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. Everything, 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 everybody--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 to 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 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 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--what
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 an 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 to-morrow
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 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. "Oh, 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 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 anything. 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 quarreling
about its relative situation. Let _our_ first effusions be less
insupportable than those of the generality of travellers." _