prompt:
Chapter: Had Elizabeth's opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could
not have formed a very pleasing picture of conjugal felicity or domestic
comfort. Her father captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance
of good humour, which youth and beauty generally give, had married a
woman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind, had very early in
their marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect,
esteem, and confidence, had vanished for ever; and all his views of
domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a
disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own
imprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often
console the unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of
the country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his principal
enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted, than as
her ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not
the sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his
wife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true
philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given.

Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her
father's behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but
respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of
herself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to
banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation
and decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own
children, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so
strongly as now, the disadvantages which must attend the children of so
unsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils
arising from so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents which rightly
used, might at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters,
even if incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife.

When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham's departure, she found little
other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties
abroad were less varied than before; and at home she had a mother and
sister whose constant repinings at the dulness of every thing around
them, threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty
might in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbers
of her brain were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition
greater evil might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all her
folly and assurance, by a situation of such double danger as a watering
place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what has been
sometimes found before, that an event to which she had looked forward
with impatient desire, did not in taking place, bring all the
satisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to
name some other period for the commencement of actual felicity; to have
some other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by
again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the
present, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes
was now the object of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation
for all the uncomfortable hours, which the discontentedness of her
mother and Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included Jane in
the scheme, every part of it would have been perfect.

"But it is fortunate," thought she, "that I have something to wish for.
Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain.
But here, by carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret in my
sister's absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of
pleasure realized. A scheme of which every part promises delight, can
never be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by
the defence of some little peculiar vexation."

When Lydia went away, she promised to write very often and very minutely
to her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and
always very short. Those to her mother, contained little else, than that
they were just returned from the library, where such and such officers
had attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as
made her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which
she would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a
violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going to the
camp;--and from her correspondence with her sister, there was still less
to be learnt--for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were much
too full of lines under the words to be made public.

After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, good
humour and cheerfulness began to re-appear at Longbourn. Everything wore
a happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter came
back again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet
was restored to her usual querulous serenity, and by the middle of June
Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without
tears; an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope, that by
the following Christmas, she might be so tolerably reasonable as not to
mention an officer above once a day, unless by some cruel and malicious
arrangement at the war-office, another regiment should be quartered in
Meryton.

The time fixed for the beginning of their Northern tour was now fast
approaching; and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter
arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and
curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from
setting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again
within a month; and as that left too short a period for them to go so
far, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with
the leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up
the Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour; and, according to the
present plan, were to go no farther northward than Derbyshire. In that
county, there was enough to be seen, to occupy the chief of their three
weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The
town where she had formerly passed some years of her life, and where
they were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of
her curiosity, as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth,
Dovedale, or the Peak.

Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on seeing
the Lakes; and still thought there might have been time enough. But it
was her business to be satisfied--and certainly her temper to be happy;
and all was soon right again.

With the mention of Derbyshire, there were many ideas connected. It was
impossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its
owner. "But surely," said she, "I may enter his county with impunity,
and rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me."

The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away
before her uncle and aunt's arrival. But they did pass away, and Mr. and
Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at
Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two
younger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their cousin
Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and
sweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every
way--teaching them, playing with them, and loving them.

The Gardiners staid only one night at Longbourn, and set off the next
morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement. One
enjoyment was certain--that of suitableness as companions; a
suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear
inconveniences--cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure--and affection
and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were
disappointments abroad.

It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire,
nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither
lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenelworth, Birmingham, &c. are
sufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present
concern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner's
former residence, and where she had lately learned that some
acquaintance still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen
all the principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of
Lambton, Elizabeth found from her aunt, that Pemberley was situated. It
was not in their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In
talking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an
inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his
willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.

"My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so
much?" said her aunt. "A place too, with which so many of your
acquaintance are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you
know."

Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at
Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She
must own that she was tired of great houses; after going over so many,
she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.

Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. "If it were merely a fine house
richly furnished," said she, "I should not care about it myself; but the
grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the
country."

Elizabeth said no more--but her mind could not acquiesce. The
possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly
occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea; and
thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt, than to run
such a risk. But against this, there were objections; and she finally
resolved that it could be the last resource, if her private enquiries as
to the absence of the family, were unfavourably answered.

Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid
whether Pemberley were not a very fine place, what was the name of its
proprietor, and with no little alarm, whether the family were down for
the summer. A most welcome negative followed the last question--and her
alarms being now removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of
curiosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the
next morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and
with a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike
to the scheme.

To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

[Illustration: MATLOCK]

PRIDE AND PREJUDICE:

A Novel.

In Three Volumes.

By the Author of "Sense and Sensibility."

VOL. III.

London:
Printed for T. Egerton,
Military Library, Whitehall.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: It is summer at Longbourn; Lydia has gone to Brighton, and Mrs. Bennet and Kitty constantly complain of boredom. Mr. Bennett, as always, stays aloof and uninvolved. Elizabeth, remembering the contents of Darcys letter, is more bothered by her parents behavior than ever. She realizes they are totally mismatched and decides she will not marry until she finds someone with whom she can have a proper and supportive relationship. Unlike the bored Kitty and her mother, Elizabeth is eagerly awaiting her trip with the Gardiners. As she dreams about the northern tour, she receives a letter explaining that the trip has to be shortened to only Derbyshire. She is momentarily disappointed, for she has been looking forward to seeing the lake. The Gardiners take Elizabeth to Lambton, where Mrs. Gardiner once resided. Pemberley, Darcys residence, is situated about five miles away. Elizabeth is persuaded by her aunt and uncle to visit Pemberley, since the family is away.


prompt:
Chapter: Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of
Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned
in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.

The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They
entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through
a beautiful wood, stretching over a wide extent.

Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired
every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for
half a mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable
eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by
Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which
the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome, stone
building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high
woody hills;--and in front, a stream of some natural importance was
swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks
were neither formal, nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She
had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural
beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were
all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt, that
to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!

They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and,
while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehensions of
meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been
mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the
hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to
wonder at her being where she was.

The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking, elderly woman, much less
fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They
followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well-proportioned
room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went
to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, from
which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the
distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was
good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered
on its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace
it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms, these objects were
taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to
be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable
to the fortune of their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration
of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of
splendor, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.

"And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress! With
these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of
viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and
welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt.--But no,"--recollecting
herself,--"that could never be: my uncle and aunt would have been lost
to me: I should not have been allowed to invite them."

This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret.

She longed to enquire of the housekeeper, whether her master were really
absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was
asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds
replied, that he was, adding, "but we expect him to-morrow, with a
large party of friends." How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own
journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day!

Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw
the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures,
over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it.
The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a
young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been
brought up by him at his own expence.--"He is now gone into the army,"
she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild."

Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not
return it.

"And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures,
"is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the
other--about eight years ago."

"I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner,
looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell
us whether it is like or not."

Mrs. Reynolds's respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this
intimation of her knowing her master.

"Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?"

Elizabeth coloured, and said--"A little."

"And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, Ma'am?"

"Yes, very handsome."

"I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you
will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late
master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to
be then. He was very fond of them."

This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them.

Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn
when she was only eight years old.

"And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?" said Mr. Gardiner.

"Oh! yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so
accomplished!--She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a
new instrument just come down for her--a present from my master; she
comes here to-morrow with him."

Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were easy and pleasant, encouraged her
communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either
from pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her
master and his sister.

"Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?"

"Not so much as I could wish, Sir; but I dare say he may spend half his
time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months."

"Except," thought Elizabeth, "when she goes to Ramsgate."

"If your master would marry, you might see more of him."

"Yes, Sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is
good enough for him."

Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, "It is
very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so."

"I say no more than the truth, and what every body will say that knows
him," replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far;
and she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added,
"I have never had a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him
ever since he was four years old."

This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her
ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man, had been her firmest
opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more,
and was grateful to her uncle for saying,

"There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in
having such a master."

"Yes, Sir, I know I am. If I was to go through the world, I could not
meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are
good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and he
was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted, boy in the
world."

Elizabeth almost stared at her.--"Can this be Mr. Darcy!" thought she.

"His father was an excellent man," said Mrs. Gardiner.

"Yes, Ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him--just
as affable to the poor."

Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs.
Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subject
of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the
furniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family
prejudice, to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her
master, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his
many merits, as they proceeded together up the great staircase.

"He is the best landlord, and the best master," said she, "that ever
lived. Not like the wild young men now-a-days, who think of nothing but
themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but what will
give him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never
saw any thing of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle
away like other young men."

"In what an amiable light does this place him!" thought Elizabeth.

"This fine account of him," whispered her aunt, as they walked, "is not
quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend."

"Perhaps we might be deceived."

"That is not very likely; our authority was too good."

On reaching the spacious lobby above, they were shewn into a very
pretty sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and
lightness than the apartments below; and were informed that it was but
just done, to give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the
room, when last at Pemberley.

"He is certainly a good brother," said Elizabeth, as she walked towards
one of the windows.

Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy's delight, when she should enter
the room. "And this is always the way with him," she added.--"Whatever
can give his sister any pleasure, is sure to be done in a moment. There
is nothing he would not do for her."

The picture gallery, and two or three of the principal bed-rooms, were
all that remained to be shewn. In the former were many good paintings;
but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such as had been already
visible below, she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss
Darcy's, in crayons, whose subjects were usually more interesting, and
also more intelligible.

In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have
little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked on in quest
of the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it
arrested her--and she beheld a striking resemblance of Mr. Darcy, with
such a smile over the face, as she remembered to have sometimes seen,
when he looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture in
earnest contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the
gallery. Mrs. Reynolds informed them, that it had been taken in his
father's life time.

There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth's mind, a more gentle
sensation towards the original, than she had ever felt in the height of
their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds
was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise
of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she
considered how many people's happiness were in his guardianship!--How
much of pleasure or pain it was in his power to bestow!--How much of
good or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought
forward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she
stood before the canvas, on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes
upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of
gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its warmth, and
softened its impropriety of expression.

When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen,
they returned down stairs, and taking leave of the housekeeper, were
consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall door.

As they walked across the lawn towards the river, Elizabeth turned back
to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while the former was
conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself
suddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.

They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his
appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes
instantly met, and the cheeks of each were overspread with the deepest
blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immoveable from
surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party,
and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least
of perfect civility.

She had instinctively turned away; but, stopping on his approach,
received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be
overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture
they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two
that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener's expression of surprise, on
beholding his master, must immediately have told it. They stood a little
aloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused,
scarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she
returned to his civil enquiries after her family. Amazed at the
alteration in his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he
uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the
impropriety of her being found there, recurring to her mind, the few
minutes in which they continued together, were some of the most
uncomfortable of her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he
spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his
enquiries as to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her stay
in Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the
distraction of his thoughts.

At length, every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few
moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took
leave.

The others then joined her, and expressed their admiration of his
figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and, wholly engrossed by her own
feelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and
vexation. Her coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged
thing in the world! How strange must it appear to him! In what a
disgraceful light might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if
she had purposely thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she come?
or, why did he thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been
only ten minutes sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his
discrimination, for it was plain that he was that moment arrived, that
moment alighted from his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and
again over the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so
strikingly altered,--what could it mean? That he should even speak to
her was amazing!--but to speak with such civility, to enquire after her
family! Never in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified,
never had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting.
What a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosing's Park, when
he put his letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, nor how to
account for it.

They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and
every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer
reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it was some time
before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered
mechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and seemed
to direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she
distinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that
one spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then
was. She longed to know what at that moment was passing in his mind; in
what manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of every thing,
she was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil, only because he
felt himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice, which was
not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in seeing
her, she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with
composure.

At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind
roused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself.

They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a while,
ascended some of the higher grounds; whence, in spots where the opening
of the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of
the valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods
overspreading many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner
expressed a wish of going round the whole Park, but feared it might be
beyond a walk. With a triumphant smile, they were told, that it was ten
miles round. It settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed
circuit; which brought them again, after some time, in a descent among
hanging woods, to the edge of the water, in one of its narrowest parts.
They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of
the scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and
the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the
stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered
it. Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed
the bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner,
who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only of
returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was,
therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house
on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their
progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the
taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the
occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man
about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this
slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment was
quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy
approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here less
sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they
met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an
interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with
calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed,
she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. This idea
lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the
turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance she saw,
that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his
politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place;
but she had not got beyond the words "delightful," and "charming," when
some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of
Pemberley from her, might be mischievously construed. Her colour
changed, and she said no more.

Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked
her, if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends.
This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and
she could hardly suppress a smile, at his being now seeking the
acquaintance of some of those very people, against whom his pride had
revolted, in his offer to herself. "What will be his surprise," thought
she, "when he knows who they are! He takes them now for people of
fashion."

The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their
relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore
it; and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he
could from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the
connexion was evident; he sustained it however with fortitude, and so
far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into
conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased,
could not but triumph. It was consoling, that he should know she had
some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most
attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every
expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence,
his taste, or his good manners.

The conversation soon turned upon fishing, and she heard Mr. Darcy
invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he
chose, while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same
time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of
the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was
walking arm in arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of her
wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the
compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was
extreme; and continually was she repeating, "Why is he so altered? From
what can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_, it cannot be for _my_ sake
that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not
work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love
me."

After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two
gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the
brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious
water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in
Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found
Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred
her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on
together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to
know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the
place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been
very unexpected--"for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that
you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we
left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in
the country." He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that
business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours
before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. "They
will join me early to-morrow," he continued, "and among them are some
who will claim an acquaintance with you,--Mr. Bingley and his sisters."

Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly
driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been last mentioned
between them; and if she might judge from his complexion, _his_ mind was
not very differently engaged.

"There is also one other person in the party," he continued after a
pause, "who more particularly wishes to be known to you,--Will you allow
me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance
during your stay at Lambton?"

The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great
for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt
that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her,
must be the work of her brother, and without looking farther, it was
satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made
him think really ill of her.

They now walked on in silence; each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth
was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and
pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her, was a compliment of
the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had
reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a
mile behind.

He then asked her to walk into the house--but she declared herself not
tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time, much might
have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but
there seemed an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected that
she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale with
great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly--and her patience
and her ideas were nearly worn out before the tete-a-tete was over. On
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's coming up, they were all pressed to go into the
house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they parted
on each side with the utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the ladies
into the carriage, and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking
slowly towards the house.

The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them
pronounced him to be infinitely superior to any thing they had expected.
"He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming," said her uncle.

"There _is_ something a little stately in him to be sure," replied her
aunt, "but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now
say with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud,
_I_ have seen nothing of it."

"I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more
than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such
attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling."

"To be sure, Lizzy," said her aunt, "he is not so handsome as Wickham;
or rather he has not Wickham's countenance, for his features are
perfectly good. But how came you to tell us that he was so
disagreeable?"

Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had liked
him better when they met in Kent than before, and that she had never
seen him so pleasant as this morning.

"But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities," replied
her uncle. "Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him
at his word about fishing, as he might change his mind another day, and
warn me off his grounds."

Elizabeth felt that they had entirely mistaken his character, but said
nothing.

"From what we have seen of him," continued Mrs. Gardiner, "I really
should not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by
any body, as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured
look. On the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when
he speaks. And there is something of dignity in his countenance, that
would not give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But to be sure,
the good lady who shewed us the house, did give him a most flaming
character! I could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a
liberal master, I suppose, and _that_ in the eye of a servant
comprehends every virtue."

Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of
his behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them to understand, in as
guarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from his
relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different
construction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor
Wickham's so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In
confirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary
transactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming
her authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on.

Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now
approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to
the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out
to her husband all the interesting spots in its environs, to think of
any thing else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning's walk, they had
no sooner dined than she set off again in quest of her former
acquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of an
intercourse renewed after many years discontinuance.

The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth
much attention for any of these new friends; and she could do nothing
but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy's civility, and above
all, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: As she arrives at Pemberley with the Gardiners, Elizabeth is thoroughly enchanted by the architecture and surrounding natural beauty of the place. For a moment she thinks it would be pleasant to be the mistress of Pemberley. They are greeted by the housekeeper, who shows them around; Elizabeth is impressed with all she sees. She also listens carefully to the housekeeper who generously praises Darcy as a sweet-tempered and benevolent young man. She claims he is an excellent landlord, unselfish, kind, and humane; she also explains that he is a devoted brother to his sister. Elizabeth momentarily feels sorry for having rebuffed Darcy. Then she thinks about his letter and his criticism of her low relations, which make her angry again. The tour of the house is interrupted by the unexpected appearance of Darcy. Elizabeth is a bundle of nerves because she does not want Darcy to think that she has thrown herself in his way. He, however, seems calm and unaffected by her presence even though he speaks kindly to her. Elizabeth, after regaining her composure, introduces Darcy to the Gardiners; she cannot suppress her pleasure in showing him that some members of her family are intelligent and sensible. Darcy, showing no signs of his previous arrogance, is very cordial to the Gardiners; he even invites Mr. Gardiner to fish in his stream. He then suggests that Elizabeth meet his sister. The Gardiners find the charming Darcy far from being an insolent and disagreeable man; they tell Elizabeth that they are amazed that he could have been cruel to Wickham. Without disclosing the source of her information, Elizabeth exonerates Darcy by telling the truth that she has learned from Darcy. It is obvious that Elizabeth is becoming less prejudiced. She spends the rest of the day thinking about Darcy and his sister, Georgiana.


prompt:
Chapter: Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from
Jane, on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had
been renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but
on the third, her repining was over, and her sister justified by the
receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that
it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as
Jane had written the direction remarkably ill.

They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and her
uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by
themselves. The one missent must be first attended to; it had been
written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their
little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded;
but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident
agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect:

     "Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of
     a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming
     you--be assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to
     poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just as we were
     all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was
     gone off to Scotland with one of his officers; to own the truth,
     with Wickham!--Imagine our surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not
     seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry. So imprudent a
     match on both sides!--But I am willing to hope the best, and that
     his character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet I
     can easily believe him, but this step (and let us rejoice over it)
     marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least,
     for he must know my father can give her nothing. Our poor mother
     is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How thankful am I,
     that we never let them know what has been said against him; we must
     forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about twelve, as
     is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at
     eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must
     have passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason
     to expect him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife,
     informing her of their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be
     long from my poor mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make
     it out, but I hardly know what I have written."

Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing
what she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter, instantly seized the
other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it
had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first.

     "By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried
     letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not
     confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer
     for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would
     write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed.
     Imprudent as a marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia
     would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken place, for
     there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to Scotland.
     Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day
     before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia's short
     letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to
     Gretna Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief
     that W. never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which
     was repeated to Colonel F. who instantly taking the alarm, set off
     from B. intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to
     Clapham, but no farther; for on entering that place they removed
     into a hackney-coach and dismissed the chaise that brought them
     from Epsom. All that is known after this is, that they were seen
     to continue the London road. I know not what to think. After making
     every possible enquiry on that side London, Colonel F. came on into
     Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at
     the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but without any success, no such
     people had been seen to pass through. With the kindest concern he
     came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner
     most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and
     Mrs. F. but no one can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my
     dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the worst,
     but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make it
     more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to
     pursue their first plan; and even if _he_ could form such a design
     against a young woman of Lydia's connections, which is not likely,
     can I suppose her so lost to every thing?--Impossible. I grieve to
     find, however, that Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their
     marriage; he shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he
     feared W. was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother is really ill
     and keeps her room. Could she exert herself it would be better, but
     this is not to be expected; and as to my father, I never in my life
     saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having concealed
     their attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence one cannot
     wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have been spared
     something of these distressing scenes; but now as the first shock
     is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not so
     selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu. I
     take up my pen again to do, what I have just told you I would not,
     but circumstances are such, that I cannot help earnestly begging
     you all to come here, as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and
     aunt so well, that I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have
     still something more to ask of the former. My father is going to
     London with Colonel Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What
     he means to do, I am sure I know not; but his excessive distress
     will not allow him to pursue any measure in the best and safest
     way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again
     to-morrow evening. In such an exigence my uncle's advice and
     assistance would be every thing in the world; he will immediately
     comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness."

"Oh! where, where is my uncle?" cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat
as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing a
moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door, it was
opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous
manner made him start, and before he could recover himself enough to
speak, she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia's
situation, hastily exclaimed, "I beg your pardon, but I must leave you.
I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be
delayed; I have not an instant to lose."

"Good God! what is the matter?" cried he, with more feeling than
politeness; then recollecting himself, "I will not detain you a minute,
but let me, or let the servant, go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are
not well enough;--you cannot go yourself."

Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her, and she felt how
little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back
the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an
accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and
mistress home, instantly.

On his quitting the room, she sat down, unable to support herself, and
looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her,
or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration,
"Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take, to give you
present relief?--A glass of wine;--shall I get you one?--You are very
ill."

"No, I thank you;" she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. "There
is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well. I am only distressed by
some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn."

She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could
not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say
something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate
silence. At length, she spoke again. "I have just had a letter from
Jane, with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from any one. My
youngest sister has left all her friends--has eloped;--has thrown
herself into the power of--of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together
from Brighton. _You_ know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no
money, no connections, nothing that can tempt him to--she is lost for
ever."

Darcy was fixed in astonishment. "When I consider," she added, in a yet
more agitated voice, "that _I_ might have prevented it!--_I_ who knew
what he was. Had I but explained some part of it only--some part of what
I learnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not
have happened. But it is all, all too late now."

"I am grieved, indeed," cried Darcy; "grieved--shocked. But is it
certain, absolutely certain?"

"Oh yes!--They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced
almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to
Scotland."

"And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?"

"My father is 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 acquiesence.

"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. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. Her power
was sinking; every thing _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 every thing 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 any thing to plead in excuse of my
stay, but real, though unavailing, concern. Would to heaven that any
thing could be either said or done on my part, that might offer
consolation to such distress.--But I will not torment you with vain
wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This
unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister's having the pleasure
of seeing you at Pemberley to-day."

"Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologize for us to Miss Darcy. Say that
urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as
long as it is possible.--I know it cannot be long."

He readily assured her of his secrecy--again expressed his sorrow for
her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present
reason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her relations, with only
one serious, parting, look, went away.

As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they
should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as had
marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a
retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of
contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those
feelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would
formerly have rejoiced in its termination.

If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth's
change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if
otherwise, if the regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or
unnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on a
first interview with its object, and even before two words have been
exchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she had given
somewhat of a trial to the latter method, in her partiality for Wickham,
and that its ill-success might perhaps authorise her to seek the other
less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go
with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia's infamy must
produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched
business. Never, since reading Jane's second letter, had she entertained
a hope of Wickham's meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought,
could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least
of her feelings on this developement. While the contents of the first
letter remained on her mind, she was all surprise--all astonishment that
Wickham should marry a girl, whom it was impossible he could marry for
money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him, had appeared
incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment
as this, she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not
suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement, without the
intention of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither
her virtue nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy
prey.

She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that
Lydia had any partiality for him, but she was convinced that Lydia had
wanted only encouragement to attach herself to any body. Sometimes one
officer, sometimes another had been her favourite, as their attentions
raised them in her opinion. Her affections had been continually
fluctuating, but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and
mistaken indulgence towards such a girl.--Oh! how acutely did she now
feel it.

She was wild to be at home--to hear, to see, to be upon the spot, to
share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a
family so deranged; a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and
requiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing
could be done for Lydia, her uncle's interference seemed of the utmost
importance, and till he entered the room, the misery of her impatience
was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing,
by the servant's account, that their niece was taken suddenly ill;--but
satisfying them instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the
cause of their summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on
the postscript of the last, with trembling energy.--Though Lydia had
never been a favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be
deeply affected. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after
the first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner readily
promised every assistance in his power.--Elizabeth, though expecting no
less, thanked him with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated
by one spirit, every thing relating to their journey was speedily
settled. They were to be off as soon as possible. "But what is to be
done about Pemberley?" cried Mrs. Gardiner. "John told us Mr. Darcy was
here when you sent for us;--was it so?"

"Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement.
_That_ is all settled."

"That is all settled;" repeated the other, as she ran into her room to
prepare. "And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real
truth! Oh, that I knew how it was!"

But wishes were vain; or at best could serve only to amuse her in the
hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure
to be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was
impossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of
business as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to
be written to all their friends in Lambton, with false excuses for their
sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr.
Gardiner meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing
remained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of
the morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could
have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Darcy seems to be on the verge of proposing to Elizabeth again when she receives alarming news from Jane. Lydia has eloped with Wickham, which distresses Elizabeth greatly since she knows that Wickham has not married her sister. Jane asks Elizabeth to return home immediately and asks Mr. Gardiner to aid their father with a search for Lydia in London. When Darcy enters, Elizabeth is trembling and in tears. He is genuinely concerned when he hears of the calamity. He holds himself partially responsible for what has happened to Lydia since he has failed to speak out against Wickham. Elizabeth also condemns herself for not warning her family about Wickham. She decides she must return home immediately to give support to the family.


prompt:
Chapter: "I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth," said her uncle, as they
drove from the town; "and really, upon serious consideration, I am much
more inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does of the
matter. It appears to me so very unlikely, that any young man should
form such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or
friendless, and who was actually staying in his colonel's family, that I
am strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends
would not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the
regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is
not adequate to the risk."

"Do you really think so?" cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment.

"Upon my word," said Mrs. Gardiner, "I begin to be of your uncle's
opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and
interest, for him to be guilty of it. I cannot think so very ill of
Wickham. Can you, yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him up, as to believe
him capable of it?"

"Not perhaps of neglecting his own interest. But of every other neglect
I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I dare not
hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland, if that had been the
case?"

"In the first place," replied Mr. Gardiner, "there is no absolute proof
that they are not gone to Scotland."

"Oh! but their removing from the chaise into an hackney coach is such a
presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be found on the
Barnet road."

"Well, then--supposing them to be in London. They may be there, though
for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptionable purpose. It is
not likely that money should be very abundant on either side; and it
might strike them that they could be more economically, though less
expeditiously, married in London, than in Scotland."

"But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their
marriage be private? Oh! no, no, this is not likely. His most particular
friend, you see by Jane's account, was persuaded of his never intending
to marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some money. He
cannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia, what attractions has she
beyond youth, health, and good humour, that could make him for her sake,
forego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what
restraint the apprehension of disgrace in the corps might throw on a
dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I know
nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But as to your
other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Lydia has no
brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from my father's
behaviour, from his indolence and the little attention he has ever
seemed to give to what was going forward in his family, that _he_ would
do as little, and think as little about it, as any father could do, in
such a matter."

"But can you think that Lydia is so lost to every thing but love of him,
as to consent to live with him on any other terms than marriage?"

"It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed," replied Elizabeth, with
tears in her eyes, "that a sister's sense of decency and virtue in such
a point should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say.
Perhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young; she has never
been taught to think on serious subjects; and for the last half year,
nay, for a twelvemonth, she has been given up to nothing but amusement
and vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle
and frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in her way.
Since the ----shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love,
flirtation, and officers, have been in her head. She has been doing
every thing in her power by thinking and talking on the subject, to give
greater--what shall I call it? susceptibility to her feelings; which are
naturally lively enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of
person and address that can captivate a woman."

"But you see that Jane," said her aunt, "does not think so ill of
Wickham, as to believe him capable of the attempt."

"Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be
their former conduct, that she would believe capable of such an attempt,
till it were proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what
Wickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every
sense of the word. That he has neither integrity nor honour. That he is
as false and deceitful, as he is insinuating."

"And do you really know all this?" cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity
as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.

"I do, indeed," replied Elizabeth, colouring. "I told you the other day,
of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you, yourself, when last at
Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man, who had behaved
with such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other
circumstances which I am not at liberty--which it is not worth while to
relate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From
what he said of Miss Darcy, I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud,
reserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He
must know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found
her."

"But does Lydia know nothing of this? Can she be ignorant of what you
and Jane seem so well to understand?"

"Oh, yes!--that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw
so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation, Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was
ignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home, the ----shire
was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight's time. As that was the
case, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it
necessary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could it
apparently be to any one, that the good opinion which all the
neighbourhood had of him, should then be overthrown? And even when it
was settled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of
opening her eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could
be in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such a
consequence as _this_ should ensue, you may easily believe was far
enough from my thoughts."

"When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I
suppose, to believe them fond of each other."

"Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either
side; and had any thing of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware
that ours is not a family, on which it could be thrown away. When first
he entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all
were. Every girl in, or near Meryton, was out of her senses about him
for the first two months; but he never distinguished _her_ by any
particular attention, and, consequently, after a moderate period of
extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others
of the regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her
favourites."

       *       *       *       *       *

It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added
to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by
its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during
the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent.
Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self reproach, she could find
no interval of ease or forgetfulness.

They travelled as expeditiously as possible; and sleeping one night on
the road, reached Longbourn by dinner-time the next day. It was a
comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied
by long expectations.

The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing
on the steps of the house, as they entered the paddock; and when the
carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their
faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of
capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome.

Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them an hasty kiss,
hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down stairs
from her mother's apartment, immediately met her.

Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the
eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether any thing had been
heard of the fugitives.

"Not yet," replied Jane. "But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope
every thing will be well."

"Is my father in town?"

"Yes, he went on Tuesday as I wrote you word."

"And have you heard from him often?"

"We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday, to say
that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I
particularly begged him to do. He merely added, that he should not write
again, till he had something of importance to mention."

"And my mother--How is she? How are you all?"

"My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly
shaken. She is up stairs, and will have great satisfaction in seeing you
all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank
Heaven! are quite well."

"But you--How are you?" cried Elizabeth. "You look pale. How much you
must have gone through!"

Her sister, however, assured her, of her being perfectly well; and their
conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were
engaged with their children, was now put an end to, by the approach of
the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and
thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears.

When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth
had already asked, were of course repeated by the others, and they soon
found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good,
however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested, had not yet
deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that
every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father,
to explain their proceedings, and perhaps announce the marriage.

Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes
conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with
tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villanous
conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill usage;
blaming every body but the person to whose ill judging indulgence the
errors of her daughter must be principally owing.

"If I had been able," said she, "to carry my point of going to Brighton,
with all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but poor dear Lydia
had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out
of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their
side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing, if she had
been well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have
the charge of her; but I was over-ruled, as I always am. Poor dear
child! And now here's Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight
Wickham, wherever he meets him, and then he will be killed, and what is
to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out, before he is cold
in his grave; and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what
we shall do."

They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after
general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told
her that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist
Mr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia.

"Do not give way to useless alarm," added he, "though it is right to be
prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain.
It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more, we
may gain some news of them, and till we know that they are not married,
and have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as
lost. As soon as I get to town, I shall go to my brother, and make him
come home with me to Gracechurch Street, and then we may consult
together as to what is to be done."

"Oh! my dear brother," replied Mrs. Bennet, "that is exactly what I
could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out,
wherever they may be; and if they are not married already, _make_ them
marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but
tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chuses, to buy them,
after they are married. And, above all things, keep Mr. Bennet from
fighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in,--that I am frightened
out of my wits; and have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me,
such spasms in my side, and pains in my head, and such beatings at
heart, that I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear
Lydia, not to give any directions about her clothes, till she has seen
me, for she does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother,
how kind you are! I know you will contrive it all."

But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavours
in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well in
her hopes as her fears; and, after talking with her in this manner till
dinner was on table, they left her to vent all her feelings on the
housekeeper, who attended, in the absence of her daughters.

Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real
occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to
oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her
tongue before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged it
better that _one_ only of the household, and the one whom they could
most trust, should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the
subject.

In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been
too busily engaged in their separate apartments, to make their
appearance before. One came from her books, and the other from her
toilette. The faces of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change
was visible in either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or
the anger which she had herself incurred in the business, had given
something more of fretfulness than usual, to the accents of Kitty. As
for Mary, she was mistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth
with a countenance of grave reflection, soon after they were seated at
table,

"This is a most unfortunate affair; and will probably be much talked of.
But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of
each other, the balm of sisterly consolation."

Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added,
"Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful
lesson; that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable--that one false
step involves her in endless ruin--that her reputation is no less
brittle than it is beautiful,--and that she cannot be too much guarded
in her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex."

Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed to
make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such
kind of moral extractions from the evil before them.

In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for half an
hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of the
opportunity of making many enquiries, which Jane was equally eager to
satisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel
of this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss
Bennet could not assert to be wholly impossible; the former continued
the subject, by saying, "But tell me all and every thing about it, which
I have not already heard. Give me farther particulars. What did Colonel
Forster say? Had they no apprehension of any thing before the elopement
took place? They must have seen them together for ever."

"Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality,
especially on Lydia's side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so
grieved for him. His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He
_was_ coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had
any idea of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension
first got abroad, it hastened his journey."

"And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of
their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?"

"Yes; but when questioned by _him_ Denny denied knowing any thing of
their plan, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not
repeat his persuasion of their not marrying--and from _that_, I am
inclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before."

"And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a
doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?"

"How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains! I felt a
little uneasy--a little fearful of my sister's happiness with him in
marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite
right. My father and mother knew nothing of that, they only felt how
imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural
triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia's last
letter, she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems,
of their being in love with each other, many weeks."

"But not before they went to Brighton?"

"No, I believe not."

"And did Colonel Forster appear to think ill of Wickham himself? Does he
know his real character?"

"I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly
did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad
affair has taken place, it is said, that he left Meryton greatly in
debt; but I hope this may be false."

"Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him,
this could not have happened!"

"Perhaps it would have been better;" replied her sister. "But to expose
the former faults of any person, without knowing what their present
feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions."

"Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to his
wife?"

"He brought it with him for us to see."

Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These
were the contents:

     "MY DEAR HARRIET,

     "You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help
     laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am
     missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with
     who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the
     world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without
     him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at
     Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it will make the
     surprise the greater, when I write to them, and sign my name Lydia
     Wickham. What a good joke it will be! I can hardly write for
     laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt, for not keeping my
     engagement, and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I hope he will
     excuse me when he knows all, and tell him I will dance with him at
     the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I shall send for my
     clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell Sally
     to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown, before they are
     packed up. Good bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster, I hope you
     will drink to our good journey.

     "Your affectionate friend,

     "LYDIA BENNET."

"Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!" cried Elizabeth when she had
finished it. "What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment. But
at least it shews, that _she_ was serious in the object of her journey.
Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her side a
_scheme_ of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it!"

"I never saw any one so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten
minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in
such confusion!"

"Oh! Jane," cried Elizabeth, "was there a servant belonging to it, who
did not know the whole story before the end of the day?"

"I do not know.--I hope there was.--But to be guarded at such a time, is
very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I endeavoured to
give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so much
as I might have done! But the horror of what might possibly happen,
almost took from me my faculties."

"Your attendance upon her, has been too much for you. You do not look
well. Oh! that I had been with you, you have had every care and anxiety
upon yourself alone."

"Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every
fatigue, I am sure, but I did not think it right for either of them.
Kitty is slight and delicate, and Mary studies so much, that her hours
of repose should not be broken in on. My aunt Philips came to Longbourn
on Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till
Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all, and lady
Lucas has been very kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to
condole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters, if
they could be of use to us."

"She had better have stayed at home," cried Elizabeth; "perhaps she
_meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see too
little of one's neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence,
insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied."

She then proceeded to enquire into the measures which her father had
intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter.

"He meant, I believe," replied Jane, "to go to Epsom, the place where
they last changed horses, see the postilions, and try if any thing could
be made out from them. His principal object must be, to discover the
number of the hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come
with a fare from London; and as he thought the circumstance of a
gentleman and lady's removing from one carriage into another, might be
remarked, he meant to make enquiries at Clapham. If he could any how
discover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he
determined to make enquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible
to find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any
other designs that he had formed: but he was in such a hurry to be gone,
and his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had difficulty in finding
out even so much as this."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Elizabeth is certain that the mercenary Wickham will not marry the penniless Lydia, a fact which makes matters worse. Elizabeth tells the Gardiners that Lydia knows nothing of Wickhams despicable past and lacks the good sense and strength of character to judge him appropriately on her own. When Elizabeth arrives home, there has been no word from Lydia, and Mr. Bennet, in London, has had no luck finding her. Mrs. Bennet, in hysterics, blames everyone for her suffering. She is still blind to the fact that her over-indulgence with Lydia is the principal cause of her daughters disgrace. To add to the misery at the Bennets, Lady Lucas calls to console them, when in reality she has come to gloat. Lydia writes a letter to Mrs. Forster and says that she and Wickham are going to Gretna Green. Jane and Elizabeth read the letter and share its contents. Mr. Gardiner plans join Mr. Bennet to help in the search for Lydia.


prompt:
Chapter: The whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next
morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him.
His family knew him to be on all common occasions, a most negligent and
dilatory correspondent, but at such a time, they had hoped for exertion.
They were forced to conclude, that he had no pleasing intelligence to
send, but even of _that_ they would have been glad to be certain. Mr.
Gardiner had waited only for the letters before he set off.

When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving constant
information of what was going on, and their uncle promised, at parting,
to prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to Longbourn, as soon as he could, to
the great consolation of his sister, who considered it as the only
security for her husband's not being killed in a duel.

Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few
days longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable to
her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a
great comfort to them, in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also
visited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of
cheering and heartening them up, though as she never came without
reporting some fresh instance of Wickham's extravagance or irregularity,
she seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found
them.

All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man, who, but three months
before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be in debt
to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with
the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family.
Every body declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world;
and every body began to find out, that they had always distrusted the
appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above
half of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of
her sister's ruin still more certain; and even Jane, who believed still
less of it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now
come, when if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before
entirely despaired of, they must in all probability have gained some
news of them.

Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday, his wife received a
letter from him; it told them, that on his arrival, he had immediately
found out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch street.
That Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival, but
without gaining any satisfactory information; and that he was now
determined to enquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet
thought it possible they might have gone to one of them, on their first
coming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself
did not expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was
eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added, that Mr.
Bennet seemed wholly disinclined at present, to leave London, and
promised to write again very soon. There was also a postscript to this
effect.

"I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if
possible, from some of the young man's intimates in the regiment,
whether Wickham has any relations or connections, who would be likely to
know in what part of the town he has now concealed himself. If there
were any one, that one could apply to, with a probability of gaining
such a clue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we
have nothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do every
thing in his power to satisfy us on this head. But, on second thoughts,
perhaps Lizzy could tell us, what relations he has now living, better
than any other person."

Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference for
her authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give any
information of so satisfactory a nature, as the compliment deserved.

She had never heard of his having had any relations, except a father and
mother, both of whom had been dead many years. It was possible, however,
that some of his companions in the ----shire, might be able to give more
information; and, though she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the
application was a something to look forward to.

Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious
part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters was
the first grand object of every morning's impatience. Through letters,
whatever of good or bad was to be told, would be communicated, and every
succeeding day was expected to bring some news of importance.

But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived for
their father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins; which, as Jane
had received directions to open all that came for him in his absence,
she accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his
letters always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as
follows:

     "MY DEAR SIR,

     "I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation
     in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now
     suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter
     from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear Sir, that Mrs. Collins and
     myself sincerely sympathise with you, and all your respectable
     family, in your present distress, which must be of the bitterest
     kind, because proceeding from a cause which no time can remove. No
     arguments shall be wanting on my part, that can alleviate so severe
     a misfortune; or that may comfort you, under a circumstance that
     must be of all others most afflicting to a parent's mind. The death
     of your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison of this.
     And it is the more to be lamented, because there is reason to
     suppose, as my dear Charlotte informs me, that this licentiousness
     of behaviour in your daughter, has proceeded from a faulty degree
     of indulgence, though, at the same time, for the consolation of
     yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think that her own
     disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be guilty of
     such an enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever that may be, you
     are grievously to be pitied, in which opinion I am not only joined
     by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by lady Catherine and her daughter,
     to whom I have related the affair. They agree with me in
     apprehending that this false step in one daughter, will be
     injurious to the fortunes of all the others, for who, as lady
     Catherine herself condescendingly says, will connect themselves
     with such a family. And this consideration leads me moreover to
     reflect with augmented satisfaction on a certain event of last
     November, for had it been otherwise, I must have been involved in
     all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me advise you then, my dear Sir,
     to console yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy
     child from your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the
     fruits of her own heinous offence.

     "I am, dear Sir, &c. &c."

Mr. Gardiner did not write again, till he had received an answer from
Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send.
It was not known that Wickham had a single relation, with whom he kept
up any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one living.
His former acquaintance had been numerous; but since he had been in the
militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship
with any of them. There was no one therefore who could be pointed out,
as likely to give any news of him. And in the wretched state of his own
finances, there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in addition to
his fear of discovery by Lydia's relations, for it had just transpired
that he had left gaming debts behind him, to a very considerable
amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than a thousand pounds would
be necessary to clear his expences at Brighton. He owed a good deal in
the town, but his debts of honour were still more formidable. Mr.
Gardiner did not attempt to conceal these particulars from the Longbourn
family; Jane heard them with horror. "A gamester!" she cried. "This is
wholly unexpected. I had not an idea of it."

Mr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see their
father at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered
spiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours, he had yielded to
his brother-in-law's intreaty that he would return to his family, and
leave it to him to do, whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable
for continuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did
not express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering
what her anxiety for his life had been before.

"What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia!" she cried. "Sure he
will not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Wickham,
and make him marry her, if he comes away?"

As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that she
and her children should go to London, at the same time that Mr. Bennet
came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their
journey, and brought its master back to Longbourn.

Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and her
Derbyshire friend, that had attended her from that part of the world.
His name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece;
and the kind of half-expectation which Mrs. Gardiner had formed, of
their being followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing.
Elizabeth had received none since her return, that could come from
Pemberley.

The present unhappy state of the family, rendered any other excuse for
the lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore, could be
fairly conjectured from _that_, though Elizabeth, who was by this time
tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware,
that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of
Lydia's infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought,
one sleepless night out of two.

When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual
philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the
habit of saying; made no mention of the business that had taken him
away, and it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of
it.

It was not till the afternoon, when he joined them at tea, that
Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly
expressing her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, "Say
nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing,
and I ought to feel it."

"You must not be too severe upon yourself," replied Elizabeth.

"You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone to
fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have
been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression.
It will pass away soon enough."

"Do you suppose them to be in London?"

"Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?"

"And Lydia used to want to go to London," added Kitty.

"She is happy, then," said her father, drily; "and her residence there
will probably be of some duration."

Then, after a short silence, he continued, "Lizzy, I bear you no
ill-will for being justified in your advice to me last May, which,
considering the event, shews some greatness of mind."

They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her mother's
tea.

"This is a parade," cried he, "which does one good; it gives such an
elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit in
my library, in my night cap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble
as I can,--or, perhaps, I may defer it, till Kitty runs away."

"I am not going to run away, Papa," said Kitty, fretfully; "if _I_
should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia."

"_You_ go to Brighton!--I would not trust you so near it as East Bourne
for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and
you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter my house
again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be absolutely
prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters. And you are
never to stir out of doors, till you can prove, that you have spent ten
minutes of every day in a rational manner."

Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry.

"Well, well," said he, "do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good
girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of
them."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Mr. Collins sends a letter of condolence, but is brimming with painful references to Lydias disposition and her faulty upbringing. Messages in a similar vein from Lady Catherine are also included. Another letter from Colonel Forster is sent to Mr. Gardiner, informing him that Wickham has left sizeable gambling and other debts behind him in Brighton. Persuaded by Mr. Gardiner, Mr. Bennet finally returns to Longbourn. He appears unruffled as ever but tells Elizabeth that he is to blame for being lenient with Lydia. He resolves, in his ironic manner, to be more strict with Kitty.