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.”