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 his own happiness to

the caprice of their inclinations. 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; whichever 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,—
“O 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{170} 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