt your lunch,” he said. “But I need money
+pretty bad, and I was wondering what you were going to do with your
+old car.”
+
+“How do you like this one?” inquired Tom. “I bought it last week.”
+
+“It’s a nice yellow one,” said Wilson, as he strained at the handle.
+
+“Like to buy it?”
+
+“Big chance,” Wilson smiled faintly. “No, but I could make some money
+on the other.”
+
+“What do you want money for, all of a sudden?”
+
+“I’ve been here too long. I want to get away. My wife and I want to go
+West.”
+
+“Your wife does,” exclaimed Tom, startled.
+
+“She’s been talking about it for ten years.” He rested for a moment
+against the pump, shading his eyes. “And now she’s going whether she
+wants to or not. I’m going to get her away.”
+
+The coupé flashed by us with a flurry of dust and the flash of a
+waving hand.
+
+“What do I owe you?” demanded Tom harshly.
+
+“I just got wised up to something funny the last two days,” remarked
+Wilson. “That’s why I want to get away. That’s why I been bothering
+you about the car.”
+
+“What do I owe you?”
+
+“Dollar twenty.”
+
+The relentless beating heat was beginning to confuse me and I had a
+bad moment there before I realized that so far his suspicions hadn’t
+alighted on Tom. He had discovered that Myrtle had some sort of life
+apart from him in another world, and the shock had made him physically
+sick. I stared at him and then at Tom, who had made a parallel
+discovery less than an hour before—and it occurred to me that there
+was no difference between men, in intelligence or race, so profound as
+the difference between the sick and the well. Wilson was so sick that
+he looked guilty, unforgivably guilty—as if he had just got some poor
+girl with child.
+
+“I’ll let you have that car,” said Tom. “I’ll send it over tomorrow
+afternoon.”
+
+That locality was always vaguely disquieting, even in the broad glare
+of afternoon, and now I turned my head as though I had been warned of
+something behind. Over the ash-heaps the giant eyes of Doctor T. J.
+Eckleburg kept their vigil, but I perceived, after a moment, that
+other eyes were regarding us with peculiar intensity from less than
+twenty feet away.
+
+In one of the windows over the garage the curtains had been moved
+aside a little, and Myrtle Wilson was peering down at the car. So
+engrossed was she that she had no consciousness of being observed, and
+one emotion after another crept into her face like objects into a
+slowly developing picture. Her expression was curiously familiar—it
+was an expression I had often seen on women’s faces, but on Myrtle
+Wilson’s face it seemed purposeless and inexplicable until I realized
+that her eyes, wide with jealous terror, were fixed not on Tom, but on
+Jordan Baker, whom she took to be his wife.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+There is no confusion like the confusion of a simple mind, and as we
+drove away Tom was feeling the hot whips of panic. His wife and his
+mistress, until an hour ago secure and inviolate, were slipping
+precipitately from his control. Instinct made him step on the
+accelerator with the double purpose of overtaking Daisy and leaving
+Wilson behind, and we sped along toward Astoria at fifty miles an
+hour, until, among the spidery girders of the elevated, we came in
+sight of the easygoing blue coupé.
+
+“Those big movies around Fiftieth Street are cool,” suggested
+Jordan. “I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone’s away.
+There’s something very sensuous about it—overripe, as if all sorts of
+funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.”
+
+The word “sensuous” had the effect of further disquieting Tom, but
+before he could invent a protest the coupé came to a stop, and Daisy
+signalled us to draw up alongside.
+
+“Where are we going?” she cried.
+
+“How about the movies?”
+
+“It’s so hot,” she complained. “You go. We’ll ride around and meet you
+after.” With an effort her wit rose faintly. “We’ll meet you on some
+corner. I’ll be the man smoking two cigarettes.”
+
+“We can’t argue about it here,” Tom said impatiently, as a truck gave
+out a cursing whistle behind us. “You follow me to the south side of
+Central Park, in front of the Plaza.”
+
+Several times he turned his head and looked back for their car, and if
+the traffic delayed them he slowed up until they came into sight. I
+think he was afraid they would dart down a side-street and out of his
+life forever.
+
+But they didn’t. And we all took the less explicable step of engaging
+the parlour of a suite in the Plaza Hotel.
+
+The prolonged and tumultuous argument that ended by herding us into
+that room eludes me, though I have a sharp physical memory that, in
+the course of it, my underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around
+my legs and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool across my back.
+The notion originated with Daisy’s suggestion that we hire five
+bathrooms and take cold baths, and then assumed more tangible form as
+“a place to have a mint julep.” Each of us said over and over that it
+was a “crazy idea”—we all talked at once to a baffled clerk and
+thought, or pretended to think, that we were being very funny …
+
+The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four
+o’clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery
+from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us,
+fixing her hair.
+
+“It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone
+laughed.
+
+“Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around.
+
+“There aren’t any more.”
+
+“Well, we’d better telephone for an axe—”
+
+“The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently.
+“You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.”
+
+He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the
+table.
+
+“Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one
+that wanted to come to town.”
+
+There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its
+nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse
+me”—but this time no one laughed.
+
+“I’ll pick it up,” I offered.
+
+“I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in
+an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair.
+
+“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?” said Tom sharply.
+
+“What is?”
+
+“All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?”
+
+“Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if
+you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute.
+Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.”
+
+As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound
+and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s
+Wedding March from the ballroom below.
+
+“Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally.
+
+“Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered.
+“Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?”
+
+“Biloxi,” he answered shortly.
+
+“A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a
+fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.”
+
+“They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived
+just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy
+told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.”  After
+a moment she added. “There wasn’t any connection.”
+
+“I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked.
+
+“That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he
+left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.”
+
+The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer
+floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of
+“Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began.
+
+“We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and
+dance.”
+
+“Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?”
+
+“Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a
+friend of Daisy’s.”
+
+“He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in
+the private car.”
+
+“Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa
+Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room
+for him.”
+
+Jordan smiled.
+
+“He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of
+your class at Yale.”
+
+Tom and I looked at each other blankly.
+
+“Biloxi?”
+
+“First place, we didn’t have any president—”
+
+Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly.
+
+“By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.”
+
+“Not exactly.”
+
+“Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.”
+
+“Yes—I went there.”
+
+A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting:
+
+“You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.”
+
+Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice
+but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing
+of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last.
+
+“I told you I went there,” said Gatsby.
+
+“I heard you, but I’d like to know when.”
+
+“It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I
+can’t really call myself an Oxford man.”
+
+Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all
+looking at Gatsby.
+
+“It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the
+armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in
+England or France.”
+
+I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those
+renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before.
+
+Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table.
+
+“Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep.
+Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!”
+
+“Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more
+question.”
+
+“Go on,” Gatsby said politely.
+
+“What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?”
+
+They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content.
+
+“He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the
+other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.”
+
+“Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest
+thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your
+wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people
+begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next
+they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between
+black and white.”
+
+Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone
+on the last barrier of civilization.
+
+“We’re all white here,” murmured Jordan.
+
+“I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose
+you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any
+friends—in the modern world.”
+
+Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he
+opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so
+complete.
+
+“I’ve got something to tell you, old sport—” began Gatsby. But Daisy
+guessed at his intention.
+
+“Please don’t!” she interrupted helplessly. “Please let’s all go
+home. Why don’t we all go home?”
+
+“That’s a good idea,” I got up. “Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink.”
+
+“I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me.”
+
+“Your wife doesn’t love you,” said Gatsby. “She’s never loved you.
+She loves me.”
+
+“You must be crazy!” exclaimed Tom automatically.
+
+Gatsby sprang to his feet, vivid with excitement.
+
+“She never loved you, do you hear?” he cried. “She only married you
+because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a
+terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved anyone except me!”
+
+At this point Jordan and I tried to go, but Tom and Gatsby insisted
+with competitive firmness that we remain—as though neither of them had
+anything to conceal and it would be a privilege to partake vicariously
+of their emotions.
+
+“Sit down, Daisy,” Tom’s voice groped unsuccessfully for the paternal
+note. “What’s been going on? I want to hear all about it.”
+
+“I told you what’s been going on,” said Gatsby. “Going on for five
+years—and you didn’t know.”
+
+Tom turned to Daisy sharply.
+
+“You’ve been seeing this fellow for five years?”
+
+“Not seeing,” said Gatsby. “No, we couldn’t meet. But both of us loved
+each other all that time, old sport, and you didn’t know. I used to
+laugh sometimes”—but there was no laughter in his eyes—“to think that
+you didn’t know.”
+
+“Oh—that’s all.” Tom tapped his thick fingers together like a
+clergyman and leaned back in his chair.
+
+“You’re crazy!” he exploded. “I can’t speak about what happened five
+years ago, because I didn’t know Daisy then—and I’ll be damned if I
+see how you got within a mile of her unless you brought the groceries
+to the back door. But all the rest of that’s a God damned lie. Daisy
+loved me when she married me and she loves me now.”
+
+“No,” said Gatsby, shaking his head.
+
+“She does, though. The trouble is that sometimes she gets foolish
+ideas in her head and doesn’t know what she’s doing.” He nodded
+sagely. “And what’s more, I love Daisy too. Once in a while I go off
+on a spree and make a fool of myself, but I always come back, and in
+my heart I love her all the time.”
+
+“You’re revolting,” said Daisy. She turned to me, and her voice,
+dropping an octave lower, filled the room with thrilling scorn: “Do
+you know why we left Chicago? I’m surprised that they didn’t treat you
+to the story of that little spree.”
+
+Gatsby walked over and stood beside her.
+
+“Daisy, that’s all over now,” he said earnestly. “It doesn’t matter
+any more. Just tell him the truth—that you never loved him—and it’s
+all wiped out forever.”
+
+She looked at him blindly. “Why—how could I love him—possibly?”
+
+“You never loved him.”
+
+She hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal,
+as though she realized at last what she was doing—and as though she
+had never, all along, intended doing anything at all. But it was done
+now. It was too late.
+
+“I never loved him,” she said, with perceptible reluctance.
+
+“Not at Kapiolani?” demanded Tom suddenly.
+
+“No.”
+
+From the ballroom beneath, muffled and suffocating chords were
+drifting up on hot waves of air.
+
+“Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your
+shoes dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone … “Daisy?”
+
+“Please don’t.” Her voice was cold, but the rancour was gone from it.
+She looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” she said—but her hand as she tried
+to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette
+and the burning match on the carpet.
+
+“Oh, you want too much!” she cried to Gatsby. “I love you now—isn’t
+that enough? I can’t help what’s past.” She began to sob
+helplessly. “I did love him once—but I loved you too.”
+
+Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed.
+
+“You loved me too?” he repeated.
+
+“Even that’s a lie,” said Tom savagely. “She didn’t know you were
+alive. Why—there’s things between Daisy and me that you’ll never know,
+things that neither of us can ever forget.”
+
+The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby.
+
+“I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. “She’s all excited
+now—”
+
+“Even alone I can’t say I never loved Tom,” she admitted in a pitiful
+voice. “It wouldn’t be true.”
+
+“Of course it wouldn’t,” agreed Tom.
+
+She turned to her husband.
+
+“As if it mattered to you,” she said.
+
+“Of course it matters. I’m going to take better care of you from now
+on.”
+
+“You don’t understand,” said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. “You’re
+not going to take care of her any more.”
+
+“I’m not?” Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could afford to
+control himself now. “Why’s that?”
+
+“Daisy’s leaving you.”
+
+“Nonsense.”
+
+“I am, though,” she said with a visible effort.
+
+“She’s not leaving me!” Tom’s words suddenly leaned down over Gatsby.
+“Certainly not for a common swindler who’d have to steal the ring he
+put on her finger.”
+
+“I won’t stand this!” cried Daisy. “Oh, please let’s get out.”
+
+“Who are you, anyhow?” broke out Tom. “You’re one of that bunch that
+hangs around with Meyer Wolfshiem—that much I happen to know. I’ve
+made a little investigation into your affairs—and I’ll carry it
+further tomorrow.”
+
+“You can suit yourself about that, old sport,” said Gatsby steadily.
+
+“I found out what your ‘drugstores’ were.” He turned to us and spoke
+rapidly. “He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street
+drugstores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the
+counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for a
+bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.”
+
+“What about it?” said Gatsby politely. “I guess your friend Walter
+Chase wasn’t too proud to come in on it.”
+
+“And you left him in the lurch, didn’t you? You let him go to jail for
+a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the
+subject of you.”
+
+“He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old
+sport.”
+
+“Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby said
+nothing. “Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but
+Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.”
+
+That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face.
+
+“That drugstore business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly,
+“but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me
+about.”
+
+I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her
+husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but
+absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to
+Gatsby—and was startled at his expression. He looked—and this is said
+in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden—as if he had
+“killed a man.” For a moment the set of his face could be described in
+just that fantastic way.
+
+It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying
+everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been
+made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into
+herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the
+afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible,
+struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across
+the room.
+
+The voice begged again to go.
+
+“Please, Tom! I can’t stand this any more.”
+
+Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage
+she had had, were definitely gone.
+
+“You two start on home, Daisy,” said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.”
+
+She looked at Tom, alarmed now, but he insisted with magnanimous
+scorn.
+
+“Go on. He won’t annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous
+little flirtation is over.”
+
+They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental,
+isolated, like ghosts, even from our pity.
+
+After a moment Tom got up and began wrapping the unopened bottle of
+whisky in the towel.
+
+“Want any of this stuff? Jordan? … Nick?”
+
+I didn’t answer.
+
+“Nick?” He asked again.
+
+“What?”
+
+“Want any?”
+
+“No … I just remembered that today’s my birthday.”
+
+I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous, menacing road of a
+new decade.
+
+It was seven o’clock when we got into the coupé with him and started
+for Long Island. Tom talked incessantly, exulting and laughing, but
+his voice was as remote from Jordan and me as the foreign clamour on
+the sidewalk or the tumult of the elevated overhead. Human sympathy
+has its limits, and we were content to let all their tragic arguments
+fade with the city lights behind. Thirty—the promise of a decade of
+loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning
+briefcase of enthusiasm, thinning hair. But there was Jordan beside
+me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten
+dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face
+fell lazily against my coat’s shoulder and the formidable stroke of
+thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand.
+
+So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+The young Greek, Michaelis, who ran the coffee joint beside the
+ash-heaps was the principal witness at the inquest. He had slept
+through the heat until after five, when he strolled over to the
+garage, and found George Wilson sick in his office—really sick, pale
+as his own pale hair and shaking all over. Michaelis advised him to go
+to bed, but Wilson refused, saying that he’d miss a lot of business if
+he did. While his neighbour was trying to persuade him a violent
+racket broke out overhead.
+
+“I’ve got my wife locked in up there,” explained Wilson calmly.
+“She’s going to stay there till the day after tomorrow, and then we’re
+going to move away.”
+
+Michaelis was astonished; they had been neighbours for four years, and
+Wilson had never seemed faintly capable of such a statement.
+Generally he was one of these worn-out men: when he wasn’t working, he
+sat on a chair in the doorway and stared at the people and the cars
+that passed along the road. When anyone spoke to him he invariably
+laughed in an agreeable, colourless way. He was his wife’s man and not
+his own.
+
+So naturally Michaelis tried to find out what had happened, but Wilson
+wouldn’t say a word—instead he began to throw curious, suspicious
+glances at his visitor and ask him what he’d been doing at certain
+times on certain days. Just as the latter was getting uneasy, some
+workmen came past the door bound for his restaurant, and Michaelis
+took the opportunity to get away, intending to come back later. But he
+didn’t. He supposed he forgot to, that’s all. When he came outside
+again, a little after seven, he was reminded of the conversation
+because he heard Mrs. Wilson’s voice, loud and scolding, downstairs in
+the garage.
+
+“Beat me!” he heard her cry. “Throw me down and beat me, you dirty
+little coward!”
+
+A moment later she rushed out into the dusk, waving her hands and
+shouting—before he could move from his door the business was over.
+
+The “death car” as the newspapers called it, didn’t stop; it came out
+of the gathering darkness, wavered tragically for a moment, and then
+disappeared around the next bend. Mavro Michaelis wasn’t even sure of
+its colour—he told the first policeman that it was light green. The
+other car, the one going toward New York, came to rest a hundred yards
+beyond, and its driver hurried back to where Myrtle Wilson, her life
+violently extinguished, knelt in the road and mingled her thick dark
+blood with the dust.
+
+Michaelis and this man reached her first, but when they had torn open
+her shirtwaist, still damp with perspiration, they saw that her left
+breast was swinging loose like a flap, and there was no need to listen
+for the heart beneath. The mouth was wide open and ripped a little at
+the corners, as though she had choked a little in giving up the
+tremendous vitality she had stored so long.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+We saw the three or four automobiles and the crowd when we were still
+some distance away.
+
+“Wreck!” said Tom. “That’s good. Wilson’ll have a little business at
+last.”
+
+He slowed down, but still without any intention of stopping, until, as
+we came nearer, the hushed, intent faces of the people at the garage
+door made him automatically put on the brakes.
+
+“We’ll take a look,” he said doubtfully, “just a look.”
+
+I became aware now of a hollow, wailing sound which issued incessantly
+from the garage, a sound which as we got out of the coupé and walked
+toward the door resolved itself into the words “Oh, my God!” uttered
+over and over in a gasping moan.
+
+“There’s some bad trouble here,” said Tom excitedly.
+
+He reached up on tiptoes and peered over a circle of heads into the
+garage, which was lit only by a yellow light in a swinging metal
+basket overhead. Then he made a harsh sound in his throat, and with a
+violent thrusting movement of his powerful arms pushed his way
+through.
+
+The circle closed up again with a running murmur of expostulation; it
+was a minute before I could see anything at all. Then new arrivals
+deranged the line, and Jordan and I were pushed suddenly inside.
+
+Myrtle Wilson’s body, wrapped in a blanket, and then in another
+blanket, as though she suffered from a chill in the hot night, lay on
+a worktable by the wall, and Tom, with his back to us, was bending
+over it, motionless. Next to him stood a motorcycle policeman taking
+down names with much sweat and correction in a little book. At first I
+couldn’t find the source of the high, groaning words that echoed
+clamorously through the bare garage—then I saw Wilson standing on the
+raised threshold of his office, swaying back and forth and holding to
+the doorposts with both hands. Some man was talking to him in a low
+voice and attempting, from time to time, to lay a hand on his
+shoulder, but Wilson neither heard nor saw. His eyes would drop slowly
+from the swinging light to the laden table by the wall, and then jerk
+back to the light again, and he gave out incessantly his high,
+horrible call:
+
+“Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od!”
+
+Presently Tom lifted his head with a jerk and, after staring around
+the garage with glazed eyes, addressed a mumbled incoherent remark to
+the policeman.
+
+“M-a-v—” the policeman was saying, “—o—”
+
+“No, r—” corrected the man, “M-a-v-r-o—”
+
+“Listen to me!” muttered Tom fiercely.
+
+“r—” said the policeman, “o—”
+
+“g—”
+
+“g—” He looked up as Tom’s broad hand fell sharply on his shoulder.
+“What you want, fella?”
+
+“What happened?—that’s what I want to know.”
+
+“Auto hit her. Ins’antly killed.”
+
+“Instantly killed,” repeated Tom, staring.
+
+“She ran out ina road. Son-of-a-bitch didn’t even stopus car.”
+
+“There was two cars,” said Michaelis, “one comin’, one goin’, see?”
+
+“Going where?” asked the policeman keenly.
+
+“One goin’ each way. Well, she”—his hand rose toward the blankets but
+stopped halfway and fell to his side—“she ran out there an’ the one
+comin’ from N’York knock right into her, goin’ thirty or forty miles
+an hour.”
+
+“What’s the name of this place here?” demanded the officer.
+
+“Hasn’t got any name.”
+
+A pale well-dressed negro stepped near.
+
+“It was a yellow car,” he said, “big yellow car. New.”
+
+“See the accident?” asked the policeman.
+
+“No, but the car passed me down the road, going faster’n forty. Going
+fifty, sixty.”
+
+“Come here and let’s have your name. Look out now. I want to get his
+name.”
+
+Some words of this conversation must have reached Wilson, swaying in
+the office door, for suddenly a new theme found voice among his
+grasping cries:
+
+“You don’t have to tell me what kind of car it was! I know what kind
+of car it was!”
+
+Watching Tom, I saw the wad of muscle back of his shoulder tighten
+under his coat. He walked quickly over to Wilson and, standing in
+front of him, seized him firmly by the upper arms.
+
+“You’ve got to pull yourself together,” he said with soothing
+gruffness.
+
+Wilson’s eyes fell upon Tom; he started up on his tiptoes and then
+would have collapsed to his knees had not Tom held him upright.
+
+“Listen,” said Tom, shaking him a little. “I just got here a minute
+ago, from New York. I was bringing you that coupé we’ve been talking
+about. That yellow car I was driving this afternoon wasn’t mine—do you
+hear? I haven’t seen it all afternoon.”
+
+Only the negro and I were near enough to hear what he said, but the
+policeman caught something in the tone and looked over with truculent
+eyes.
+
+“What’s all that?” he demanded.
+
+“I’m a friend of his.” Tom turned his head but kept his hands firm on
+Wilson’s body. “He says he knows the car that did it … It was a yellow
+car.”
+
+Some dim impulse moved the policeman to look suspiciously at Tom.
+
+“And what colour’s your car?”
+
+“It’s a blue car, a coupé.”
+
+“We’ve come straight from New York,” I said.
+
+Someone who had been driving a little behind us confirmed this, and
+the policeman turned away.
+
+“Now, if you’ll let me have that name again correct—”
+
+Picking up Wilson like a doll, Tom carried him into the office, set
+him down in a chair, and came back.
+
+“If somebody’ll come here and sit with him,” he snapped
+authoritatively. He watched while the two men standing closest glanced
+at each other and went unwillingly into the room. Then Tom shut the
+door on them and came down the single step, his eyes avoiding the
+table. As he passed close to me he whispered: “Let’s get out.”
+
+Self-consciously, with his authoritative arms breaking the way, we
+pushed through the still gathering crowd, passing a hurried doctor,
+case in hand, who had been sent for in wild hope half an hour ago.
+
+Tom drove slowly until we were beyond the bend—then his foot came down
+hard, and the coupé raced along through the night. In a little while I
+heard a low husky sob, and saw that the tears were overflowing down
+his face.
+
+“The God damned coward!” he whimpered. “He didn’t even stop his car.”
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+The Buchanans’ house floated suddenly toward us through the dark
+rustling trees. Tom stopped beside the porch and looked up at the
+second floor, where two windows bloomed with light among the vines.
+
+“Daisy’s home,” he said. As we got out of the car he glanced at me and
+frowned slightly.
+
+“I ought to have dropped you in West Egg, Nick. There’s nothing we can
+do tonight.”
+
+A change had come over him, and he spoke gravely, and with decision.
+As we walked across the moonlight gravel to the porch he disposed of
+the situation in a few brisk phrases.
+
+“I’ll telephone for a taxi to take you home, and while you’re waiting
+you and Jordan better go in the kitchen and have them get you some
+supper—if you want any.” He opened the door. “Come in.”
+
+“No, thanks. But I’d be glad if you’d order me the taxi. I’ll wait
+outside.”
+
+Jordan put her hand on my arm.
+
+“Won’t you come in, Nick?”
+
+“No, thanks.”
+
+I was feeling a little sick and I wanted to be alone. But Jordan
+lingered for a moment more.
+
+“It’s only half-past nine,” she said.
+
+I’d be damned if I’d go in; I’d had enough of all of them for one day,
+and suddenly that included Jordan too. She must have seen something of
+this in my expression, for she turned abruptly away and ran up the
+porch steps into the house. I sat down for a few minutes with my head
+in my hands, until I heard the phone taken up inside and the butler’s
+voice calling a taxi. Then I walked slowly down the drive away from
+the house, intending to wait by the gate.
+
+I hadn’t gone twenty yards when I heard my name and Gatsby stepped
+from between two bushes into the path. I must have felt pretty weird
+by that time, because I could think of nothing except the luminosity
+of his pink suit under the moon.
+
+“What are you doing?” I inquired.
+
+“Just standing here, old sport.”
+
+Somehow, that seemed a despicable occupation. For all I knew he was
+going to rob the house in a moment; I wouldn’t have been surprised to
+see sinister faces, the faces of “Wolfshiem’s people,” behind him in
+the dark shrubbery.
+
+“Did you see any trouble on the road?” he asked after a minute.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+He hesitated.
+
+“Was she killed?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“I thought so; I told Daisy I thought so. It’s better that the shock
+should all come at once. She stood it pretty well.”
+
+He spoke as if Daisy’s reaction was the only thing that mattered.
+
+“I got to West Egg by a side road,” he went on, “and left the car in
+my garage. I don’t think anybody saw us, but of course I can’t be
+sure.”
+
+I disliked him so much by this time that I didn’t find it necessary to
+tell him he was wrong.
+
+“Who was the woman?” he inquired.
+
+“Her name was Wilson. Her husband owns the garage. How the devil did
+it happen?”
+
+“Well, I tried to swing the wheel—” He broke off, and suddenly I
+guessed at the truth.
+
+“Was Daisy driving?”
+
+“Yes,” he said after a moment, “but of course I’ll say I was. You see,
+when we left New York she was very nervous and she thought it would
+steady her to drive—and this woman rushed out at us just as we were
+passing a car coming the other way. It all happened in a minute, but
+it seemed to me that she wanted to speak to us, thought we were
+somebody she knew. Well, first Daisy turned away from the woman toward
+the other car, and then she lost her nerve and turned back. The second
+my hand reached the wheel I felt the shock—it must have killed her
+instantly.”
+
+“It ripped her open—”
+
+“Don’t tell me, old sport.” He winced. “Anyhow—Daisy stepped on it. I
+tried to make her stop, but she couldn’t, so I pulled on the emergency
+brake. Then she fell over into my lap and I drove on.
+
+“She’ll be all right tomorrow,” he said presently. “I’m just going to
+wait here and see if he tries to bother her about that unpleasantness
+this afternoon. She’s locked herself into her room, and if he tries
+any brutality she’s going to turn the light out and on again.”
+
+“He won’t touch her,” I said. “He’s not thinking about her.”
+
+“I don’t trust him, old sport.”
+
+“How long are you going to wait?”
+
+“All night, if necessary. Anyhow, till they all go to bed.”
+
+A new point of view occurred to me. Suppose Tom found out that Daisy
+had been driving. He might think he saw a connection in it—he might
+think anything. I looked at the house; there were two or three bright
+windows downstairs and the pink glow from Daisy’s room on the ground
+floor.
+
+“You wait here,” I said. “I’ll see if there’s any sign of a
+commotion.”
+
+I walked back along the border of the lawn, traversed the gravel
+softly, and tiptoed up the veranda steps. The drawing-room curtains
+were open, and I saw that the room was empty. Crossing the porch where
+we had dined that June night three months before, I came to a small
+rectangle of light which I guessed was the pantry window. The blind
+was drawn, but I found a rift at the sill.
+
+Daisy and Tom were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table,
+with a plate of cold fried chicken between them, and two bottles of
+ale. He was talking intently across the table at her, and in his
+earnestness his hand had fallen upon and covered her own. Once in a
+while she looked up at him and nodded in agreement.
+
+They weren’t happy, and neither of them had touched the chicken or the
+ale—and yet they weren’t unhappy either. There was an unmistakable air
+of natural intimacy about the picture, and anybody would have said
+that they were conspiring together.
+
+As I tiptoed from the porch I heard my taxi feeling its way along the
+dark road toward the house. Gatsby was waiting where I had left him in
+the drive.
+
+“Is it all quiet up there?” he asked anxiously.
+
+“Yes, it’s all quiet.” I hesitated. “You’d better come home and get
+some sleep.”
+
+He shook his head.
+
+“I want to wait here till Daisy goes to bed. Good night, old sport.”
+
+He put his hands in his coat pockets and turned back eagerly to his
+scrutiny of the house, as though my presence marred the sacredness of
+the vigil. So I walked away and left him standing there in the
+moonlight—watching over nothing.
+
+
+                                 VIII
+
+I couldn’t sleep all night; a foghorn was groaning incessantly on the
+Sound, and I tossed half-sick between grotesque reality and savage,
+frightening dreams. Toward dawn I heard a taxi go up Gatsby’s drive,
+and immediately I jumped out of bed and began to dress—I felt that I
+had something to tell him, something to warn him about, and morning
+would be too late.
+
+Crossing his lawn, I saw that his front door was still open and he was
+leaning against a table in the hall, heavy with dejection or sleep.
+
+“Nothing happened,” he said wanly. “I waited, and about four o’clock
+she came to the window and stood there for a minute and then turned
+out the light.”
+
+His house had never seemed so enormous to me as it did that night when
+we hunted through the great rooms for cigarettes. We pushed aside
+curtains that were like pavilions, and felt over innumerable feet of
+dark wall for electric light switches—once I tumbled with a sort of
+splash upon the keys of a ghostly piano. There was an inexplicable
+amount of dust everywhere, and the rooms were musty, as though they
+hadn’t been aired for many days. I found the humidor on an unfamiliar
+table, with two stale, dry cigarettes inside. Throwing open the French
+windows of the drawing-room, we sat smoking out into the darkness.
+
+“You ought to go away,” I said. “It’s pretty certain they’ll trace
+your car.”
+
+“Go away now, old sport?”
+
+“Go to Atlantic City for a week, or up to Montreal.”
+
+He wouldn’t consider it. He couldn’t possibly leave Daisy until he
+knew what she was going to do. He was clutching at some last hope and
+I couldn’t bear to shake him free.
+
+It was this night that he told me the strange story of his youth with
+Dan Cody—told it to me because “Jay Gatsby” had broken up like glass
+against Tom’s hard malice, and the long secret extravaganza was played
+out. I think that he would have acknowledged anything now, without
+reserve, but he wanted to talk about Daisy.
+
+She was the first “nice” girl he had ever known. In various unrevealed
+capacities he had come in contact with such people, but always with
+indiscernible barbed wire between. He found her excitingly
+desirable. He went to her house, at first with other officers from
+Camp Taylor, then alone. It amazed him—he had never been in such a
+beautiful house before. But what gave it an air of breathless
+intensity, was that Daisy lived there—it was as casual a thing to her
+as his tent out at camp was to him. There was a ripe mystery about it,
+a hint of bedrooms upstairs more beautiful and cool than other
+bedrooms, of gay and radiant activities taking place through its
+corridors, and of romances that were not musty and laid away already
+in lavender but fresh and breathing and redolent of this year’s
+shining motorcars and of dances whose flowers were scarcely
+withered. It excited him, too, that many men had already loved
+Daisy—it increased her value in his eyes. He felt their presence all
+about the house, pervading the air with the shades and echoes of still
+vibrant emotions.
+
+But he knew that he was in Daisy’s house by a colossal
+accident. However glorious might be his future as Jay Gatsby, he was
+at present a penniless young man without a past, and at any moment the
+invisible cloak of his uniform might slip from his shoulders. So he
+made the most of his time. He took what he could get, ravenously and
+unscrupulously—eventually he took Daisy one still October night, took
+her because he had no real right to touch her hand.
+
+He might have despised himself, for he had certainly taken her under
+false pretences. I don’t mean that he had traded on his phantom
+millions, but he had deliberately given Daisy a sense of security; he
+let her believe that he was a person from much the same strata as
+herself—that he was fully able to take care of her. As a matter of
+fact, he had no such facilities—he had no comfortable family standing
+behind him, and he was liable at the whim of an impersonal government
+to be blown anywhere about the world.
+
+But he didn’t despise himself and it didn’t turn out as he had
+imagined. He had intended, probably, to take what he could and go—but
+now he found that he had committed himself to the following of a
+grail. He knew that Daisy was extraordinary, but he didn’t realize
+just how extraordinary a “nice” girl could be. She vanished into her
+rich house, into her rich, full life, leaving Gatsby—nothing. He felt
+married to her, that was all.
+
+When they met again, two days later, it was Gatsby who was breathless,
+who was, somehow, betrayed. Her porch was bright with the bought
+luxury of star-shine; the wicker of the settee squeaked fashionably as
+she turned toward him and he kissed her curious and lovely mouth. She
+had caught a cold, and it made her voice huskier and more charming
+than ever, and Gatsby was overwhelmingly aware of the youth and
+mystery that wealth imprisons and preserves, of the freshness of many
+clothes, and of Daisy, gleaming like silver, safe and proud above the
+hot struggles of the poor.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+“I can’t describe to you how surprised I was to find out I loved her,
+old sport. I even hoped for a while that she’d throw me over, but she
+didn’t, because she was in love with me too. She thought I knew a lot
+because I knew different things from her … Well, there I was, way off
+my ambitions, getting deeper in love every minute, and all of a sudden
+I didn’t care. What was the use of doing great things if I could have
+a better time telling her what I was going to do?”
+
+On the last afternoon before he went abroad, he sat with Daisy in his
+arms for a long, silent time. It was a cold fall day, with fire in the
+room and her cheeks flushed. Now and then she moved and he changed his
+arm a little, and once he kissed her dark shining hair. The afternoon
+had made them tranquil for a while, as if to give them a deep memory
+for the long parting the next day promised. They had never been closer
+in their month of love, nor communicated more profoundly one with
+another, than when she brushed silent lips against his coat’s shoulder
+or when he touched the end of her fingers, gently, as though she were
+asleep.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+He did extraordinarily well in the war. He was a captain before he
+went to the front, and following the Argonne battles he got his
+majority and the command of the divisional machine-guns. After the
+armistice he tried frantically to get home, but some complication or
+misunderstanding sent him to Oxford instead. He was worried now—there
+was a quality of nervous despair in Daisy’s letters. She didn’t see
+why he couldn’t come. She was feeling the pressure of the world
+outside, and she wanted to see him and feel his presence beside her
+and be reassured that she was doing the right thing after all.
+
+For Daisy was young and her artificial world was redolent of orchids
+and pleasant, cheerful snobbery and orchestras which set the rhythm of
+the year, summing up the sadness and suggestiveness of life in new
+tunes. All night the saxophones wailed the hopeless comment of the
+“Beale Street Blues” while a hundred pairs of golden and silver
+slippers shuffled the shining dust. At the grey tea hour there were
+always rooms that throbbed incessantly with this low, sweet fever,
+while fresh faces drifted here and there like rose petals blown by the
+sad horns around the floor.
+
+Through this twilight universe Daisy began to move again with the
+season; suddenly she was again keeping half a dozen dates a day with
+half a dozen men, and drowsing asleep at dawn with the beads and
+chiffon of an evening-dress tangled among dying orchids on the floor
+beside her bed. And all the time something within her was crying for a
+decision. She wanted her life shaped now, immediately—and the decision
+must be made by some force—of love, of money, of unquestionable
+practicality—that was close at hand.
+
+That force took shape in the middle of spring with the arrival of Tom
+Buchanan. There was a wholesome bulkiness about his person and his
+position, and Daisy was flattered. Doubtless there was a certain
+struggle and a certain relief. The letter reached Gatsby while he was
+still at Oxford.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+It was dawn now on Long Island and we went about opening the rest of
+the windows downstairs, filling the house with grey-turning,
+gold-turning light. The shadow of a tree fell abruptly across the dew
+and ghostly birds began to sing among the blue leaves. There was a
+slow, pleasant movement in the air, scarcely a wind, promising a cool,
+lovely day.
+
+“I don’t think she ever loved him.” Gatsby turned around from a window
+and looked at me challengingly. “You must remember, old sport, she was
+very excited this afternoon. He told her those things in a way that
+frightened her—that made it look as if I was some kind of cheap
+sharper. And the result was she hardly knew what she was saying.”
+
+He sat down gloomily.
+
+“Of course she might have loved him just for a minute, when they were
+first married—and loved me more even then, do you see?”
+
+Suddenly he came out with a curious remark.
+
+“In any case,” he said, “it was just personal.”
+
+What could you make of that, except to suspect some intensity in his
+conception of the affair that couldn’t be measured?
+
+He came back from France when Tom and Daisy were still on their
+wedding trip, and made a miserable but irresistible journey to
+Louisville on the last of his army pay. He stayed there a week,
+walking the streets where their footsteps had clicked together through
+the November night and revisiting the out-of-the-way places to which
+they had driven in her white car. Just as Daisy’s house had always
+seemed to him more mysterious and gay than other houses, so his idea
+of the city itself, even though she was gone from it, was pervaded
+with a melancholy beauty.
+
+He left feeling that if he had searched harder, he might have found
+her—that he was leaving her behind. The day-coach—he was penniless
+now—was hot. He went out to the open vestibule and sat down on a
+folding-chair, and the station slid away and the backs of unfamiliar
+buildings moved by. Then out into the spring fields, where a yellow
+trolley raced them for a minute with people in it who might once have
+seen the pale magic of her face along the casual street.
+
+The track curved and now it was going away from the sun, which, as it
+sank lower, seemed to spread itself in benediction over the vanishing
+city where she had drawn her breath. He stretched out his hand
+desperately as if to snatch only a wisp of air, to save a fragment of
+the spot that she had made lovely for him. But it was all going by too
+fast now for his blurred eyes and he knew that he had lost that part
+of it, the freshest and the best, forever.
+
+It was nine o’clock when we finished breakfast and went out on the
+porch. The night had made a sharp difference in the weather and there
+was an autumn flavour in the air. The gardener, the last one of
+Gatsby’s former servants, came to the foot of the steps.
+
+“I’m going to drain the pool today, Mr. Gatsby. Leaves’ll start
+falling pretty soon, and then there’s always trouble with the pipes.”
+
+“Don’t do it today,” Gatsby answered. He turned to me apologetically.
+“You know, old sport, I’ve never used that pool all summer?”
+
+I looked at my watch and stood up.
+
+“Twelve minutes to my train.”
+
+I didn’t want to go to the city. I wasn’t worth a decent stroke of
+work, but it was more than that—I didn’t want to leave Gatsby. I
+missed that train, and then another, before I could get myself away.
+
+“I’ll call you up,” I said finally.
+
+“Do, old sport.”
+
+“I’ll call you about noon.”
+
+We walked slowly down the steps.
+
+“I suppose Daisy’ll call too.” He looked at me anxiously, as if he
+hoped I’d corroborate this.
+
+“I suppose so.”
+
+“Well, goodbye.”
+
+We shook hands and I started away. Just before I reached the hedge I
+remembered something and turned around.
+
+“They’re a rotten crowd,” I shouted across the lawn. “You’re worth the
+whole damn bunch put together.”
+
+I’ve always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever
+gave him, because I disapproved of him from beginning to end. First he
+nodded politely, and then his face broke into that radiant and
+understanding smile, as if we’d been in ecstatic cahoots on that fact
+all the time. His gorgeous pink rag of a suit made a bright spot of
+colour against the white steps, and I thought of the night when I
+first came to his ancestral home, three months before. The lawn and
+drive had been crowded with the faces of those who guessed at his
+corruption—and he had stood on those steps, concealing his
+incorruptible dream, as he waved them goodbye.
+
+I thanked him for his hospitality. We were always thanking him for
+that—I and the others.
+
+“Goodbye,” I called. “I enjoyed breakfast, Gatsby.”
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+Up in the city, I tried for a while to list the quotations on an
+interminable amount of stock, then I fell asleep in my swivel-chair.
+Just before noon the phone woke me, and I started up with sweat
+breaking out on my forehead. It was Jordan Baker; she often called me
+up at this hour because the uncertainty of her own movements between
+hotels and clubs and private houses made her hard to find in any other
+way. Usually her voice came over the wire as something fresh and cool,
+as if a divot from a green golf-links had come sailing in at the
+office window, but this morning it seemed harsh and dry.
+
+“I’ve left Daisy’s house,” she said. “I’m at Hempstead, and I’m going
+down to Southampton this afternoon.”
+
+Probably it had been tactful to leave Daisy’s house, but the act
+annoyed me, and her next remark made me rigid.
+
+“You weren’t so nice to me last night.”
+
+“How could it have mattered then?”
+
+Silence for a moment. Then:
+
+“However—I want to see you.”
+
+“I want to see you, too.”
+
+“Suppose I don’t go to Southampton, and come into town this
+afternoon?”
+
+“No—I don’t think this afternoon.”
+
+“Very well.”
+
+“It’s impossible this afternoon. Various—”
+
+We talked like that for a while, and then abruptly we weren’t talking
+any longer. I don’t know which of us hung up with a sharp click, but I
+know I didn’t care. I couldn’t have talked to her across a tea-table
+that day if I never talked to her again in this world.
+
+I called Gatsby’s house a few minutes later, but the line was busy. I
+tried four times; finally an exasperated central told me the wire was
+being kept open for long distance from Detroit. Taking out my
+timetable, I drew a small circle around the three-fifty train. Then I
+leaned back in my chair and tried to think. It was just noon.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+When I passed the ash-heaps on the train that morning I had crossed
+deliberately to the other side of the car. I supposed there’d be a
+curious crowd around there all day with little boys searching for dark
+spots in the dust, and some garrulous man telling over and over what
+had happened, until it became less and less real even to him and he
+could tell it no longer, and Myrtle Wilson’s tragic achievement was
+forgotten. Now I want to go back a little and tell what happened at
+the garage after we left there the night before.
+
+They had difficulty in locating the sister, Catherine. She must have
+broken her rule against drinking that night, for when she arrived she
+was stupid with liquor and unable to understand that the ambulance had
+already gone to Flushing. When they convinced her of this, she
+immediately fainted, as if that was the intolerable part of the
+affair. Someone, kind or curious, took her in his car and drove her in
+the wake of her sister’s body.
+
+Until long after midnight a changing crowd lapped up against the front
+of the garage, while George Wilson rocked himself back and forth on
+the couch inside. For a while the door of the office was open, and
+everyone who came into the garage glanced irresistibly through it.
+Finally someone said it was a shame, and closed the door. Michaelis
+and several other men were with him; first, four or five men, later
+two or three men. Still later Michaelis had to ask the last stranger
+to wait there fifteen minutes longer, while he went back to his own
+place and made a pot of coffee. After that, he stayed there alone with
+Wilson until dawn.
+
+About three o’clock the quality of Wilson’s incoherent muttering
+changed—he grew quieter and began to talk about the yellow car. He
+announced that he had a way of finding out whom the yellow car
+belonged to, and then he blurted out that a couple of months ago his
+wife had come from the city with her face bruised and her nose
+swollen.
+
+But when he heard himself say this, he flinched and began to cry “Oh,
+my God!” again in his groaning voice. Michaelis made a clumsy attempt
+to distract him.
+
+“How long have you been married, George? Come on there, try and sit
+still a minute, and answer my question. How long have you been
+married?”
+
+“Twelve years.”
+
+“Ever had any children? Come on, George, sit still—I asked you a
+question. Did you ever have any children?”
+
+The hard brown beetles kept thudding against the dull light, and
+whenever Michaelis heard a car go tearing along the road outside it
+sounded to him like the car that hadn’t stopped a few hours before.
+He didn’t like to go into the garage, because the work bench was
+stained where the body had been lying, so he moved uncomfortably
+around the office—he knew every object in it before morning—and from
+time to time sat down beside Wilson trying to keep him more quiet.
+
+“Have you got a church you go to sometimes, George? Maybe even if you
+haven’t been there for a long time? Maybe I could call up the church
+and get a priest to come over and he could talk to you, see?”
+
+“Don’t belong to any.”
+
+“You ought to have a church, George, for times like this. You must
+have gone to church once. Didn’t you get married in a church? Listen,
+George, listen to me. Didn’t you get married in a church?”
+
+“That was a long time ago.”
+
+The effort of answering broke the rhythm of his rocking—for a moment
+he was silent. Then the same half-knowing, half-bewildered look came
+back into his faded eyes.
+
+“Look in the drawer there,” he said, pointing at the desk.
+
+“Which drawer?”
+
+“That drawer—that one.”
+
+Michaelis opened the drawer nearest his hand. There was nothing in it
+but a small, expensive dog-leash, made of leather and braided
+silver. It was apparently new.
+
+“This?” he inquired, holding it up.
+
+Wilson stared and nodded.
+
+“I found it yesterday afternoon. She tried to tell me about it, but I
+knew it was something funny.”
+
+“You mean your wife bought it?”
+
+“She had it wrapped in tissue paper on her bureau.”
+
+Michaelis didn’t see anything odd in that, and he gave Wilson a dozen
+reasons why his wife might have bought the dog-leash. But conceivably
+Wilson had heard some of these same explanations before, from Myrtle,
+because he began saying “Oh, my God!” again in a whisper—his comforter
+left several explanations in the air.
+
+“Then he killed her,” said Wilson. His mouth dropped open suddenly.
+
+“Who did?”
+
+“I have a way of finding out.”
+
+“You’re morbid, George,” said his friend. “This has been a strain to
+you and you don’t know what you’re saying. You’d better try and sit
+quiet till morning.”
+
+“He murdered her.”
+
+“It was an accident, George.”
+
+Wilson shook his head. His eyes narrowed and his mouth widened
+slightly with the ghost of a superior “Hm!”
+
+“I know,” he said definitely. “I’m one of these trusting fellas and I
+don’t think any harm to nobody, but when I get to know a thing I know
+it. It was the man in that car. She ran out to speak to him and he
+wouldn’t stop.”
+
+Michaelis had seen this too, but it hadn’t occurred to him that there
+was any special significance in it. He believed that Mrs. Wilson had
+been running away from her husband, rather than trying to stop any
+particular car.
+
+“How could she of been like that?”
+
+“She’s a deep one,” said Wilson, as if that answered the question.
+“Ah-h-h—”
+
+He began to rock again, and Michaelis stood twisting the leash in his
+hand.
+
+“Maybe you got some friend that I could telephone for, George?”
+
+This was a forlorn hope—he was almost sure that Wilson had no friend:
+there was not enough of him for his wife. He was glad a little later
+when he noticed a change in the room, a blue quickening by the window,
+and realized that dawn wasn’t far off. About five o’clock it was blue
+enough outside to snap off the light.
+
+Wilson’s glazed eyes turned out to the ash-heaps, where small grey
+clouds took on fantastic shapes and scurried here and there in the
+faint dawn wind.
+
+“I spoke to her,” he muttered, after a long silence. “I told her she
+might fool me but she couldn’t fool God. I took her to the
+window”—with an effort he got up and walked to the rear window and
+leaned with his face pressed against it—“and I said ‘God knows what
+you’ve been doing, everything you’ve been doing. You may fool me, but
+you can’t fool God!’ ”
+
+Standing behind him, Michaelis saw with a shock that he was looking at
+the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg, which had just emerged, pale and
+enormous, from the dissolving night.
+
+“God sees everything,” repeated Wilson.
+
+“That’s an advertisement,” Michaelis assured him. Something made him
+turn away from the window and look back into the room. But Wilson
+stood there a long time, his face close to the window pane, nodding
+into the twilight.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+By six o’clock Michaelis was worn out, and grateful for the sound of a
+car stopping outside. It was one of the watchers of the night before
+who had promised to come back, so he cooked breakfast for three, which
+he and the other man ate together. Wilson was quieter now, and
+Michaelis went home to sleep; when he awoke four hours later and
+hurried back to the garage, Wilson was gone.
+
+His movements—he was on foot all the time—were afterward traced to
+Port Roosevelt and then to Gad’s Hill, where he bought a sandwich that
+he didn’t eat, and a cup of coffee. He must have been tired and
+walking slowly, for he didn’t reach Gad’s Hill until noon. Thus far
+there was no difficulty in accounting for his time—there were boys who
+had seen a man “acting sort of crazy,” and motorists at whom he stared
+oddly from the side of the road. Then for three hours he disappeared
+from view. The police, on the strength of what he said to Michaelis,
+that he “had a way of finding out,” supposed that he spent that time
+going from garage to garage thereabout, inquiring for a yellow car. On
+the other hand, no garage man who had seen him ever came forward, and
+perhaps he had an easier, surer way of finding out what he wanted to
+know. By half-past two he was in West Egg, where he asked someone the
+way to Gatsby’s house. So by that time he knew Gatsby’s name.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+At two o’clock Gatsby put on his bathing-suit and left word with the
+butler that if anyone phoned word was to be brought to him at the
+pool. He stopped at the garage for a pneumatic mattress that had
+amused his guests during the summer, and the chauffeur helped him to
+pump it up. Then he gave instructions that the open car wasn’t to be
+taken out under any circumstances—and this was strange, because the
+front right fender needed repair.
+
+Gatsby shouldered the mattress and started for the pool. Once he
+stopped and shifted it a little, and the chauffeur asked him if he
+needed help, but he shook his head and in a moment disappeared among
+the yellowing trees.
+
+No telephone message arrived, but the butler went without his sleep
+and waited for it until four o’clock—until long after there was anyone
+to give it to if it came. I have an idea that Gatsby himself didn’t
+believe it would come, and perhaps he no longer cared. If that was
+true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a
+high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have
+looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered
+as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight
+was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without
+being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted
+fortuitously about … like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward
+him through the amorphous trees.
+
+The chauffeur—he was one of Wolfshiem’s protégés—heard the
+shots—afterwards he could only say that he hadn’t thought anything
+much about them. I drove from the station directly to Gatsby’s house
+and my rushing anxiously up the front steps was the first thing that
+alarmed anyone. But they knew then, I firmly believe. With scarcely a
+word said, four of us, the chauffeur, butler, gardener, and I hurried
+down to the pool.
+
+There was a faint, barely perceptible movement of the water as the
+fresh flow from one end urged its way toward the drain at the other.
+With little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden
+mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that
+scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental
+course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves
+revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of transit, a thin red
+circle in the water.
+
+It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the gardener
+saw Wilson’s body a little way off in the grass, and the holocaust was
+complete.
+
+
+                                  IX
+
+After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and
+the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and
+newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched
+across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but
+little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and
+there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the
+pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the
+expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and
+the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper
+reports next morning.
+
+Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial,
+eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought
+to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale
+would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might
+have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount
+of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes
+under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never
+seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband,
+that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced
+herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very
+suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a
+man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its
+simplest form. And it rested there.
+
+But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself
+on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the
+catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every
+practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and
+confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or
+speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because
+no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense
+personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end.
+
+I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her
+instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away
+early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them.
+
+“Left no address?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Say when they’d be back?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?”
+
+“I don’t know. Can’t say.”
+
+I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where
+he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t
+worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—”
+
+Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me
+his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the
+time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the
+phone.
+
+“Will you ring again?”
+
+“I’ve rung three times.”
+
+“It’s very important.”
+
+“Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.”
+
+I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they
+were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled
+it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with
+shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain:
+
+“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got
+to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”
+
+Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going
+upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d
+never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was
+nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence,
+staring down from the wall.
+
+Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem,
+which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next
+train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure
+he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a
+wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem
+arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and
+newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began
+to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby
+and me against them all.
+
+ Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of
+ my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a
+ mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down
+ now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get
+ mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little
+ later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when
+ I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and
+ out.
+
+                               Yours truly
+
+                             Meyer Wolfshiem
+
+and then hasty addenda beneath:
+
+ Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all.
+
+When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was
+calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came
+through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away.
+
+“This is Slagle speaking …”
+
+“Yes?” The name was unfamiliar.
+
+“Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?”
+
+“There haven’t been any wires.”
+
+“Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when
+he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New
+York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know
+about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—”
+
+“Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr.
+Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”
+
+There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an
+exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz
+arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was
+leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came.
+
+It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed,
+bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His
+eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and
+umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse
+grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on
+the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him
+sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and
+the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.
+
+“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the
+Chicago newspaper. I started right away.”
+
+“I didn’t know how to reach you.”
+
+His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.
+
+“It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.”
+
+“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him.
+
+“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—”
+
+“Carraway.”
+
+“Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?”
+
+I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him
+there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into
+the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly
+away.
+
+After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth
+ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and
+unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the
+quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the
+first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great
+rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be
+mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he
+took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been
+deferred until he came.
+
+“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—”
+
+“Gatz is my name.”
+
+“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.”
+
+He shook his head.
+
+“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in
+the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?”
+
+“We were close friends.”
+
+“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man,
+but he had a lot of brain power here.”
+
+He touched his head impressively, and I nodded.
+
+“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J.
+Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.”
+
+“That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably.
+
+He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the
+bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep.
+
+That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to
+know who I was before he would give his name.
+
+“This is Mr. Carraway,” I said.
+
+“Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.”
+
+I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at
+Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a
+sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They
+were hard to find.
+
+“The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house.
+I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.”
+
+“Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see
+anybody, but if I do.”
+
+His tone made me suspicious.
+
+“Of course you’ll be there yourself.”
+
+“Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—”
+
+“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?”
+
+“Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with
+some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with
+them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of
+course I’ll do my best to get away.”
+
+I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he
+went on nervously:
+
+“What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if
+it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see,
+they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My
+address is care of B. F.—”
+
+I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver.
+
+After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I
+telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was
+my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at
+Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known
+better than to call him.
+
+The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer
+Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I
+pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The
+Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone
+inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an
+argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess
+appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile
+eyes.
+
+“Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.”
+
+The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to
+whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside.
+
+“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.”
+
+“I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?”
+
+At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!”
+from the other side of the door.
+
+“Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him
+when he gets back.”
+
+“But I know he’s there.”
+
+She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up
+and down her hips.
+
+“You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she
+scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago,
+he’s in Chicago.”
+
+I mentioned Gatsby.
+
+“Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your
+name?”
+
+She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the
+doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking
+in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered
+me a cigar.
+
+“My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major
+just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war.
+He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he
+couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he
+came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a
+job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some
+lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food
+in half an hour.”
+
+“Did you start him in business?” I inquired.
+
+“Start him! I made him.”
+
+“Oh.”
+
+“I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right
+away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told
+me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join
+the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did
+some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like
+that in everything”—he held up two bulbous fingers—“always together.”
+
+I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series
+transaction in 1919.
+
+“Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend,
+so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”
+
+“I’d like to come.”
+
+“Well, come then.”
+
+The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head
+his eyes filled with tears.
+
+“I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said.
+
+“There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.”
+
+“When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any
+way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend
+of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may
+think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.”
+
+I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come,
+so I stood up.
+
+“Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly.
+
+For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he
+only nodded and shook my hand.
+
+“Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and
+not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let
+everything alone.”
+
+When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West
+Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found
+Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his
+son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he
+had something to show me.
+
+“Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling
+fingers. “Look there.”
+
+It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty
+with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look
+there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so
+often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself.
+
+“Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up
+well.”
+
+“Very well. Had you seen him lately?”
+
+“He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in
+now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see
+now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of
+him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.”
+
+He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another
+minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and
+pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong
+Cassidy.
+
+“Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows
+you.”
+
+He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On
+the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September
+12, 1906. And underneath:
+
+    Rise from bed                                  6:00      a.m.
+    Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling              6:15-6:30 ”
+    Study electricity, etc.                        7:15-8:15 ”
+    Work                                           8:30-4:30 p.m.
+    Baseball and sports                            4:30-5:00 ”
+    Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ”
+    Study needed inventions                        7:00-9:00 ”
+
+               General Resolves
+
+  * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable]
+
+  * No more smokeing or chewing.
+
+  * Bath every other day
+
+  * Read one improving book or magazine per week
+
+  * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week
+
+  * Be better to parents
+
+“I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just
+shows you, don’t it?”
+
+“It just shows you.”
+
+“Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this
+or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He
+was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat
+him for it.”
+
+He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then
+looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the
+list for my own use.
+
+A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and
+I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did
+Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and
+stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he
+spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced
+several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait
+for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery
+and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate—first a motor hearse,
+horribly black and wet, then Mr. Gatz and the minister and me in the
+limousine, and a little later four or five servants and the postman
+from West Egg, in Gatsby’s station wagon, all wet to the skin. As we
+started through the gate into the cemetery I heard a car stop and then
+the sound of someone splashing after us over the soggy ground. I
+looked around. It was the man with owl-eyed glasses whom I had found
+marvelling over Gatsby’s books in the library one night three months
+before.
+
+I’d never seen him since then. I don’t know how he knew about the
+funeral, or even his name. The rain poured down his thick glasses, and
+he took them off and wiped them to see the protecting canvas unrolled
+from Gatsby’s grave.
+
+I tried to think about Gatsby then for a moment, but he was already
+too far away, and I could only remember, without resentment, that
+Daisy hadn’t sent a message or a flower. Dimly I heard someone murmur
+“Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on,” and then the owl-eyed
+man said “Amen to that,” in a brave voice.
+
+We straggled down quickly through the rain to the cars. Owl-eyes spoke
+to me by the gate.
+
+“I couldn’t get to the house,” he remarked.
+
+“Neither could anybody else.”
+
+“Go on!” He started. “Why, my God! they used to go there by the
+hundreds.”
+
+He took off his glasses and wiped them again, outside and in.
+
+“The poor son-of-a-bitch,” he said.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+One of my most vivid memories is of coming back West from prep school
+and later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther than
+Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at six o’clock of a
+December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into
+their own holiday gaieties, to bid them a hasty goodbye. I remember
+the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-That’s and the
+chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught
+sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: “Are you
+going to the Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?” and the long
+green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky
+yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad looking
+cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate.
+
+When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow,
+began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and
+the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild
+brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we
+walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware
+of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we
+melted indistinguishably into it again.
+
+That’s my Middle West—not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede
+towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street
+lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly
+wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a
+little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent
+from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are
+still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this
+has been a story of the West, after all—Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and
+Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some
+deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life.
+
+Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly aware
+of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the
+Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the
+children and the very old—even then it had always for me a quality of
+distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my more fantastic
+dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at
+once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging
+sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress
+suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a
+drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over
+the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a
+house—the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one
+cares.
+
+After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted
+beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle
+leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the
+line I decided to come back home.
+
+There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant
+thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to
+leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent
+sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and
+around what had happened to us together, and what had happened
+afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big
+chair.
+
+She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like
+a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the
+colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the
+fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without
+comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though
+there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I
+pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t
+making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up
+to say goodbye.
+
+“Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw
+me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it
+was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.”
+
+We shook hands.
+
+“Oh, and do you remember”—she added—“a conversation we had once about
+driving a car?”
+
+“Why—not exactly.”
+
+“You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver?
+Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me
+to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest,
+straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.”
+
+“I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and
+call it honour.”
+
+She didn’t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously
+sorry, I turned away.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead
+of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands out a
+little from his body as if to fight off interference, his head moving
+sharply here and there, adapting itself to his restless eyes. Just as
+I slowed up to avoid overtaking him he stopped and began frowning into
+the windows of a jewellery store. Suddenly he saw me and walked back,
+holding out his hand.
+
+“What’s the matter, Nick? Do you object to shaking hands with me?”
+
+“Yes. You know what I think of you.”
+
+“You’re crazy, Nick,” he said quickly. “Crazy as hell. I don’t know
+what’s the matter with you.”
+
+“Tom,” I inquired, “what did you say to Wilson that afternoon?”
+
+He stared at me without a word, and I knew I had guessed right about
+those missing hours. I started to turn away, but he took a step after
+me and grabbed my arm.
+
+“I told him the truth,” he said. “He came to the door while we were
+getting ready to leave, and when I sent down word that we weren’t in
+he tried to force his way upstairs. He was crazy enough to kill me if
+I hadn’t told him who owned the car. His hand was on a revolver in his
+pocket every minute he was in the house—” He broke off defiantly.
+“What if I did tell him? That fellow had it coming to him. He threw
+dust into your eyes just like he did in Daisy’s, but he was a tough
+one. He ran over Myrtle like you’d run over a dog and never even
+stopped his car.”
+
+There was nothing I could say, except the one unutterable fact that it
+wasn’t true.
+
+“And if you think I didn’t have my share of suffering—look here, when
+I went to give up that flat and saw that damn box of dog biscuits
+sitting there on the sideboard, I sat down and cried like a baby. By
+God it was awful—”
+
+I couldn’t forgive him or like him, but I saw that what he had done
+was, to him, entirely justified. It was all very careless and
+confused. They were careless people, Tom and Daisy—they smashed up
+things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their
+vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let
+other people clean up the mess they had made …
+
+I shook hands with him; it seemed silly not to, for I felt suddenly as
+though I were talking to a child. Then he went into the jewellery
+store to buy a pearl necklace—or perhaps only a pair of cuff
+buttons—rid of my provincial squeamishness forever.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+Gatsby’s house was still empty when I left—the grass on his lawn had
+grown as long as mine. One of the taxi drivers in the village never
+took a fare past the entrance gate without stopping for a minute and
+pointing inside; perhaps it was he who drove Daisy and Gatsby over to
+East Egg the night of the accident, and perhaps he had made a story
+about it all his own. I didn’t want to hear it and I avoided him when
+I got off the train.
+
+I spent my Saturday nights in New York because those gleaming,
+dazzling parties of his were with me so vividly that I could still
+hear the music and the laughter, faint and incessant, from his garden,
+and the cars going up and down his drive. One night I did hear a
+material car there, and saw its lights stop at his front steps. But I
+didn’t investigate. Probably it was some final guest who had been away
+at the ends of the earth and didn’t know that the party was over.
+
+On the last night, with my trunk packed and my car sold to the grocer,
+I went over and looked at that huge incoherent failure of a house once
+more. On the white steps an obscene word, scrawled by some boy with a
+piece of brick, stood out clearly in the moonlight, and I erased it,
+drawing my shoe raspingly along the stone. Then I wandered down to the
+beach and sprawled out on the sand.
+
+Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any
+lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the
+Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to
+melt away until gradually I became aware of the old island here that
+flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes—a fresh, green breast of the new
+world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s
+house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all
+human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his
+breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic
+contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the
+last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for
+wonder.
+
+And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of
+Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of
+Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream
+must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He
+did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that
+vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic
+rolled on under the night.
+
+Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by
+year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no
+matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further … And
+one fine morning—
+
+So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into
+the past.
+
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