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 ex-
pect 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 re-
gard; 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-hu-
moured 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 pre-
sentation 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 en-
tered 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 sis-
ter; 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 oc-
curring 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 compli-
mented 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, be-
tween the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end,
and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me, be-
cause 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 affec-
tions 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 un-
expected 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 accep-
tance 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—
wewill 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."
