Chapter 24

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. Remember that she is one of a large family; that as to fortune, it is a most eligible match; and be ready to
believe, for everybody’s sake, that she may feel something like regard and esteem for our cousin.”

“To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no one else could be benefited by such a belief as this;
for were I persuaded that Charlotte had any regard for him, I should only think worse of her understanding than I now do
of her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man; you know he is, as well as I
do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the woman who married him cannot have a proper way of thinking. You shall
not defend her, though it is Charlotte Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual, change the meaning of
principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility of
danger security for happiness.”

“I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,” replied Jane; “and I hope you will be convinced of it by
seeing them happy together. But enough of this. You alluded to something else. You mentioned two instances. I
cannot misunderstand you, but I entreat you, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking that person to blame, and
saying your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy ourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect
a lively young man to be always so guarded and circumspect. It is very often nothing but our own vanity that deceives us.
Women fancy admiration means more than it does.”

“And men take care that they should.”

“If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea of there being so much design in the world as
some persons imagine.”

“I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley’s conduct to design,” said Elizabeth; “but without scheming to do
wrong, or to make others unhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness, want of attention to
other people’s feelings, and want of resolution, will do the business.”

“And do you impute it to either of those?”

“Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by saying what I think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst
you can.”

“You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him?”

“Yes, in conjunction with his friend.”

“I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can only wish his happiness; and if he is attached to
me, no other woman can secure it.”

“Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth
and consequence; they may wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great connections, and
pride.”

“Beyond a doubt, they do wish him to choose Miss Darcy,” replied Jane; “but this may be from better feelings
than you are supposing. They have known her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love her better. But,
whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely they should have opposed their brother’s. What sister would think
herself at liberty to do it, unless there were something very objectionable? If they believed him attached to me, they
would not try to part us; if he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an affection, you make everybody
acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most unhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been
mistaken — or, at least, it is light, it is nothing in comparison of what I should feel in thinking ill of him or his
sisters. Let me take it in the best light, in the light in which it may be understood.”

Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley’s name was scarcely ever mentioned between
them.

Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no more, and though a day seldom passed in which
Elizabeth did not account for it clearly, there was little chance of her ever considering it with less perplexity. Her
daughter endeavoured to convince her of what she did not believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely the
effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw her no more; but though the probability of the
statement was admitted at the time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet’s best comfort was that Mr.
Bingley must be down again in the summer.

Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. “So, Lizzy,” said he one day, “your sister is crossed in love, I find. I
congratulate her. to being married, a girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then. It is something to
think of, and it gives her a sort of distinction among her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to
be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough in Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the
country. Let Wickham be your man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.”

“Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not all expect Jane’s good fortune.”

“True,” said Mr. Bennet, “but it is a comfort to think that whatever of that kind may befall you, you have an
affectionate mother who will make the most of it.”

Mr. Wickham’s society was of material service in dispelling the gloom which the late perverse occurrences had thrown
on many of the Longbourn family. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now added that of general
unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had already heard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him,
was now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was pleased to know how much they had always disliked
Mr. Darcy before they had known anything of the matter.

Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be any extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown
to the society of Hertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always pleaded for allowances, and urged the possibility of
mistakes — but by everybody else Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.