Miss Bingley’s letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very
first sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in
London for the winter, and concluded with her brother’s regret
at not having had time to pay his respects to his friends in
Hertfordshire before he left the country.
Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the
rest of the letter, she found little, except the professed affection
of the writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy’s
praise occupied the chief of it. Her many attractions were again
dwelt on, and Caroline boasted joyfully of their increasing
intimacy, and ventured to predict the accomplishment of the
wishes which had been unfolded in her former letter. She wrote
also with great pleasure of her brother’s being an inmate of Mr.
Darcy’s house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of the
latter with regard to new furniture.
Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of
all this, heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided
between concern for her sister, and resentment against all others.
To Caroline’s assertion of her brother’s being partial to Miss
Darcy she paid no credit. That he was really fond of Jane, she
doubted no more than she had ever done; and much as she had
always been disposed to like him, she could not think without
anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness of temper, that
want of proper resolution, which now made him the slave of his
designing friends, and led him to sacrifice of his own happiness
to the caprice of their inclination. Had his own happiness,
however, been the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to
sport with it in whatever manner he thought best, but her sister’s
was involved in it, as she thought he must be sensible himself. It
was a subject, in short, on which reflection would be long
indulged, and must be unavailing. She could think of nothing
else; and yet whether Bingley’s regard had really died away, or
were suppressed by his friends’ interference; whether he had
been aware of Jane’s attachment, or whether it had escaped his
observation; whatever were the case, though her opinion of him
must be materially affected by the difference, her sister’s
situation remained the same, her peace equally wounded.
A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her
feelings to Elizabeth; but at last, on Mrs. Bennet’s leaving them
together, after a longer irritation than usual about Netherfield
and its master, she could not help saying:
“Oh, that my dear mother had more command over herself! She
can have no idea of the pain she gives me by her continual
reflections on him. But I will not repine. It cannot last long. He
will be forgot, and we shall all be as we were before.”
Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but
said nothing.
“You doubt me,” cried Jane, slightly colouring; “indeed, you
have no reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable
man of my acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to
hope or fear, and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I
have not THAT pain. A little time, therefore— I shall certainly
try to get the better.”
With a stronger voice she soon added, “I have this comfort
immediately, that it has not been more than an error of fancy on
my side, and that it has done no harm to anyone but myself.”
“My dear Jane!” exclaimed Elizabeth, “you are too good. Your
sweetness and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know
what to say to you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or
loved you as you deserve.”
Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and
threw back the praise on her sister’s warm affection.
“Nay,” said Elizabeth, “this is not fair. YOU wish to think all
the world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody. I
only want to think YOU perfect, and you set yourself against it.
Do not be afraid of my running into any excess, of my
encroaching on your privilege of universal good-will. You need
not. There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of
whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I
dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the
inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little
dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or
sense. I have met with two instances lately, one I will not
mention; the other is Charlotte’s marriage. It is unaccountable!
In every view it is unaccountable!”
“My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They
will ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough
for difference of situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins’s
respectability, and Charlotte’s steady, prudent character.