Chapter 4
With no greater events than these in the Longbourn
family, and otherwise diversified by little beyond the walks to
Meryton, sometimes dirty and sometimes cold, 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 depending on the plan, and she
gradually learned to consider it herself with greater pleasure as
well as greater certainty. Absence had increased her desire of
seeing Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins.
There was novelty in the scheme; and as, with such a mother and
such uncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little
change was not unwelcome for its own sake. 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. Every thing,
however, went on smoothly, and was finally settled according to
Charlotte’s first sketch. 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 plan could be.
The only pain was in leaving her father, who would
certainly miss her, and who, when it came to the point, so little
liked her going, that he told her to write to him, and almost
promised to answer her letter.
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; and in his manner of bidding her
adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of what she was
to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their opinion
of her—their opinion of every body—would always coincide, there was
a solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her to
him with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced,
that, whether married or single, he must always be her model of the
amiable and pleasing.
Her fellow-travellers the next day were not of a
kind as make her think him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and
his daughter Maria, a good-humoured girl, but as empty-headed 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.
Elizabeth loved absurdities, but she had known Sir William’s too
long. He could tell her nothing new of the wonders of his
presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were worn out like
his information.
It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and
they began it so early as to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. 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, and Elizabeth, looking earnestly in her
face, was pleased to see it healthful and lovely as ever. On the
stairs were a troop of little boys and girls, whose eagerness for
their cousin’s appearance would not allow them to wait in the
drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her for a
twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and
kindness. 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 subject was her sister; and she was more grieved than
astonished to hear, in reply to her minute enquiries, 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 Gracechurch Street, 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 Miss King? 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?
Where does discretion end, and avarice begin? 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 want to find out that he is mercenary.”
“If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss
King is, I shall know what to think.”
“She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know
no harm of her.”
“But he paid her not the smallest attention till
her grandfather’s death made her mistress of this fortune?”
“No—why should he? If it were not allowable for him
to gain my affections, because I had no money, what occasion
could there be for making love to a girl whom he did not care
about, and who was equally poor?”
“But there seems indelicacy in directing his
attentions towards her so soon after this event.”
“A man in distressed circumstances has not time for
all those elegant decorums which other people may observe. If
she does not object to it, why should we?”
“Her not objecting does not justify
him. It only shows her being deficient in something
herself—sense or feeling.”
“Well,” cried Elizabeth, “have it as you choose.
He shall be mercenary, and she shall be
foolish.”
“No, Lizzy, that is what I do not choose. I
should be sorry, you know, to think ill of a young man who has
lived so long in Derbyshire.”
“Oh, if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of
young men who live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who
live in Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all.
Thank Heaven! I am going tomorrow where I shall find a man who has
not one agreeable quality, who has neither manner nor sense to
recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after
all.”
“Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of
disappointment.”
Before they were separated by the conclusion of the
play, she 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 quite determined how far it shall
carry us,” said Mrs. Gardiner; “but, perhaps, to the Lakes.”8
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 men to rocks and mountains? Oh,
what hours of transport we shall spend! And when we do
return, it shall not be like other travellers, without being able
to give one accurate idea of any thing. We will know where
we have gone—we will recollect what we have seen. Lakes,
mountains, and rivers, shall not be jumbled together in our
imaginations; nor, when we attempt to describe any particular
scene, will we begin quarelling about its relative situation. Let
our first effusions be less insupportable than those of the
generality of travellers.”