Chapter 16
As no objection was made to the young people’s
engagement with their aunt, and all Mr. Collins’s scruples of
leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for a single evening during his visit
were most steadily resisted, the coach conveyed him and his five
cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton; and the girls had the
pleasure of hearing, as they entered the drawing-room, that Mr.
Wickham had accepted their uncle’s invitation, and was then in the
house.
When this information was given, and they had all
taken their seats, 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 the small summer breakfast parlour at Rosings; a
comparison that did not at first convey much gratification; but
when Mrs. Philips understood from him what Rosings was, and who was
its proprietor, when she had listened to the description of only
one of Lady Catherine’s drawing-rooms, and found that the
chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all the
force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a
comparison with the housekeeper’s room.
In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady
Catherine and her mansion, with occasional digressions in praise of
his own humble abode, and the improvements it was receiving, he 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, and who had nothing to
do but to wish for an instrument, and examine their own indifferent
imitations of chinaad on
the mantel-piece, 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 that she had neither
been seeing him before, nor thinking of him since, with the
smallest degree of unreasonable admiration. The officers of
the———shire were in general a very creditable, gentlemanlike set,
and the best of them were of the present party; 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 towards 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, and on the probability of a rainy season, 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 an
opportunity of obliging her, in return, by sitting down to
whist.ae
“I know little of the game at present,” said he,
“but I shall be glad to improve myself; for in my situation of
life———” Mrs. Philips was very thankful for his compliance, but
could not wait for his reason.
Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, 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 lottery tickets, she soon grew too much
interested in the game, too eager in making bets and exclaiming
after prizes, to have attention for any one in particular. 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
enquired 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; and then,
unwilling to let the subject drop, added, “he is a man of very
large property in Derbyshire, I understand.”
“Yes,” replied Wickham; “his estate there is a
noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. 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 you 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,
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 any where else. Here you
are 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. Every body is disgusted with
his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by any
one.”
“I cannot pretend to be sorry,” said Wickham, after
a short interruption, “that he or that any man should not be
estimated beyond their deserts; but with him I believe it
does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and
consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and
sees him only as he chooses to be seen.”
“I should take him, even on my slight
acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man.” Wickham only shook his
head.
“I wonder,” said he, at the next opportunity of
speaking, “whether he is likely to be in this country much
longer.”
“I do not at all know; but I heard nothing
of his going away when I was at Netherfield. 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 but what I might
proclaim to all the world—a sense of very great ill usage, and most
painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet,
the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and
the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with
this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand
tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous;
but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing,
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 enquiry.
Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics,
Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased
with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter,
especially, with gentle but very intelligible gallantry.
“It was the prospect of constant society, and good
society,” he added, “which was my chief inducement to enter
the———shire. I know it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps;
and my friend Denny tempted me further by his account of their
present quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent
acquaintance Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is
necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits
will not bear solitude. I must have employment and society.
A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances
have now made it eligible. 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 the living fell, it was given elsewhere.”
“Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth; “but how could
that be? How could his will be disregarded? Why did not you
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, any thing or nothing. Certain it is that the living
became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it,
and that it was given to another man; and no less certain is it,
that I cannot accuse myself of having really done any thing to
deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may
perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion of him, and
to him, too freely. I can recall nothing worse. 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 publicly
disgraced.”
“Some time or other he will be—but it shall
not be by me. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy
or expose him.”
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 had not a temper to bear the sort
of competition in which we stood—the sort of preference which was
often given me.”
“I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this—though
I have never liked him, I had not thought so very ill of him—I had
supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but
did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such
injustice, such inhumanity as this!”
After a few minutes’ reflection, however, she
continued,—“I do remember his boasting one day, at
Netherfield, of the implacability of his resentments; of his having
an unforgiving temper. His disposition must be dreadful.”
“I will not trust myself on the subject,” replied
Wickham; “I can hardly be just to him.”
Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a
time exclaimed, “To treat in such a manner the godson, the friend,
the favourite of his father!” She could have added, “A young man,
too, like you, whose very countenance may vouch for your
being amiable.” But she contented herself with—“And one, too, who
had probably been his own companion from childhood, connected
together, as I think you said, in the closest manner.”
“We were born in the same parish, within the same
park; the greatest part of our youth was passed together: inmates
of the same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same
parental care. My father began life in the profession which
your uncle, Mr. Philips, appears to do so much credit to; but he
gave up every thing to be of use to the late Mr. Darcy, and devoted
all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most
highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential friend.
Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the greatest
obligations to my father’s active superintendence; and when,
immediately before my father’s death, Mr. Darcy gave him a
voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt
it to be as much a debt of gratitude to him as of affection
to myself.”
“How strange!” cried Elizabeth. “How abominable! I
wonder that the very pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just
to you. If from no better motive, that he should not have been too
proud to be dishonest—for dishonesty I must call it.”
“It is wonderful,” replied Wickham; “for almost all
his actions may be traced to pride; and pride has often been his
best friend. It has connected him nearer with virtue than any other
feeling. But we are none of us consistent; and in his behaviour to
me there were stronger impulses even than pride.”
“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. Family pride, and
filial pride, for he is very proud of what his father was,
have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to degenerate
from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the Pemberley
House, is a powerful motive. He has also brotherly pride,
which, with some brotherly affection, makes him a very kind
and careful guardian of his sister; and you will hear him generally
cried up as the most attentive and best of brothers.”
“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 accomplished. Since her father’s death her home
has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her
education.”
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.”
“Probably not; but Mr. Darcy can please where he
chooses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible
companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at
all his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what
he is to the less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with
the rich he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable,
and, perhaps, agreeable,—allowing something for fortune and
figure.”
The whist 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
enquiries as to his success were made by the latter. It had not
been very great; he had lost every point: 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 she would not
make herself uneasy.
“I know very well, madam,” said he, “that when
persons sit down to a card table they must take their chance 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 were 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 nothing at all of
Lady Catherine’s connections. I never heard of her existence till
the day before yesterday.”
“Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very
large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will
unite the two estates.”
This information made Elizabeth smile, as she
thought of poor Miss Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her
attentions, vain and useless her affection for his sister and her
praise of himself, if he were already self-destined to
another.
“Mr. Collins,” said she, “speaks highly both of
Lady Catherine and her daughter; but from some particulars that he
has related of her Ladyship; I suspect his gratitude misleads him;
and that, in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant,
conceited woman.”
“I believe her to be both in a great degree,”
replied Wickham: “I have not seen her for many years; but I very
well remember that I never liked her, and that her manners were
dictatorial and insolent. She has the reputation of being
remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe she derives
part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from her
authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride of her nephew,
who chooses that every one connected with him should have an
understanding of the first class.”
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 every body. 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 neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia talked
incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fishaf she
had lost and the fish she had won; and Mr. Collins, in describing
the civility of Mr. and Mrs. Philips, protesting that he did not in
the least regard his losses at whist, enumerating all the dishes at
supper, and repeatedly fearing that he crowded his cousins, had
more to say than he could well manage before the carriage stopped
at Longbourn House.