“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!”
Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.
“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!”
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.{341} 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.
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,—
“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