perforce delayed a little longer, and Mr. Collins' proposal accepted with as good a grace as she
could. She was not the better pleased with his gallantry from the idea it suggested of something
more. It now first struck her, that SHE was selected from among her sisters as worthy of being
mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a quadrille table at Rosings, in the
absence of more eligible visitors. The idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed his
increasing civilities toward herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a compliment on her wit
and vivacity; and though more astonished than gratified herself by this effect of her charms, it
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was not long before her mother gave her to understand that the probability of their marriage was
extremely agreeable to HER. Elizabeth, however, did not choose to take the hint, being well
aware that a serious dispute must be the consequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never make
the offer, and till he did, it was useless to quarrel about him.
If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the younger Miss Bennets
would have been in a very pitiable state at this time, for from the day of the invitation, to the day
of the ball, there was such a succession of rain as prevented their walking to Meryton once. No
aunt, no officers, no news could be sought after—the very shoe-roses for Netherfield were got by
proxy. Even Elizabeth might have found some trial of her patience in weather which totally
suspended the improvement of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than a
dance on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday endurable to
Kitty and Lydia.
Chapter 18
Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in vain for Mr. Wickham
among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a doubt of his being present had never occurred
to her. The certainty of meeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that
might not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than usual care, and
prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all that remained unsubdued of his heart,
trusting that it was not more than might be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant
arose the dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy's pleasure in the
Bingleys' invitation to the officers; and though this was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of
his absence was pronounced by his friend Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and who told
them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business the day before, and was not yet
returned; adding, with a significant smile, "I do not imagine his business would have called him
away just now, if he had not wanted to avoid a certain gentleman here."
This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by Elizabeth, and, as it
assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for Wickham's absence than if her first surmise
had been just, every feeling of displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate
disappointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to the polite inquiries which he
directly afterwards approached to make. Attendance, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was
injury to Wickham. She was resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned away
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with a degree of ill-humour which she could not wholly surmount even in speaking to Mr.
Bingley, whose blind partiality provoked her.
But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect of her own was
destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her spirits; and having told all her griefs to
Charlotte Lucas, whom she had not seen for a week, she was soon able to make a voluntary
transition to the oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her particular notice. The first two
dances, however, brought a return of distress; they were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins,
awkward and solemn, apologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without being
aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a disagreeable partner for a couple of
dances can give. The moment of her release from him was ecstasy.
She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of talking of Wickham, and of hearing
that he was universally liked. When those dances were over, she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and
was in conversation with her, when she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy who
took her so much by surprise in his application for her hand, that, without knowing what she did,
she accepted him. He walked away again immediately, and she was left to fret over her own
want of presence of mind; Charlotte tried to console her:
"I dare say you will find him very agreeable."
"Heaven forbid! THAT would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find a man agreeable whom
on is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an evil."
When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her hand, Charlotte
could not help cautioning her in a whisper, not to be a simpleton, and allow her fancy for
Wickham to make her appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man ten times his consequence.
Elizabeth made no answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which she was
arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and reading in her neighbours' looks,
their equal amazement in beholding it. They stood for some time without speaking a word; and
she began to imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at first was
resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would be the greater punishment to her
partner to oblige him to talk, she made some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was
again silent. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time with:—"It is
YOUR turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked about the dance, and YOU ought to make
some sort of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples."
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He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be said.
"Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls
are much pleasanter than public ones. But NOW we may be silent."
"Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?"
"Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half
an hour together; and yet for the advantage of SOME, conversation ought to be so arranged, as
that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible."
"Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are
gratifying mine?"
"Both," replied Elizabeth archly; "for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our
minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to
say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the