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, everything 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{401} finding how steadfastly

both she and her uncle had been persuaded that affection and confidence

subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself.
She was roused from her seat and her reflections, by someone’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