given a reason for his interference, which asked no extraordinary stretch of belief. It was
reasonable that he should feel he had been wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of
exercising it; and though she would not place herself as his principal inducement, she could,
perhaps, believe that remaining partiality for her might assist his endeavours in a cause where
her peace of mind must be materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know
that they were under obligations to a person who could never receive a return. They owed the
restoration of Lydia, her character, every thing, to him. Oh! how heartily did she grieve over
every ungracious sensation she had ever encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed
towards him. For herself she was humbled; but she was proud of him. Proud that in a cause of
compassion and honour, he had been able to get the better of himself. She read over her aunt's
commendation of him again and again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even
sensible of some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how steadfastly both she and her
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uncle had been persuaded that affection and confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and
herself.
She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one's approach; and before she could
strike into another path, she was overtaken by Wickham.
"I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?" said he, as he joined her.
"You certainly do," she replied with a smile; "but it does not follow that the interruption must be
unwelcome."
"I should be sorry indeed, if it were. We were always good friends; and now we are better."
"True. Are the others coming out?"
"I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to Meryton. And so, my dear
sister, I find, from our uncle and aunt, that you have actually seen Pemberley."
She replied in the affirmative.
"I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much for me, or else I could
take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds,
she was always very fond of me. But of course she did not mention my name to you."
"Yes, she did."
"And what did she say?"
"That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had —not turned out well. At such a
distance as THAT, you know, things are strangely misrepresented."
"Certainly," he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had silenced him; but he soon
afterwards said:
"I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other several times. I wonder
what he can be doing there."
"Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh," said Elizabeth. "It must be something
particular, to take him there at this time of year."
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"Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I understood from the
Gardiners that you had."
"Yes; he introduced us to his sister."
"And do you like her?"
"Very much."
"I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year or two. When I last saw
her, she was not very promising. I am very glad you liked her. I hope she will turn out well."
"I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age."
"Did you go by the village of Kympton?"
"I do not recollect that we did."
"I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have had. A most delightful place!—
Excellent Parsonage House! It would have suited me in every respect."
"How should you have liked making sermons?"
"Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty, and the exertion would soon
have been nothing. One ought not to repine;—but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing for
me! The quiet, the retirement of such a life would have answered all my ideas of happiness! But
it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the circumstance, when you were in Kent?"
"I have heard from authority, which I thought AS GOOD, that it was left you conditionally only,
and at the will of the present patron."
"You have. Yes, there was something in THAT; I told you so from the first, you may
remember."
"I DID hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making was not so palatable to you as it
seems to be at present; that you actually declared your resolution of never taking orders, and that
the business had been compromised accordingly."
"You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember what I told you on that
point, when first we talked of it."
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They were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked fast to get rid of him; and
unwilling, for her sister's sake, to provoke him, she only said in reply, with a good-humoured
smile:
"Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let us quarrel about the past.
In future, I hope we shall be always of one mind."
She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry, though he hardly knew how to
look, and they entered the house.
Chapter 53
Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation that he never again distressed
himself, or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth, by introducing the subject of it; and she was
pleased to find that she had said enough to keep him quiet.
The day of his and Lydia's departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet was forced to submit to a
separation, which, as her husband by no means entered into her scheme of their all going to
Newcastle, was likely to continue at least a twelvemonth.
"Oh! my dear Lydia," she cried, "when shall we meet again?"
"Oh, lord! I don't know. Not these two or three years, perhaps."
"Write to me very often, my dear."
"As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for writing. My sisters
may write to ME. They will have nothing else to do."
Mr. Wickham's adieus were much more affectionate than his wife's. He smiled, looked
handsome, and said many pretty things.
"He is as fine a fellow," said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of the house, "as ever I saw.
He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to us all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even
Sir William Lucas himself to produce a more valuable son-in-law."
The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days.
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"I often think," said she, "that there is nothing so bad as parting with one's friends. One seems so
forlorn without them."
"This is the consequence, you see, Madam, of marrying a daughter," said Elizabeth. "It must