Chapter 41

THE first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was the last of the regiment’s stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies in the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink, and sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very frequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such hard-heartedness in any of the family.

The first week after their return soon passed. The second began. It was the regiment’s last week in Meryton, and all the young ladies in the neighbourhood were rapidly losing heart. Almost everyone was miserable. Only the older Bennet sisters could still eat, drink, sleep, and carry on with their usual activities. Kitty and Lydia very often scolded their older sisters for being so indifferent. Their own misery was extreme, and they could not understand such hard-heartedness in anyone in the family.

“Good Heaven! What is to become of us? What are we to do?” would they often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. “How can you be smiling so, Lizzy?”

“Good heavens! What will happen to us? What are we going to do?” they would often cry in deep distress. “How can you smile like that, Lizzy?”

Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what she had herself endured on a similar occasion five-and-twenty years ago.

Their loving mother shared all their grief. She remembered what she herself had suffered on a similar occasion twenty-five years earlier.

“I am sure,” said she, “I cried for two days together when Colonel Miller’s regiment went away. I thought I should have broke my heart.”

“I’m sure,” she said, “I cried for two days straight when Colonel Miller’s regiment left. I thought my heart would break.”

“I am sure I shall break mine,” said Lydia.

“I’m sure I’ll break mine,” said Lydia.

“If one could but go to Brighton!” observed Mrs. Bennet.

“If only we could go to Brighton!” said Mrs. Bennet.

“Oh yes!—if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so disagreeable.”

“Oh yes! If only we could go to Brighton! But Dad is so difficult.”

“A little sea-bathing would set me up for ever.”

“A little swimming in the sea would keep me healthy forever.”

“And my aunt Philips is sure it would do me a great deal of good,” added Kitty.

“And my aunt Philips is sure it would help me a lot,” Kitty added.

Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy’s objections; and never had she before been so much disposed to pardon his interference in the views of his friend.

These were the kinds of complaints that constantly echoed through Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to find them amusing, but her shame left no room for pleasure. Once again, she felt that Mr. Darcy’s objections were justified. And she had never been so willing to forgive him for interfering with his friend’s plans.

But the gloom of Lydia’s prospect was shortly cleared away; for she received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good-humour and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of their three months’ acquaintance they had been intimate two.

But Lydia’s gloomy outlook soon brightened, because Mrs. Forster, the wife of the regiment’s colonel, invited her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was very young and had only recently married. Their shared good nature and high spirits had drawn Mrs. Forster and Lydia to each other. And although they had known each other for only three months, they had been close friends for two.

The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster, the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely to be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister’s feelings, Lydia flew about the house in restless ecstasy, calling for everyone’s congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever; whilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repining at her fate in terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish.

Lydia’s joy on this occasion and her adoration of Mrs. Forster can hardly be described. Neither can Mrs. Bennet’s delight or Kitty’s humiliation. Completely ignoring her sister’s feelings, Lydia rushed around the house in restless excitement, demanding congratulations from everyone. She laughed and talked even more loudly and wildly than ever. Meanwhile, poor Kitty stayed in the sitting room, complaining about her fate. Her complaints were as unreasonable as her tone was petulant.

“I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask me as well as Lydia,” said she, “though I am not her particular friend. I have just as much right to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am two years older.”

“I don’t see why Mrs. Forster shouldn’t invite me as well as Lydia,” she said, “though I’m not her close friend. I have just as much right to be invited as Lydia does. In fact, I have more right, because I’m two years older.”

In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she considered it as the death-warrant of all possibility of common sense for the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her, were it known, she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her go. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia’s general behaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must be greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said,—

Elizabeth tried in vain to make her see reason, while Jane tried to make her accept the situation. Elizabeth herself felt very differently about the invitation from her mother and Lydia. She saw it as a death sentence for any chance that Lydia might ever show common sense. Advising against the visit would make Elizabeth hated if anyone found out. Still, she could not help privately urging her father not to let Lydia go. She explained all the ways Lydia generally behaved improperly. She pointed out how little Lydia could gain from friendship with a woman like Mrs. Forster. She also warned that Lydia would probably behave even more recklessly with such a companion at Brighton. The temptations there were bound to be greater than at home. He listened carefully, then said:

“Lydia will never be easy till she has exposed herself in some public place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present circumstances.”

“Lydia will never be content until she has made a fool of herself in some public place. And we can never expect her public embarrassment to cost her family less money or trouble than it would now.”

“If you were aware,” said Elizabeth, “of the very great disadvantage to us all, which must arise from the public notice of Lydia’s unguarded and imprudent manner, nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you would judge differently in the affair.”

“If you understood how much harm we will all suffer when people notice Lydia’s careless and reckless behavior,” said Elizabeth, “I am sure you would judge the matter differently. In fact, that public attention has already done us all great harm.”

“Already arisen!” repeated Mr. Bennet. “What! has she frightened away some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of the pitiful fellows who have been kept aloof by Lydia’s folly.”

“Already happened!” repeated Mr. Bennet. “What! Has she frightened away some of your admirers? Poor little Lizzy! But don't be discouraged. Young men too fussy to bear being connected with a little foolishness aren't worth regretting. Come, let me see the list of pathetic fellows who have stayed away because of Lydia’s foolishness.”

“Indeed, you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not of peculiar, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our importance, our respectability in the world, must be affected by the wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark Lydia’s character. Excuse me,—for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and of teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of her life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character will be fixed; and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt that ever made herself and her family ridiculous;—a flirt, too, in the worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond youth and a tolerable person; and, from the ignorance and emptiness of her mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion of that universal contempt which her rage for admiration will excite. In this danger Kitty is also comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain, ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh, my dear father, can you suppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever they are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the disgrace?”

“Really, you are mistaken. I have no personal wrongs to resent. I am not complaining about harm to myself, but about harm to us all. Lydia’s wild impulsiveness, boldness, and contempt for all restraint must damage our standing and respectability in society. Forgive me, but I must speak plainly. My dear father, you must take the trouble to control her high spirits. You must teach her that her current interests cannot be her life’s purpose. If you do not, she will soon be beyond reform. Her character will be set. At sixteen, she will be the most determined flirt who ever made herself and her family ridiculous. And she will be a flirt of the worst and lowest kind. She has no attractions beyond her youth and a reasonably good appearance. Her mind is so ignorant and empty that she will be unable to defend herself against any of the contempt her desperate craving for admiration will provoke in everyone. Kitty is in danger too. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain, ignorant, idle, and completely out of control! Oh, my dear father, can you really suppose they will not be criticized and despised wherever they are known? And can you suppose their sisters will not often share in their disgrace?”

Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject; and, affectionately taking her hand, said, in reply,—

Mr. Bennet saw how deeply she cared about the subject. He affectionately took her hand and replied:

“Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known, you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less advantage for having a couple of—or I may say, three—very silly sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will keep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an object of prey to anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance even as a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being there may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow many degrees worse, without authorizing us to lock her up for the rest of her life.”

“Don’t worry, my love. Wherever people know you and Jane, they must respect and value you both. Having a couple of very silly sisters won’t make either of you look any worse. Or I might say, three very silly sisters. We’ll have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia doesn’t go to Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man and will keep her out of any real trouble. Luckily, she is too poor for anyone to target her for her money. At Brighton, she’ll attract even less attention as an ordinary flirt than she has here. The officers will find women more worth their attention. So let’s hope that being there may teach her how unimportant she is. At any rate, she cannot become much worse without giving us grounds to lock her up for life.”

With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion continued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not in her nature, however, to increase her vexations by dwelling on them. She was confident of having performed her duty; and to fret over unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her disposition.

Elizabeth had to accept this answer, but her own opinion remained unchanged, and she left him feeling disappointed and sorry. Still, she was not someone who made her troubles worse by dwelling on them. She was sure she had done her duty. And she was not inclined to fret over troubles she could not avoid or make them worse by worrying.

Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her father, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their united volubility. In Lydia’s imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised every possibility of earthly happiness. She saw, with the creative eye of fancy, the streets of that gay bathing-place covered with officers. She saw herself the object of attention to tens and to scores of them at present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp: its tents stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the view, she saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six officers at once.

Had Lydia and her mother known what she had discussed with her father, their outrage would have been immense. Even their combined flood of words could hardly have expressed it. In Lydia’s imagination, a visit to Brighton offered every possible happiness on earth. In her mind’s eye, she saw the streets of that lively seaside resort filled with officers. She pictured dozens upon dozens of officers she had never met, all paying attention to her. She imagined all the glories of the camp, its tents stretching out in beautifully even rows. The camp was crowded with lively young men and dazzling with scarlet uniforms. And to complete the picture, she imagined herself sitting beneath a tent, affectionately flirting with at least six officers at once.

Had she known that her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and such realities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could have been understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly the same. Lydia’s going to Brighton was all that consoled her for the melancholy conviction of her husband’s never intending to go there himself.

How would she have felt if she had known her sister wanted to take her away from these prospects and realities? Only her mother could have understood her feelings, since she might have felt almost the same. Lydia’s trip to Brighton was her mother’s only comfort in the sad certainty that her husband never intended to go himself.

But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures continued, with little intermission, to the very day of Lydia’s leaving home.

But they knew nothing of what had happened. And their delight continued, almost without interruption, until the very day Lydia left home.

Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been frequently in company with him since her return, agitation was pretty well over; the agitations of former partiality entirely so. She had even learnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted her, an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present behaviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure; for the inclination he soon testified of renewing those attentions which had marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve, after what had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern for him in finding herself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous gallantry; and while she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the reproof contained in his believing, that however long, and for whatever cause, his attentions had been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified, and her preference secured, at any time, by their renewal.

Elizabeth was now about to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. She had often been in his company since her return, so her uneasiness had mostly passed. The feelings stirred by her former attraction to him had disappeared entirely. She had even learned to see something artificial and repetitive in the gentleness that had first charmed her. Now that gentleness disgusted and bored her. His present behavior toward her gave her a fresh reason for displeasure. He soon showed a desire to resume the attentions he had paid her when they first met. After everything that had happened since, those attentions could only irritate her. She lost all concern for him when she found herself singled out for such empty, frivolous flirting. She firmly discouraged him, yet could not help feeling the insult implied by his confidence. He believed that, however long he had neglected her, and for whatever reason, he could always resume his attentions. He assumed they would flatter her vanity and ensure that she preferred him.

On the very last day of the regiment’s remaining in Meryton, he dined, with others of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth disposed to part from him in good-humour, that, on his making some inquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam’s and Mr. Darcy’s having both spent three weeks at Rosings, and asked him if he were acquainted with the former.

On the regiment’s very last day in Meryton, he dined at Longbourn with some of the other officers. Elizabeth was so unwilling to part from him on friendly terms that she brought up Mr. Darcy. When he asked how she had spent her time at Hunsford, she mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy. Both had spent three weeks at Rosings, she said, and she asked whether he knew Colonel Fitzwilliam.

He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but, with a moment’s recollection, and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen him often; and, after observing that he was a very gentlemanlike man, asked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour. With an air of indifference, he soon afterwards added, “How long did you say that he was at Rosings?”

He looked surprised, displeased, and alarmed. But after a moment he collected himself, smiled again, and replied that he used to see him often. He remarked that the man was very much a gentleman, then asked her how she had liked him. She spoke warmly in his favor. Soon afterward, with an air of indifference, he added, “How long did you say he was at Rosings?”

“Nearly three weeks.”

“Nearly three weeks.”

“And you saw him frequently?”

“And you saw him often?”

“Yes, almost every day.”

“Yes, almost every day.”

“His manners are very different from his cousin’s.”

“He behaves very differently from his cousin.”

“Yes, very different; but I think Mr. Darcy improves on acquaintance.”

“Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy becomes more likable as you get to know him.”

“Indeed!” cried Wickham, with a look which did not escape her. “And pray may I ask—” but checking himself, he added, in a gayer tone, “Is it in address that he improves? Has he deigned to add aught of civility to his ordinary style? for I dare not hope,” he continued, in a lower and more serious tone, “that he is improved in essentials.”

“Really!” cried Wickham, with a look she did not miss. “And please, may I ask...” But he stopped himself and added in a more cheerful tone, “Is it his manner that has improved? Has he lowered himself to be any more polite than usual? For I dare not hope,” he continued, in a lower and more serious tone, “that he has improved in character.”

“Oh, no!” said Elizabeth. “In essentials, I believe, he is very much what he ever was.”

“Oh, no!” said Elizabeth. “In the ways that matter, I think he’s much the same as he’s always been.”

While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to rejoice over her words or to distrust their meaning. There was a something in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive and anxious attention, while she added,—

As she spoke, Wickham seemed unsure whether to be pleased by her words or to distrust their meaning. Something in her expression made him listen closely, anxiously, and with unease as she added:

“When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that either his mind or manners were in a state of improvement; but that, from knowing him better, his disposition was better understood.”

“When I said he improved as you got to know him, I didn’t mean his mind or manners were improving. I meant that knowing him better made his character easier to understand.”

Wickham’s alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated look; for a few minutes he was silent; till, shaking off his embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of accents,—

Wickham’s alarm now showed in his flushed face and anxious expression. He was silent for a few minutes. Then, shaking off his embarrassment, he turned to her again and said in the gentlest of tones:

“You, who so well know my feelings towards Mr. Darcy, will readily comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume even the appearance of what is right. His pride, in that direction, may be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must deter him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only fear that the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been alluding, is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgment he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his wish of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I am certain he has very much at heart.”

“You know my feelings towards Mr. Darcy so well. You will easily understand how sincerely I rejoice that he is wise enough even to put on the appearance of behaving properly. His pride in that respect may benefit many others, if not himself. It must keep him from treating others as disgracefully as he has treated me. I only fear that he is cautious only when visiting his aunt. That is the sort of caution I imagine you meant. He is very much in awe of her judgment and anxious for her good opinion. I know his fear of her has always influenced him when they were together. And much of his caution must come from his wish to advance his marriage to Miss de Bourgh. I am certain he has his heart very much set on that marriage.”

Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on the old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge him. The rest of the evening passed with the appearance, on his side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to distinguish Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a mutual desire of never meeting again.

Elizabeth could not help smiling at this, but she replied only with a slight nod. She saw that he wanted to bring up his old grievances, and she was in no mood to indulge him. For the rest of the evening, he kept up the appearance of his usual cheerfulness. But he made no further attempt to give Elizabeth special attention. They finally parted politely, and possibly with a shared wish never to meet again.

When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton, from whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation between her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the only one who shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs. Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter, and impressive in her injunctions that she would not miss the opportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible,—advice which there was every reason to believe would be attended to; and, in the clamorous happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle adieus of her sisters were uttered without being heard.

When the gathering ended, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton. They were to leave from there early the next morning. Lydia’s farewell to her family was more noisy than touching. Kitty was the only one who cried, but her tears came from frustration and envy. Mrs. Bennet wished her daughter happiness at great length. She firmly urged Lydia not to miss any chance to enjoy herself as much as possible. There was every reason to believe Lydia would follow this advice. And Lydia’s own goodbyes were so loud and joyful that her sisters’ quieter farewells went unheard.