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
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. Phillips, who had been a clerk
to their father and succeeded him in the business, and a brother
settled in London in a respectable line of trade.
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, 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 furnish
conversation for the evening; and however bare of news the
country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some
from their aunt. 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,
and Meryton was the headquarters.
Their visits to Mrs. Phillips were now productive of the most
interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their
knowledge of the officers’ names and connections. Their lodgings
were not long a secret, and at length they began to know the
officers themselves. Mr. Phillips visited them all, and this
opened to his nieces a store of felicity unknown before. 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.
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.”
Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with
perfect indifference, continued to express her admiration of
Captain Carter, and her hope of seeing him in the course of the
day, as he was going the next morning to London.
“I am astonished, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that you should be
so ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think
slightingly of anybody’s children, it should not be of my own,
however.”
“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.”
“This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not
agree. I had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every
particular, but I must so far differ from you as to think our two
youngest daughters uncommonly foolish.”
“My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the
sense of their father and mother. When they get to our age, I
dare say they will not think about officers any more than we do.
I remember the time when I liked a red coat myself very well—and,
indeed, so I do still at my heart; and if a smart young colonel,
with five or six thousand a year, should want one of my girls I
shall not say nay to him; and I thought Colonel Forster looked
very becoming the other night at Sir William’s in his
regimentals.”
“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 standing in
Clarke’s library.”
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. Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled with
pleasure, and she was eagerly calling out, while her daughter
read,
“Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say?
Well, Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love.”
“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. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with
the officers.—Yours ever,
“CAROLINE BINGLEY”
“With the officers!” cried Lydia. “I wonder my aunt did not tell
us of _that_.”
“Dining out,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that is very unlucky.”
“Can I have the carriage?” said Jane.
“No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems
likely to rain; and then 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.”
“Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley’s chaise to go to
Meryton, and the Hursts have no horses to theirs.”
“I had much rather go in the coach.”
“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.”
“But if you have got them to-day,” said Elizabeth, “my mother’s
purpose will be answered.”
She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the
horses were engaged. 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. 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 getting wet through yesterday. 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 sore throat and
headache, 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 have a dangerous fit of
illness—if she should die, 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 little
trifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she
stays there, it is all very well. I would go and see her if I
could have the carriage.”
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, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when
you get there.”
“I shall be very fit to see Jane—which is all I want.”
“Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,” said her father, “to send for the
horses?”
“No, indeed, I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is
nothing when one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back
by dinner.”
“I admire the activity of your benevolence,” observed Mary, “but
every impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my
opinion, exertion should always be in proportion to what is
required.”
“We will go as far as Meryton with you,” said Catherine and
Lydia. Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three young
ladies set off together.
“If we make haste,” said Lydia, as they walked 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 with impatient activity, and
finding 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 so early in the
day, 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 coming so far alone. The latter was
thinking only of his breakfast.
Her enquiries 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 was glad to be taken
to her immediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the
fear of giving alarm or inconvenience from expressing in her note
how much she longed for such a visit, was delighted at her
entrance. She was not equal, however, to much conversation, and
when Miss Bingley left them together, could attempt little
besides expressions of gratitude for the extraordinary kindness
she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended her.
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, as might be
supposed, that she had caught a violent cold, and that they must
endeavour to get the better of it; advised her to return to bed,
and promised her some draughts. The advice was followed readily,
for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head ached acutely.
Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment; nor were the other
ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had, in fact,
nothing to do elsewhere.
When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go, and
very unwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage,
and she only wanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane
testified such concern in parting with her, that Miss Bingley was
obliged to convert the offer of the chaise 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.
Chapter 8
At five o’clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half-past
six Elizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil enquiries
which then poured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of
distinguishing the much superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley’s, she
could not make a very favourable answer. 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: and their indifference
towards Jane when not immediately before them restored Elizabeth
to the enjoyment of all her former dislike.
Their brother, indeed, 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. She had very little notice from
any but him. Miss Bingley was engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister
scarcely less so; and as for Mr. Hurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he
was an indolent man, who lived only to eat, drink, and play at
cards; who, when he found her to prefer a plain dish to a ragout,
had nothing to say to her.
When dinner was over, she 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 an
excellent walker. I shall never forget her appearance this
morning. She really looked almost wild.”
“She did, indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance.
Very nonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering
about the country, 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 the gown which had been
let down to hide it not doing its office.”
“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 four miles, or five miles, or whatever
it is, above her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! 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 in
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.”
“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, and indulged their mirth for some time at
the expense of their dear friend’s vulgar relations.
With a renewal of tenderness, however, they returned to her 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 loo, 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.”
“Miss Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, “despises cards. She is a
great reader, and has no pleasure in anything else.”
“I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,” cried
Elizabeth; “I am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in
many things.”
“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 from her heart, 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.”
“Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the
beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_
house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley.”
“I wish it may.”
“But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that
neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is
not a finer county in England than Derbyshire.”
“With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will
sell it.”
“I am talking of possibilities, Charles.”
“Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get
Pemberley by purchase than by imitation.”
Elizabeth was so much caught with what passed, as to leave her
very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly
aside, she 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! Her performance on the
pianoforte is exquisite.”
“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?”
“Yes, all of them, I think. 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.”
“Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Darcy,
“has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who
deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a
screen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your
estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more
than half-a-dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that
are really accomplished.”
“Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley.
“Then,” observed Elizabeth, “you must comprehend a great deal in
your idea of an accomplished woman.”
“Yes, I do comprehend a great deal in it.”
“Oh! certainly,” cried his faithful assistant, “no one can be
really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is
usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of
music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to
deserve the word; 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,” added Darcy, “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. _I_ never saw such capacity, and
taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe united.”
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, with bitter complaints of their inattention to
what was going forward. As 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; but she was not so unwilling 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.