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CHAPTER 27
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."