Chapter 46

ELIZABETH had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but on the third her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that it had been mis-sent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as Jane had written the direction remarkably ill.

Elizabeth had been very disappointed not to find a letter from Jane when they first arrived at Lambton. Each morning they spent there brought the same disappointment. But on the third morning, two letters from her sister arrived at once, ending Elizabeth’s complaints and clearing Jane of blame. One letter was marked as having been sent to the wrong place. Elizabeth was not surprised by the mistake, as Jane had written the address very badly.

They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by themselves. The one mis-sent must be first attended to; it had been written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded; but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect:—

They had just been getting ready for a walk when the letters arrived. Her uncle and aunt went out alone, leaving her to enjoy the letters in peace. She had to read the letter sent to the wrong place first. It had been written five days earlier. The first half described all their small gatherings and social plans, along with whatever local news there was. But the second half, dated a day later and clearly written in distress, contained more important news. It read as follows:

“Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you—be assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland with one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step (and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How thankful am I, that we never let them know what has been said against him; we must forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about twelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly know what I have written.”

“Since I wrote the above, dearest Lizzy, something very unexpected and serious has happened. But I am afraid of alarming you, so let me assure you that we are all well. My news concerns poor Lydia. A messenger arrived from Colonel Forster at twelve last night, just as we had all gone to bed. He brought news that she had run off to Scotland with one of the Colonel’s officers. To tell the truth, she has gone with Wickham! Imagine our surprise. To Kitty, however, the news does not seem quite so unexpected. I am very, very sorry. Such a reckless match for both of them! But I am willing to hope for the best, and to hope that his character has been misunderstood. I can easily believe him thoughtless and careless. But his decision to marry her shows no evil in his heart. Let us be glad of that. At least he is not marrying her for money, since he must know my father can give her nothing. Our poor mother is terribly upset. My father is taking the news better. How thankful I am that we never told them what has been said against Wickham. We must forget those things ourselves. Lydia and Wickham are thought to have left at about twelve on Saturday night. But no one noticed they were missing until eight yesterday morning. The messenger was sent immediately. My dear Lizzy, they must have passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, telling her of their plans. I must finish, because I cannot stay away from my poor mother for long. I am afraid you will not be able to understand this letter, but I hardly know what I have written.”

Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing what she felt, Elizabeth, on finishing this letter, instantly seized the other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first.

Without pausing to think, and hardly knowing what she felt, Elizabeth finished the letter and immediately grabbed the other. She opened it with the greatest impatience and read the following. The second letter had been written a day after the first was finished.

“By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as a marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia’s short letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that W. never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was repeated to Colonel F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B., intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham, but no farther; for on entering that place, they removed into a hackney-coach, and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that is known after this is, that they were seen to continue the London road. I know not what to think. After making every possible inquiry on that side of London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but without any success,—no such people had been seen to pass through. With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F.; but no one can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the worst, but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make it more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to pursue their first plan; and even if he could form such a design against a young woman of Lydia’s connections, which is not likely, can I suppose her so lost to everything? Impossible! I grieve to find, however, that Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage: he shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he feared W. was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother is really ill, and keeps her room. Could she exert herself, it would be better, but this is not to be expected; and as to my father, I never in my life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having concealed their attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence, one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as the first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not so selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu! I take up my pen again to do, what I have just told you I would not; but circumstances are such, that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well, that I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have still something more to ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do, I am sure I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such an exigence my uncle’s advice and assistance would be everything in the world; he will immediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.”

“By now, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter. I hope this letter will be clearer. But although I am not short of time, my head is so confused that I cannot promise to make sense. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what to write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot wait. A marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia would be unwise. Yet we are now anxious to know that they have married. There is far too much reason to fear they have not gone to Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday. He had left Brighton the day before, only a few hours after the urgent message was sent. Lydia’s short letter to Mrs. F. had led them to believe the couple were going to Gretna Green. But Denny let slip that he believed W. had never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all. Denny’s remark was repeated to Colonel F., who immediately became alarmed. He left B., intending to follow their route. He easily traced them to Clapham, but no farther. On arriving there, they had changed to a hired carriage and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that is known afterward is that they were seen continuing along the London road. I do not know what to think. After making every possible inquiry on that side of London, Colonel F. continued into Hertfordshire. He anxiously repeated his inquiries at all the tollgates and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but without success. No one matching their description had been seen passing through. With the kindest concern, he came on to Longbourn and told us his fears. The way he told us showed how good-hearted he is. I am deeply sorry for him and Mrs. F., but no one can blame them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the worst, but I cannot think so badly of him. Many circumstances might make a private marriage in London a better choice for them than following their original plan. And even if he could plan to wrong a young woman with Lydia’s family connections, which is unlikely, what of her? Can I suppose she has lost all sense of what is right? Impossible! Yet I am sorry to find that Colonel F. is not willing to count on their marriage. He shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he feared W. was not a trustworthy man. My poor mother is truly ill and stays in her room. If she could make an effort to do something, she would be better, but we cannot expect her to. As for my father, I have never in my life seen him so upset. Poor Kitty is being scolded for hiding their attachment. But since she was told in confidence, one can hardly be surprised that she kept their secret. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have been spared some of these distressing scenes. But now that the first shock is over, shall I admit how much I long for your return? Still, I am not so selfish as to urge you to return if it would be inconvenient. Goodbye! I take up my pen again to do what I have just told you I would not. But matters are such that I cannot help begging you all to come here as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well that I am not afraid to ask them. Yet I have something more to ask of my uncle. My father is leaving for London immediately with Colonel Forster to try to find her. What my father means to do, I am sure I do not know. But he is too distressed to take any action in the best and safest way. And Colonel Forster must be back at Brighton tomorrow evening. In such a crisis, my uncle’s advice and help would mean everything. He will immediately understand how I must feel, and I rely on his kindness.”

“Oh! where, where is my uncle?” cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing a moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door, it was opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous manner made him start, and before he could recover himself enough to speak, she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia’s situation, hastily exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment on business that cannot be delayed; I have not an instant to lose.”

“Oh! Where, where is my uncle?” cried Elizabeth, jumping from her seat as she finished the letter. She was desperate to follow him without wasting a moment of such precious time. But as she reached the door, a servant opened it, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and hurried movements startled him. Before he could recover enough to speak, she spoke urgently, with every other thought driven out by Lydia’s situation. “Forgive me, but I must leave you. I must find Mr. Gardiner right now on business that cannot wait. I have not a moment to lose.”

“Good God! what is the matter?” cried he, with more feeling than politeness; then recollecting himself, “I will not detain you a minute; but let me, or let the servant, go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are not well enough; you cannot go yourself.”

“Good God! What’s wrong?” he cried, showing more concern than politeness. Then he composed himself. “I won’t keep you a minute. But let me or the servant go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You aren’t well enough. You can’t go yourself.”

Elizabeth hesitated; but her knees trembled under her, and she felt how little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and mistress home instantly.

Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled, and she felt she would gain little by trying to follow them. So she called the servant back and told him to bring his master and mistress home immediately. But she was so breathless as she spoke that he could barely understand her.

On his quitting the room, she sat down, unable to support herself, and looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration, “Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you present relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill.”

When he left the room, she sat down, too weak to stand. She looked so terribly ill that Darcy could neither leave her nor keep from speaking gently and sympathetically. “Let me call your maid. Is there anything you could take to help you feel better right now? A glass of wine? Shall I get you one? You are very ill.”

“No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. “There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well, I am only distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn.”

“No, thank you,” she replied, trying to regain her composure. “Nothing is wrong with me. I am quite well. I am only upset by some dreadful news I have just received from Longbourn.”

She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say something indistinctly of his

She burst into tears as she mentioned it. For a few minutes, she could not say another word. Darcy, anxiously waiting in misery, could only mumble something about his

concern, and observe her in compassionate silence. At length she spoke again. “I have just had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My youngest sister has left all her friends—has eloped; has thrown herself into the power of—of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. You know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections, nothing that can tempt him to—she is lost for ever.”

concern, and watch her in sympathetic silence. Finally she spoke again. “I have just had a letter from Jane with such dreadful news. The news cannot be kept from anyone. My youngest sister has left all her friends. She has eloped. She has put herself in the power of, of Mr. Wickham. They have run away together from Brighton. You know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections, nothing that could tempt him to. She is ruined forever.”

Darcy was fixed in astonishment.

Darcy froze in astonishment.

“When I consider,” she added, in a yet more agitated voice, “that I might have prevented it! I who knew what he was. Had I but explained some part of it only—some part of what I learnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not have happened. But it is all, all too late now.”

“When I think,” she added, her voice even more agitated, “that I could have prevented it! I knew what he was like. If only I had told my own family even some of what I had learned! If they had known his true character, this could not have happened. But now it is all, all too late.”

“I am grieved, indeed,” cried Darcy: “grieved—shocked. But is it certain, absolutely certain?”

“I’m truly upset,” Darcy exclaimed. “Upset, shocked. But is it certain, absolutely certain?”

“Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced almost to London, but not beyond: they are certainly not gone to Scotland.”

“Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night. They were tracked almost to London, but no further. They certainly haven’t gone to Scotland.”

“And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?”

“And what has been done, what has been tried, to bring her back?”

“My father has gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle’s immediate assistance, and we shall be off, I hope, in half an hour. But nothing can be done; I know very well that nothing can be done. How is such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!”

“My father has gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle to help immediately. And I hope we’ll leave in half an hour. But nothing can be done. I know very well that nothing can be done. How can a man like that be persuaded? How can they even be found? I haven’t the slightest hope. It’s horrible in every way!”

Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.

Darcy shook his head in silent agreement.

“When my eyes were opened to his real character, oh! had I known what I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not—I was afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!”

“When my eyes were opened to his true character, oh, if only I’d known what I should do! If only I’d known what I dared to do! But I didn’t know. I was afraid of doing too much. What a terrible, terrible mistake!”

Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking up and down the room in earnest meditation; his brow contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. Her power was sinking; everything must sink under such a proof of family weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither wonder nor condemn; but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It was, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own wishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved him, as now, when all love must be vain.

Darcy gave no answer. He hardly seemed to hear her and paced the room, deep in thought, his brow furrowed and his expression gloomy. Elizabeth soon noticed his mood and immediately understood it. Her influence over him was fading. Everything must give way before such proof of her family’s weakness, such certainty of the deepest disgrace. She could neither be surprised nor blame him. But believing he had overcome his feelings for her brought her no comfort and did nothing to ease her distress. On the contrary, that belief made her understand her own wishes all the more clearly. Never had she felt so truly that she could have loved him as now, when all love must be hopeless.

But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia—the humiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all—soon swallowed up every private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief, Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else; and, after a pause of several minutes, was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the voice of her companion, who, in a manner which, though it spoke compassion, spoke likewise restraint, said,—

But although thoughts of herself kept intruding, they could not hold her attention. Lydia, and the humiliation and misery she was bringing on them all, soon overwhelmed every personal worry. Elizabeth covered her face with her handkerchief and soon became unaware of everything else. Several minutes passed before her companion’s voice brought her back to her surroundings. With compassion, but also restraint, her companion said:

“I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything could be either said or done on my part, that might offer consolation to such distress! But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister’s having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley to-day.”

“I’m afraid you’ve been wishing I would leave for some time. My only excuse for staying is genuine concern, though my concern can do you no good. I wish to Heaven I could say or do something to comfort you in such distress! But I won’t trouble you with useless wishes that may seem intended to earn your thanks. I fear this unfortunate affair will prevent my sister from having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley today.”

“Oh, yes! Be so kind as to apologize for us to Miss Darcy. Say that urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as long as it is possible. I know it cannot be long.”

“Oh, yes! Please apologize to Miss Darcy for us. Say that urgent business means we must go home immediately. Hide the unhappy truth as long as possible. I know we cannot hide it for long.”

He readily assured her of his secrecy, again expressed his sorrow for her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present reason to hope, and, leaving his compliments for her relations, with only one serious parting look, went away.

He readily promised to keep her secret and again said how sorry he was for her distress. He wished her troubles a happier ending than there was currently reason to hope for. He asked her to pass on his regards to her relatives. Then, with just one last serious look, he left.

As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as had marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those feelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would formerly have rejoiced in its termination.

As he left the room, Elizabeth felt how unlikely they were to meet again as warmly as they had in Derbyshire. She looked back over their acquaintance, with all its contradictions and changes, and sighed at her own contrary feelings. Now she wanted their acquaintance to continue, though once she would have been glad to see it end.

If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth’s change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if otherwise, if the regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or unnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on a first interview with its object, and even before two words have been exchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she had given somewhat of a trial to the latter method, in her partiality for Wickham, and that its ill success might, perhaps, authorize her to seek the other less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia’s infamy must produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched business. Never since reading Jane’s second letter had she entertained a hope of Wickham’s meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought, could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least of all her feelings on this development. While the contents of the first letter remained on her mind, she was all surprise, all astonishment, that Wickham should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry for money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment as this, she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement, without the intention of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither her virtue nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy prey.

If gratitude and respect are good foundations for love, Elizabeth’s changed feelings will seem neither unlikely nor wrong. But suppose love based on gratitude and respect is unreasonable or unnatural compared with the love so often described. That love begins at a first meeting, even before two words have been exchanged. If so, little can be said in her defence. She had tried that approach to some extent in her attraction to Wickham. Its failure might, perhaps, justify her trying the other, less interesting way of falling in love. Whatever the case, she was sorry to see him leave. His departure gave her an early glimpse of the consequences of Lydia’s disgrace. That glimpse added to her anguish as she thought about the whole miserable business. Since reading Jane’s second letter, she had never hoped that Wickham intended to marry Lydia. Only Jane, she thought, could comfort herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least of her feelings at this turn of events. While she still had only the first letter in mind, she had felt nothing but surprise and astonishment. Wickham was apparently going to marry a girl he could not possibly be marrying for money. How Lydia could ever have won his love had seemed impossible to understand. But now his behaviour seemed all too natural. Lydia might have enough charms for an affair like this. Elizabeth did not think Lydia had deliberately run away without intending to marry. But she readily believed that neither Lydia’s virtue nor her judgment would keep her from becoming an easy victim.

She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that Lydia had any partiality for him; but she was convinced that Lydia had wanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one officer, sometimes another, had been her favourite, as their attentions raised them in her opinion. Her affections had been continually fluctuating, but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and mistaken indulgence towards such a girl—oh! how acutely did she now feel it!

While the regiment was in Hertfordshire, she had never noticed that Lydia had any special liking for him. But she was convinced that Lydia needed only encouragement to become attached to anyone. Sometimes one officer had been her favourite, sometimes another, depending on how much attention each paid her. Her feelings had constantly shifted, but she had always had someone to like. Oh, how painfully she now felt the harm of neglecting and unwisely indulging a girl like Lydia!

She was wild to be at home—to hear, to see, to be upon the spot to share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a family so deranged; a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and requiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing could be done for Lydia, her uncle’s interference seemed of the utmost importance, and till he entered the room the misery of her impatience was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing, by the servant’s account, that their niece was taken suddenly ill; but satisfying them instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on the postscript of the last with trembling energy. Though Lydia had never been a favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be deeply affected. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after the first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner readily promised every assistance in his power. Elizabeth, though expecting no less, thanked him with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated by one spirit, everything relating to their journey was speedily settled. They were to be off as soon as possible. “But what is to be done about Pemberley?” cried Mrs. Gardiner. “John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for us;—was it so?”

She was desperate to be home, to hear the news, to see for herself, and to be there with Jane. She wanted to share the burdens that must now fall entirely on Jane in a family thrown into such disorder. Their father was away, and their mother could do nothing and needed constant care. Though Elizabeth was almost convinced that nothing could be done for Lydia, her uncle’s help seemed extremely important. Until he entered the room, her impatience was agonizing. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm. From the servant’s account, they thought their niece had suddenly fallen ill. But Elizabeth immediately reassured them about her health and eagerly explained why she had sent for them. She read both letters aloud, dwelling on the second letter’s postscript with trembling intensity. Though Lydia had never been a favourite of theirs, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not help being deeply distressed. Not only Lydia, but the whole family was affected. After their first cries of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner readily promised all the help he could give. Although Elizabeth had expected nothing less, she thanked him with tears of gratitude. All three shared the same purpose, so they quickly settled every detail of their journey. They were to leave as soon as possible. “But what are we to do about Pemberley?” cried Mrs. Gardiner. “John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for us. Was he?”

“Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement. That is all settled.”

“Yes, and I told him we wouldn’t be able to keep our plans. That is all settled.”

“What is all settled?” repeated the other, as she ran into her room to prepare. “And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!”

“What is all settled?” the other repeated as she ran into her room to get ready. “And are they close enough for her to tell the real truth? Oh, I wish I knew how things stood!”

But wishes were vain; or, at best, could serve only to amuse her in the hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure to be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was impossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of business as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to be written to all their friends at Lambton, with false excuses for their sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr. Gardiner, meanwhile, having settled his account at the inn, nothing remained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of the morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.

But wishes were useless. At best, they could only distract her during the rush and confusion of the next hour. If Elizabeth had had time to do nothing, she would have remained convinced that someone so miserable could do nothing. But she had her share of tasks, just as her aunt did. Among them were notes to all their friends at Lambton, giving false excuses for their sudden departure. Within an hour, however, everything was finished. Meanwhile, Mr. Gardiner had paid his bill at the inn, so nothing remained but to leave. After all the misery of the morning, Elizabeth found herself seated in the carriage sooner than she could have imagined. She was on the road to Longbourn.