Many thanks to my friend Helen for the idea for this story, although she was only engaging in idle speculation, while I, of course, immediately thought, "FANFIC!"

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a married man in possession of an estate that is under entailment must have a son to inherit it.

Thus, Mr. Thomas Bennet of Longbourn was quite properly delighted when his beloved wife Elizabeth presented him with a fine, healthy son one year after their marriage. Mrs. Bennet was a woman of beauty, taste, sense, and refinement, and these characteristics combined with Mr. Bennet's intelligence and wit assured that their firstborn son would inherit a great deal more than a fine house and farm.

However, the birth of young Master Thomas Bennet did not bring such pleasure to all quarters. The senior Mr. Bennet's cousin Jeremiah Collins, whose own son, William, would inherit Longbourn should Mr. Bennet die in default of heirs male, was disappointed and angry.

"I must do something," he said to his wife. "I must ensure that Longbourn goes to our William. I should have inherited the estate myself, but that cursed entailment denied me what was mine by birthright. I must find a way to make it work in our son's favour."

Mrs. Collins, who unlike her cousin's wife possessed neither good sense nor taste, agreed with everything her husband said. She was acutely aware of her shortcomings as well as the fact that her husband had chosen a bride from well beneath his own social strata, and that this unequal marriage was the reason why Mr. Collins' grandfather had entailed Longbourn upon Mr. Bennet and his heirs. "You are quite right, my love, but I do not see what you can possibly do. The boy is healthy and likely to prosper, and Mr. and Mrs. Bennet are young and can produce many more boys before they are through. We must do as best we can for young William's education. Perhaps the Church; that is a gentleman's profession, is it not, my love? And if William is fortunate in his patron, it could be a profitable profession as well."

Mr. Collins' face showed his distaste. He was a gentleman, and discussions of profit were therefore unpleasant to him. His wife, whose father had been a tradesman, had never understood that. "We shall see about that, my dear." He left the room hastily, leaving his wife to wonder at his words.

Mr. Bennet smiled at his wife across the dining-table. "Wine with you, my dear?" he asked, holding up his glass.

"Of course, my dearest husband." She raised her own glass and they both sipped, never taking their eyes from the other.

"Did young Thomas have a good day?" he asked, breaking off a piece of bread to eat with his soup.

"Oh, yes! He grows quite strong, my love. He holds up his head and looks around him with such intelligence. And he smiles so much! The nurse says it is just intestinal distress, but I wonder."

Mr. Bennet smiled again, indulgently. It was good to see Elizabeth so taken with their son. She was so delicate that she would not be able to bear many children, and she was consumed with young Thomas' progress.

Mrs. Bennet hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Thomas, may I bring him to you in the drawing-room tonight, just for a moment? I shall ensure that the nurse has fed him properly so that he should not bespoil your coat." This was a reference to an unfortunate incident of the week before, in which the young master had deposited his dinner on his father's clean linen.

Despite his wife's apprehensions, Mr. Bennet had been more amused than disturbed by that incident, and he had genuine affection for his son. He said, "Of course, Elizabeth! I should dearly like to see young Thomas. When I have finished my port, by all means bring him to me." He had all the reward necessary for his selfless act in the glowing countenance of his lovely wife.

When the port had been consumed, Mrs. Bennet happily poured his coffee and said, "I shall go and fetch young Thomas now, if that is your wish."

Well-fed and mellowed by the excellent port, Mr. Bennet nodded agreement, and Mrs. Bennet climbed the stairs to the nursery. Mr. Bennet sipped his coffee, thinking contentedly of his wonderful family, until he heard his wife begin to scream.

The nurse adjusted the blankets in the basket and looked around her doubtfully. She had managed to get to Meryton without arousing any suspicion, but she felt as if she had a sign pinned to her back that read "KIDNAPPER." And where was that confounded man, anyway? She had followed his instructions to the letter, and he should have been here at the inn to meet her, but here she sat with a baby that was not hers and no prospect of getting rid of it. She could hardly go back to Longbourn; by now they would know that she was missing, along with the heir.

As if on cue, young Thomas began to fuss, and the nurse rocked the basket until he fell asleep once again, his little mouth working. He would be hungry soon; she had put up bottles of goats-milk for the man to take along, since she did not know whether he had engaged a wet-nurse. Oh, this whole operation was a disaster from the beginning! She should never have agreed to it! But the money...yes, the money would allow her to marry her Luke, even though he was only a farmhand. She smiled when she thought of the surprise and delight on Luke's face when she presented him with the money.

Despite these happy thoughts, the nurse was seriously considering returning to Longbourn and facing the righteous wrath of Mr. Bennet when the man finally entered the inn. He was small and swarthy, and the nurse had a moment's doubt about leaving the baby with him; however, he was accompanied by a young woman who took the baby from the basket and held him expertly, relieving the nurse's mind somewhat.

"Do you have the money?" she asked nervously.

The man handed over a box; the nurse removed the top and smiled at the pile of pound notes inside. Yes, Luke would be delighted indeed. She replaced the top of the box, touched little Thomas' arm one last time, and went out to the waiting post-chaise that would take her home to Yorkshire and Luke.

Another post-chaise carried away the man, the young woman, and the baby. They traveled through the night and most of the next day, until they arrived at a town that the man considered properly retired. They will never find the child here.

He went to the small church and placed the basket on one of the pews. It was late afternoon, and there was a young woman seated in a pew a few rows in front of him. The baby was sleeping, but when he woke, the man was sure that the woman would be able to care for him. Despite his appearance, he was not a cruel man; he was simply following his master's instructions, and he saw no reason to endanger the baby. He rose from the pew and left the church without looking back.

Mrs. Frederick Tilney stared disconsolately at the altar of the tiny church. Why, oh why? she cried silently, as she had so many times in the past four days, since her little boy had died. Mrs. Tilney had been "finished" at a French convent school; though she now worshipped with her husband at this Anglican church, she still sometimes had private conversations with the Blessed Mother, to whom she had been introduced by the kindly nuns and whose name she shared: Mary.

Why did you take him away from me, Mother? she asked in despair. Is it because I come to this church now, instead of yours? But is it not proper for a wife to cleave to her husband and his church? Mary had not even really wanted to marry Frederick Tilney; her father had arranged the marriage with the stern young colonel, who had been enraptured with the pretty, dark-haired Miss Drummond, although she sometimes suspected that the basis of the colonel's affection was her fortune of twenty thousand pounds. Mary was a dutiful wife, and she quickly gave birth to a son, named Frederick after his father; three years later she bore another son, who had been born much too soon and died so quickly that he had not even been given a name.

I know I am selfish, Mother, she thought. I still have little Frederick, and he is healthy. That should be sufficient. But it is not. Oh, it hurts, Mother, it hurts! She crossed her arms over her stomach, still distended from the pregnancy; her breasts were swollen and painful with the milk her body still produced for the dead baby. And Mary hung her head and wept broken-heartedly for her lost son.

A thin wail broke the silence, and her head snapped up. She did not even notice that the front of her gown had become soaked with milk at the baby's cry; she reacted instinctively, as a mother, standing up and looking about. She was alone in the church; where was the baby?

She ran down the aisle, looking in each pew, until she found the basket. She carefully peeled back the blankets and saw the baby staring up at her, waving his hands and wailing loudly. He had bright eyes and dark hair like her own, unlike little Frederick, who had inherited his father's fair hair and blue eyes. Mary reached out to him, and the tiny fingers wrapped around one of her own. The child shook with the anger and violence of his cries. Poor thing, he must be hungry!

Mary lifted the baby from the basket, expertly unbuttoning the front of her wrapper. She draped the blanket over her shoulder and began to nurse the baby, not caring if such an activity was improper in church. She smiled down at her new son, thinking, The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Oh, thank you, Mother! Hail Mary, full of grace...

Mary Tilney took the baby back to the Abbey and explained to her husband how the Blessed Mother had answered her heartbroken pleas. Colonel Tilney did not have the heart to deny his wife, although her Papist tendencies disturbed him; he felt genuine affection for her, although it was difficult for him to show it, and he sometimes shouted at her and frightened her when he meant to be loving. The colonel was not entirely sure that it would be desirable to raise his heir, young Frederick, in the same house as a child who was likely the product of an immoral relationship. Some slatternly local girl had probably rolled in the hay with a stableboy and left the shameful result on the mercy of the parish. Well, the child could not help the circumstances of his birth, and it would comfort Mary for the loss of the baby. He would raise the boy as a gentleman and watch him carefully. Any lower-class tendencies must be nipped in the bud.

Thus the Tilneys' second son - named Henry for Mary's brother - grew up at Northanger Abbey, and never knew that the mother who had given him life was not the one who tucked him into bed and warmly kissed him good-night. And he never knew that the father who had been so delighted at his birth still thought of him daily and grieved for him sincerely.

Thomas Bennet searched far and wide for his son, but in those days of King George England was a much larger place than it is today. It was easy to overlook such a retired village as Northanger, and even the fine old Abbey, improved and modernized thought it had been by Colonel Tilney's father. Finally he had to abandon the search, although he never abandoned hope; his lovely, delicate wife was not so fortunate, and she passed quietly from this world less than a year after little Thomas' disappearance. The physicians said that she died from a consumption, but Mr. Bennet knew better; she died of a broken heart, and he cursed himself for his inability to repair it.

He wore black for the proscribed time, but he never really stopped mourning Elizabeth. He mourned her beauty, her refinement, her way of making her husband comfortable and their home loving. After a genteel period, rapacious mammas began to present their daughters to him as a replacement, but the more lovely and accomplished they were, the more they reminded him of Elizabeth, and the less he could bear to have them by him. He withdrew from society, spending a great deal of time in his library at Longbourn, and his formerly sparkling wit became warped by bitterness into something hard and prickly, used to wound rather than to give joy.

An uncharacteristic appearance at a village assembly introduced him to Miss Fanny Gardiner, who was the exact opposite of Elizabeth, having no taste, sense, or refinement of which to speak. However, she was pretty enough, and had a vivaciousness that called out to Mr. Bennet in his solitude. In a moment of what he thought was love but later recognized as madness, he offered for her, and before he fully realized his mistake she was installed as mistress of Longbourn and expecting a child.

The new Mrs. Bennet gave birth first to a daughter, a beautiful pink and golden little girl named Jane after her mother's sister. Mr. Bennet loved this daughter as well as he loved his absent son, but he wondered how he could provide for her if he had no son to join him in cutting off the entail. Well, Mrs. Bennet is young, he told himself; she will bear a son soon enough.

Two years later Mrs. Bennet bore him a second daughter. The baby had dark hair like her father, and something in her eyes reminded Mr. Bennet of his first wife. She could have been the daughter Elizabeth and I had together, if only... Mrs. Bennet cared not for this daughter; her consequence lay in producing sons, and a daughter who was so unlike her could not excite any affection in her small heart. When Mr. Bennet gently suggested that the girl be called Elizabeth, Mrs. Bennet agreed absently. Mr. Bennet never discussed his first wife, and Mrs. Bennet had never learned her name.

After three more confinements Mrs. Bennet had failed to produce a son. Mr. Bennet resigned his fate, and his estate, to his cousin, young William Collins. He sometimes despaired of how he was to provide five dowries; then he would pick up a book and drown himself in words, so much more pleasant than cold reality, the same reality that had taken away Elizabeth and little Thomas.

He loved his five daughters, especially Lizzy, as well as he was able, with his heart so scarred by early loss. His affection sometimes manifested itself in a sort of cruel teasing, which pained the two eldest girls and cost him the respect of the youngest. For his wife there was occasional tenderness, especially when her former vivacity made an appearance; but more often Mrs. Bennet was anxious and silly, and at those times her husband avoided her company as much as he was decently able.

Mrs. Bennet wondered why Mr. Bennet doted so on Lizzy, when Jane was so much more beautiful, Mary so much more accomplished, Lydia so much more good-natured, and Kitty...well, that was perhaps understandable. She supposed it was because Lizzy favoured Mr. Bennet's colouring, but little did Fanny Bennet suspect that her husband loved his second daughter so well because her spirit and sparkle, as well as her fine, dark eyes and hair, brought back sweet memories of the only woman he had ever loved.

"I never expected to see you thus, Tilney," declared his friend.

Henry Tilney turned away from the window, where he had been watching the passersby hurrying through the swirling mists of London. "Forgive me, Darcy," he said, trying bravely to smile. "Even after four months, everything is still very fresh."

Fitzwilliam Darcy shook his head at the younger man. "I think I must meet this Miss Morland," he said with a smile. "Any young woman that can lay Henry Tilney so low must be formidable indeed."

Henry laughed. "Catherine, formidable?" He turned back to the window and sighed. "On the contrary. She is the sweetest girl in the world."

"Did you hear that, Bingley?" asked Darcy, turning to the third man in the room. " 'The sweetest girl in the world.' Think you that our old friend would ever fall so hard for 'the sweetest girl in the world'? Indeed, think you that he would ever utter the phrase 'the sweetest girl in the world?' He who finds such hyperbolic superlatives worthy of his highest wit!"

Charles Bingley had truthfully been thinking that it must be wonderful to love a young lady as much as Henry seemed to love Miss Morland, but he said only, "I would like to meet her as well, Tilney. When do you propose to introduce us to your bride?"

Henry laughed. "Not until we are safely married, you dog." He paused for a moment, then added bitterly, "Whenever that may be." There was an uncomfortable silence; Henry's two friends were acquainted with his circumstances, his father's refusal to allow his marriage to the woman he loved. Although they teased Henry about Catherine, his friends had too high a regard for his taste, and too intimate a knowledge of General Tilney's temper, to think for a moment that the General's harsh assessment of Henry's fiancée was warranted.

"Tell us about her, Tilney," said Darcy. He was trying desperately to keep up his old friend's spirits and failing abysmally. He exchanged a worried glance with Bingley. "Is she accomplished?"

"Of course she is," said Bingley heartily. "All young ladies are accomplished! Miss Tilney is very accomplished," he added with a small sigh that amused Henry greatly even in the midst of his distress. Bingley had long carried a torch for Henry's sister, Eleanor, albeit in vain; her heart belonged to another. Henry suspected that Bingley's tendre for Eleanor was simply an old habit, one that would be abandoned when another pretty young lady crossed his path.

"There we must part company, Bingley," Darcy declared. "I have an extremely exacting definition of an accomplished woman. Well, Tilney? Do you think Miss Morland would fit that definition?"

"No, Darcy," said Henry, "Catherine is not your type at all. She is sweet, direct, warm-hearted, and not at all accomplished."

"You astonish me, Tilney. I had such high hopes for you," Darcy teased. "If you were not such an impudent rogue, I may even have let you marry Georgiana when she was old enough."

"You can bestow no higher compliment," cried Henry, bowing gallantly. "Miss Darcy is lovely and accomplished indeed, but she is not my Catherine." He laid one hand on Darcy's shoulder and one on Bingley's. "Thank you, my friends," he said softly. "I understand what you are trying to accomplish, but I think I simply need time to get used to the idea that Catherine and I must be apart." He drew a deep breath. "It is difficult to be alone at Woodston. My solitude preys upon me." He paused and turned away, pacing restlessly and running a hand through his tousled brown curls. "I see Catherine in every room, looking about her in wonder and delight as she did when she called on me there, never realizing that I already envisioned her as its mistress." He turned back to the other men, smiling affectionately. "Thank you, Darcy, for inviting me to visit you here in town. The society of my oldest friends could do me nothing but good. But I think I must be getting back to Woodston before my curate revolts. Besides, I have a Newfoundland puppy that I am training to retrieve, and he is making great progress."

Darcy and Bingley exchanged another glance. "I have a suggestion that may help take your mind away from your troubles," said Bingley. "You know that I have been looking for an estate to purchase." Henry nodded. "I have found one in Hertfordshire called Netherfield. I am only leasing it for now, but I have an option to purchase it. The grounds are rich in game, and I have the warrant, so there will be sport. The neighbours are delightful people. I will be returning the day after tomorrow, and Darcy, my sisters, and Louisa's husband Hurst will join me. Do come along, Tilney," he cried, grasping his friend's arm earnestly. "I would sincerely like for you to come along. And you must bring your Newfoundland. There will be plenty of birds for him to chase." He hesitated. "And perhaps you will not be so oppressed by your memories."

Henry smiled down at Bingley's eager face. "How can I spurn such an invitation?" he laughed. "Yes, I will come along, Bingley, if my curate's schedule allows. Is there an M.P. or a lord about the neighbourhood who is willing to frank my letters? I plan to inundate Catherine with epistles and I would not have the poor girl using up her dowry in postage."

"I shall provide for you as best I can," Bingley promised, and the young men began to form plans for their removal to Hertfordshire.

They had met at Eton, where Henry had arrived at the age of twelve, frightened as the new boys always are, but displaying a brave façade that inspired Darcy's sincere admiration. Frederick Tilney, exercising three years' seniority, tormented his younger brother with impunity. Darcy considered the elder Tilney a bully, and he stepped between Frederick and Henry when the former attempted to thrash the latter for some small infraction. Darcy was the party administering the thrashing that day, and when Frederick crept away to lick his wounds, a considerably impressed Henry asked Darcy if he would instruct him in boxing.

Darcy had studied pugilism since boyhood and was glad to pass his knowledge on to the younger man. The students did not have a great deal of spare time, but what they had was spent in instruction and learning of the sweet science. Henry was a quick study, but still small; Darcy, at fifteen already tall and rangy, defeated him easily in their practice matches. He respected the younger boy far too much to allow him a victory that he did not earn.

Two years later, Darcy had moved on to Oxford, and Henry Tilney was in a position to perform the same office for Charles Bingley that Darcy had performed for him. Bingley's slavish gratitude had endeared him to Henry, who never scorned sincere adoration from his fellow human beings.

Henry eventually followed Darcy to Oxford. By that time he had reached his full height of six feet, his shoulders had broadened, and his strength had developed by constant practice, and at last Henry Tilney defeated Fitzwilliam Darcy in a sparring match. Darcy took his defeat with good grace and a determination to never let it happen again.

The friendship, and occasional competition, had continued as they pursued their lives after Oxford. Henry had introduced Darcy and Bingley to one another, and they had become instant friends, both being eldest sons from the north of England; however, they did not scorn their old friend Tilney, who had taken orders and been named to a family living in Gloucestershire. Henry sometimes suspected that Darcy also enjoyed the warm regard that radiated from Bingley like fire from the sun, and this evidence of Darcy's vanity amused him greatly. Henry Tilney had few vices, but one of them was his tendency to indulge himself overmuch in the foibles of others.

He was also amused at the pursuit of his friends by bright-eyed young ladies and their anxious mammas, whom Henry swore could sniff the two young men's fortunes from across a crowded ball-room. Henry was extremely popular as well, being unfailingly witty and charming and an excellent dancer into the bargain, but the ladies usually abandoned him for his richer friends when the dreaded words "younger son" were uttered. And then he had met Catherine.

Henry could not really identify what he had found attractive about the young lady whom Mr. King had introduced that night at the Lower Rooms in Bath. Her admiration was obvious, and had never wavered, even in the face of his father's embarrassing solicitude. Henry knew perfectly well that General Tilney's assumptions about Catherine's expectations were false, but he sincerely enjoyed her company, and it would not have served his interests to correct his father's ideas. He wanted to know more about this sweet, serious girl, and he wished to promote her budding friendship with Eleanor. His sister had so few real friends.

Henry had been fascinated with baby Eleanor, born when he was two years old, and he had spent a great deal of time with her. When she had been old enough to toddle about, he had held her hand and helped her; when she had been old enough to play, he had joined in her games; when she had been old enough to learn to read, he had taught her. Henry saw hints of Eleanor in Catherine, and was not terribly surprised when they became friends. And when the General had banished Catherine from Northanger, Henry had ridden all day to ask for her hand, half-fearing that his father's mad ideas had prejudiced her against him forever but ultimately trusting in her warm heart. And his trust had not been mislaid.

The General had not sanctioned the marriage, and the Morlands regretfully refused their permission as well. It was not that they did not like or trust Mr. Tilney, they explained, but they could not allow a marriage that his father had forbidden. They understood that the late Mrs. Tilney had ensured that her son had a comfortable fortune independent of his living, but they could not brook disrespect to his living parent. However, when the General gave his blessing, they were prepared to do so as well. Henry had understood completely, although Catherine's tears had rent his heart.

The lovers engaged in a clandestine correspondence, which helped to soften the torments of absence, but as the weeks turned into months and the General showed no signs of retreating from his entrenched position, Henry's innate charm dimmed into something like melancholy. The increasingly despondent tone of his letters had alarmed his old friends, and Darcy had hastened to invite him to stay at his townhouse in London.

And now to Hertfordshire, Henry thought as he drove his curricle toward Woodston, there to gather his clothes and guns and dog. I do not expect to find anything there that will make me stop longing for Catherine, but perhaps it will distract me for a time. Anything is better than being at Woodston, alone with my memories.

Henry stepped out of Bingley's carriage and looked around him with a smile. What a charming little village, he thought, a great deal like Woodston. His smile faltered a bit. Or like Fullerton. His friends' scheme to distract him from his misfortunes was only successful to a point; he saw Catherine everywhere. She invaded his thoughts at odd moments, and he would sigh and his eyes would grow distant, and Darcy and Bingley would look at one another and shake their heads. They were very worried about their friend, and when he had shown a spark of interest in attending the Meryton village assembly, even Darcy was persuaded to accompany him, although such entertainment was not at all to his fastidious taste.

"Shall we be quite safe here, Mr. Darcy, do you think?" he heard Caroline Bingley ask behind him. This brought the grin back to Henry's face. Miss Bingley was clearly in love with either Darcy or his fortune. Henry had watched her machinations with high glee, and teased Darcy about it incessantly in private. He was rather surprised that Darcy did not give her the cut direct, but rather allowed her importunities to continue. Perhaps he likes her, after all? Henry watched his friend's face carefully; Darcy's countenance showed no particular regard for Bingley's sister, but as this was quite usual for Darcy, anything was possible.

"Demmed silly way to spend an evening," muttered Mr. Hurst, who had stumbled heavily from the second carriage. Henry gazed at him with distaste. He was a wine-sodden, lazy good-for-nothing, who did not have the fortune to support his fashionably dissolute lifestyle but showed no compunction at feeding at his brother-in-law's trough. It astonished Henry that Bingley had not only allowed his sister to marry such a man--although how could he have stopped her? Louisa was of age--but that he continued to allow the sot to deplete his pantry, his cellars, and his woods. Not that the birds were in that much danger from Hurst; he was usually too much in liquor to strike many of his targets. Henry wondered if he should perhaps put a flea in Bingley's ear in regard to Hurst, but he knew that Bingley was far too good-natured, as well as too affectionate a brother, to put his sister and her husband from his house.

Bingley led the way inside, where their hats and cloaks were taken, and they walked down a passage and into a large room lit by a multitude of candles. Jaunty music had swelled and ended as they drew closer, finishing just as they stepped into the room. The laughing dancers froze in their tracks and turned toward the newcomers, and the Netherfield party found themselves the object of every eye in the room.

They all stood there in varying states of discomfort until they were approached by a large man in evening dress. He greeted Mr. Bingley familiarly, and they were all introduced in turn to Sir William Lucas. Henry was amused to notice that their arrival precipitated the arrangement of several whispering groups about the room, with members of each group occasionally detaching themselves to run toward another group and whisper some more, throwing occasional appraising looks at Bingley and Darcy. The hounds have caught the scent, and the hunt is on!

Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley stood to one side, contemptuously inspecting the assembled company. This did not surprise Henry at all, for he found the sisters proud beyond his comprehension; they could claim only a succession of tradesmen, however successful, as their ancestors, yet they carried themselves with as much disdainful arrogance as any aristocrat. Miss Bingley in particular excited Henry's firmest dislike. She was contemptuous toward Catherine, whom she had never met, extracting the highest amusement from Henry's engagement to a mere country clergyman's daughter, and her cutting remarks had tested Henry's patience more than once since he had arrived at Netherfield.

Darcy hung back as well, his countenance haughty and forbidding. Henry knew that expression was a cover for the inexplicable reserve that sometimes came upon Darcy in a crowd of people with whom he was not intimate. Henry being who he was, he had little sympathy for the coolness of his friend's manners amongst those of less consequence than Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley.

Bingley tugged on Henry's elbow. "Sir William is going to introduce us to those young ladies," he whispered, indicating two girls standing with an older woman. "Do you not think the fair-haired one uncommonly pretty?"

"I am afraid that I must disagree with you, Bingley," responded his impertinent friend. "She is very pretty indeed, but uncommonly pretty? That would indicate that her prettiness lay out of the common understanding of that term, a form of prettiness that would not be recognized by the public. I know you are not unchivalrous; therefore, I must conclude that your language is shockingly imprecise. I suggest that you procure Johnson's Dictionary or Blair's Letters on Rhetoric for that pathetic assemblage you call a library at Netherfield."

"Tilney, you are the only man I know who would talk of Johnson and Blair in a ballroom. Here is Sir William; do come along!"

Despite his teasing, Henry was willing enough to be introduced to the young ladies, both of whom were indeed very pretty, and he walked toward them with Bingley. To his surprise, Darcy was at their heels.

"Mrs. Bennet," Sir William was saying to the older woman, "Mr. Bingley has expressed a wish to become acquainted with you and your daughters."

"Sir, that is very good of you," simpered Mrs. Bennet. "This is Jane, my eldest, and Elizabeth. Mary sits over there, and Kitty and Lydia, my youngest, you see there dancing. Do you like to dance yourself?"

Henry ducked his head before Mrs. Bennet could see his grin at her rather bald hint. When he had his expression under control, he looked up to meet the gaze of the dark-haired girl, Miss Elizabeth, whose brown eyes had a twinkle that matched his own. Henry smiled at her, and her own smile widened in response. He found himself staring at her, and finally wrenched his gaze away. Have I met this woman before?

"There is nothing I love better, madam," Bingley was saying in his usual enthusiastic manner, which sometimes reminded Henry of his Newfoundland puppy. "And if Miss Bennet is not otherwise engaged, may I be so bold as to claim the next two dances?"

Miss Bennet's delight at his request shone in her expression. "I am not engaged, sir."

"Good," said Bingley, still grinning, his eyes locked with Miss Bennet's. Poor Eleanor, thought Henry in some amusement, I suspect that Bingley may be lost to her forever.

"You do us great honour, sir," Mrs. Bennet fawned. "Thank the gentleman, Jane!"

Miss Bennet looked down in confusion while her sister murmured, "Mamma!" Henry felt for the girls; he well knew the mortification of having relations for whom one must apologize.

Mrs. Bennet, undaunted by her daughter's admonition, turned her attention to Darcy. "And you, sir? Are you fond of dancing, too?"

Bingley snapped out of his reverie. "Oh, I beg your pardon. Mrs. Bennet, may I present my friends, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Tilney?"

Word of the gentlemen's relative social status must have made the rounds of the whispering groups, for Mrs. Bennet ignored Henry and spoke only to Darcy. "You are very welcome to Hertfordshire, I am sure, sir. I hope you have come here eager to dance as your friend has?"

Darcy bowed, and said rather shortly, "I thank you, madam, I rarely dance."

"Well, let this be one of the occasions, sir, for I wager you will not easily find such lively music or such pretty partners!"

Darcy merely bowed again and walked away. Henry, pained by his friend's rudeness, hastily said, "I am not as disinclined to dance as Mr. Darcy, madam, and if Miss Elizabeth is not engaged for the next two dances, I hereby apply for the honour of being her partner."

Mrs. Bennet continued to glare at Darcy as Elizabeth quietly accepted his offer. Bingley and Henry quickly excused themselves and walked back to where Darcy stood.

"Darcy, what are you about?" Henry asked him. "I know your tendency to be withdrawn in company, but there is no need to be unpleasant to Bingley's neighbours."

As he spoke, Mrs. Bennet's rather piercing voice carried over to them. "Well! Did you ever meet such a proud, disagreeable man?"

Elizabeth's musical voice murmured, "Mamma, he will hear you!" Henry was glad to hear that his first impression of his dance partner was correct; she had a sense of refinement that seemed absent in her mother.

"I don't care if he does! And his friends, disposed to be so agreeable and everything charming. Who is he, to think himself so far above his company?"

Darcy darted a venomous look back toward the Bennet ladies, and Henry took his elbow and steered him away until they could hear no more of Mrs. Bennet's shrill speech.

"Let me be, Tilney." Darcy wrenched his elbow from Henry's hand.

"Gladly. Your behaviour is abominable, sir. I would prefer to not be associated with you at all."

Henry and Darcy glared at one another while a miserable Bingley stood nearby, unable to side with one of his friends over the other and sincerely wishing that they would shake hands and forget the entire incident. Fortunately for Bingley's nice sensibilities, the music started for the next dance, and he and Henry were obliged to claim their partners and enter the set, leaving Darcy to stand to one side of the room, his chin higher and his expression haughtier than ever.

Henry's partner proved as lively as he had hoped. They exchanged remarks on the dance, the size of the room, the weather, and the state of the roads. Miss Elizabeth had a spirited way of expressing herself that delighted him, and he responded in kind, causing her to laugh more than once. Henry needed no more in a dance partner.

"How long will you be staying at Netherfield, sir?" she asked him halfway through the second dance.

"As long as I am able, madam. I have an excellent curate, but I do not like to stay away from my parish for more than a fortnight at a time."

"That is a noble sentiment indeed, Mr. Tilney, especially when you have the company of such good friends as Mr. Bingley to tempt you away from your duties."

"Bingley is indeed a very good friend of many years' standing, as is Darcy." Henry's pique against the latter gentleman was already fading.

Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder to where Darcy stood watching the dancers, then turned her gaze back to Henry. "Mr. Darcy's temper does not seem to be compatible with yours and Mr. Bingley's."

Henry sighed. "I assure you that, when he is amongst his close acquaintances, Darcy is perfectly amiable. Unfortunately, he has a tendency to be more reserved in company."

Elizabeth's expression indicated that she would have chosen different adjectives to describe Darcy's behaviour, but she said only, "I am afraid that will not increase his popularity in Meryton. We are a sociable set, and such conduct is not easily excused."

"I should think that his ridiculously large fortune would go a long way toward excusing his conduct with many people," responded Henry impertinently, and Elizabeth blushed and laughed.

"In some quarters, Mr. Tilney, I am afraid that is very true!"

"And alas, a poor, overworked parson like myself is left friendless and forlorn to make his own way in the cruel world," added Henry with a loud, dramatic sigh.

Elizabeth laughed again, a musical sound that Henry liked a great deal. "I hardly think you friendless, sir. Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley have condescended to give you their friendship, and such an honour cannot be disregarded." She regarded him appraisingly. "And I dare say that there is a young lady back in Gloucestershire who would consider herself a particular friend of yours."

"Your intelligence is excellent, Miss Bennet," said Henry, laughing. "Although the young lady actually resides in Wiltshire. I see my reputation has preceded me."

"Only that you are Mr. Bingley's friend, that you are a clergyman, and that you are a younger son of a respectable family from Gloucestershire."

The music built to a crescendo and stopped with a flourish. Henry bowed and offered his arm to Elizabeth, who laid a gloved hand upon it. "Then how did you know about my fiancée?"

"I am not sure," Elizabeth confessed. "I had a feeling--I feel as though I have known you for a very long time."

Henry looked down at her, the laughter gone from his brown eyes. "I feel the same way. I meant to ask you, have we met somewhere else, London perhaps, or Bath?"

"I have never been to Bath. When I am in town, I stay with my aunt and uncle in Gracechurch-street, near Cheapside."

Henry knew that neither his father nor his fashionable friends would have stepped an elegant foot anywhere near Cheapside. "Do you attend the assemblies in town, madam?"

"Sometimes. We cannot get vouchers to Almack's, of course, but there are other dances. However, my aunt and uncle live very quietly in general." She was silent for a moment. "What is your fiancée's name?"

"Her name is Catherine Morland. She lives in a village called Fullerton, where her father is the vicar."

Elizabeth repeated the name several times, turning it over in her mind, and finally shook her head. "No, I do not believe that I know Miss Morland." She smiled up at Henry, and he smiled in return, two pair of twinkling dark eyes exchanging unspoken, unconsciously comprehended messages of friendship and trust. "I suspect that we must simply consider this a case of like sensibilities recognizing one another."

She still had her hand on his arm, and he covered it with his own. "I agree, Miss Bennet. And I hope that we shall have another opportunity to discuss our like sensibilities."

"As do I, Mr. Tilney."

Henry's smile grew wider, and he gave her an elegant bow and would have moved away but for the approach of another young lady, plainer and some years older than Elizabeth.

"Mr. Tilney, may I present my very good friend, Miss Charlotte Lucas?"

"Your servant, Miss Lucas." Henry bowed again. "You are Sir William's daughter, I believe."

"That is correct, sir." Miss Lucas looked from Henry to Elizabeth, then back again. "I hope you will forgive my forwardness, Mr. Tilney. Eliza is accustomed to my plain speaking. But I have been watching you dance, and I must say that if I did not know differently, I would think you two brother and sister. You have the same dark eyes and hair, and your mannerisms are very similar."

Henry laughed, not at all offended by Miss Lucas' comment. "Then you would be surprised to meet my sister, madam. She is fair and blue-eyed like my father and elder brother. I favour my late mother's colouring."

Miss Lucas smiled. "Of course I did not mean to say that you were actually related. It is just very curious. Do you not agree, Eliza?"

"Oh, yes. Mr. Tilney and I were just saying that when one meets a person of like sensibilities, one feels as though one has known that person for a very long time. Perhaps our empathy has overflowed into our manners."

"Although I am afraid that Miss Bennet has a much better picture of my character than I do of hers, Miss Lucas. Since you are her particular friend, will you do me the honour of being my partner for the next two dances? Perhaps I can ferret out a few of her secrets, as she has managed to discern mine without benefit of such a roundabout and devious method."

Charlotte laughed; clearly she was as susceptible to the Tilney charm as her friend was. "I thank you, Mr. Tilney. I would be delighted to assist."

Henry found Miss Lucas' manners to be perfectly pleasant, though not as animated as her friend's. When the dances were over, Miss Lucas introduced Henry to her younger sister, a pretty girl named Maria, whom Henry promptly asked to dance. At first, Maria's sweetness and youth reminded him rather forcibly of his first dance with Catherine at the Lower Rooms in Bath. However, Maria's extreme shyness, which manifested itself in monosyllabic replies to his bantering, only brought to his mind Catherine's true excellence of character and made him miss her all the more.

During the second dance, Henry fell silent, his thoughts with Catherine, which seemed to suit Miss Maria perfectly. This unusual reticence allowed him to overhear a conversation between Darcy and Bingley. The latter gentleman, whom Henry was amused to note was dancing once more with Jane Bennet, had left the set in an attempt to persuade Darcy to join the dance.

"Come, Darcy," said Bingley, "I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance."

"I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this, it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with." Henry sighed; that his friend, whom Henry knew to be genuinely warm and amicable among his intimates, could display the same pride as Bingley's sisters pained him greatly.

"I would not be so fastidious as you are," cried Bingley, "for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them, you see, uncommonly pretty."

I really must procure Johnson and Blair for Bingley, thought Henry. An Oxford man should have a great deal more precision in his speech.

"You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room," said Darcy, his glance traveling to Bingley's partner.

"Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld!"

Henry grinned involuntarily at Bingley's enthusiasm. He well remembered a time when Eleanor Tilney had been the most beautiful creature Bingley had ever beheld.

Bingley continued to speak. "But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you."

Henry saw Elizabeth Bennet seated nearby, having fallen victim to the unfortunate shortage of gentlemen. A dose of Elizabeth's spirit may be just the cure for Darcy's arrogance, thought Henry with a grin.

"Which do you mean?" said Darcy, turning around to look for a moment at Elizabeth. Henry saw Elizabeth glance up and catch Darcy's eye, but Darcy withdrew his own gaze and coldly said, "She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me; and I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me."

How dare you, Darcy! thought Henry indignantly. She is sitting just next to you! I am sure that she hears you! He glared at Darcy, all his former anger returning. Elizabeth looked up at Darcy as well; a disinterested observer would have noted the similarity of their expressions, but none of the attendees were paying them any mind.

Then Henry saw Elizabeth turn away and smile; a moment later, she stood and walked past Darcy, giving him an insolent grin as she passed, and went to stand with Charlotte Lucas. A moment later, both ladies burst out laughing, stealing glances back toward a mortified Darcy, whose expression showed that he knew exactly what the ladies were discussing. Henry grinned; Darcy's punishment was complete. Bravo, Elizabeth. He turned his attentions back to Maria, and ended the two dances with an elegant bow that made her blush profusely and anchor her gaze permanently to the floor.

The rest of the assembly passed in a similar manner. Henry danced with as many ladies as possible and was pronounced charming by everyone; Bingley could in propriety dance no more with Jane Bennet, but seemed to spend a great deal of time by her side nonetheless; and Darcy stood haughtily to one side of the room, refusing to dance or to talk with anyone outside his party, disgusting both the populace of Meryton and his old friend Tilney with his prideful behaviour.

Henry danced once again with Elizabeth Bennet, and spent some time talking to her; more than one mamma turned a significant glance in Mrs. Bennet's direction, but she hastened to tell them that Mr. Tilney was engaged and that his attentions to Lizzy were merely polite. Mrs. Bennet was not at all put out by Henry's ineligibility. She generally disapproved of satirical young men, although she had married one herself, and considered such a trait especially unattractive in a clergyman.

Henry and Elizabeth parted with a strong inclination on both sides to continue the acquaintance. Elizabeth liked Mr. Tilney a great deal, but did not fancy herself in love with him, especially after he informed her of his engagement; indeed, she had felt upon their introduction that his heart had already been claimed, although she could not say how she came by that knowledge. Henry found Elizabeth to be a lovely young woman, with an intelligence and playfulness that reminded him of his sister. Although he wished to know her better, he knew instinctively that she would never usurp Catherine's place in his heart. Henry Tilney had learned from his sister the value of the companionship of women, and he looked forward with much pleasure to future meetings with Elizabeth Bennet.

The Netherfield party gathered in the drawing room, where a footman helped the ladies to tea. Bingley poured sherry for the gentlemen, except Mr. Hurst, who had spent the evening consuming glass after glass of wine and was sprawled on a sofa, snoring gently. Miss Bingley divided her time between abusing the Meryton natives who had attended the ball and soliciting Mr. Darcy's approval of her cruel jibes. To Henry's dismay, Darcy did not seem disinclined to agree with her. Had Darcy changed so much in the year since they had last been together? Henry felt as though he hardly knew his friend.

"And so none of the Hertfordshire ladies could please you, Mr. Darcy? Not even the famous Miss Bennets?" asked Miss Bingley in an arch tone that annoyed Henry greatly. You would not know beauty if it marched in front of you wearing a sign, dear Caroline.

Bingley still wore a grin remarkably similar to that which he had worn whilst in the presence of the eldest Miss Bennet. "Well, I never met with pleasanter people or prettier girls in my life!"

Darcy stared at him. "Bingley, you astonish me. I saw little beauty and no breeding at all." Bingley's face fell, and remorse prompted Darcy to add, "The eldest Miss Bennet is, I grant you, very pretty."

Bingley smiled again. "A fine concession! Come, man, admit it! She is an angel!"

"She smiles too much," Darcy muttered.

Is such a thing possible? thought Henry in amusement.

Miss Bingley chimed in. "Oh, Jane Bennet is a sweet girl. But the mother!"

Bingley sighed, and Darcy rolled his eyes.

Miss Bingley turned her piercing gaze upon Henry. She considered a moment, then smiled unpleasantly and said, "I heard Eliza Bennet described as a famous local beauty. What do you say to that, Mr. Darcy?"

"I should as soon call her mother a wit."

Henry turned away from Darcy in dismay, while Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst burst into laughter. "Oh, Mr. Darcy, that's too cruel!" cried Miss Bingley. "What say you, Mr. Tilney? How do the ladies of Meryton compare with parson's daughters from Wiltshire?"

"The two sets of ladies are equal in my eyes," said Henry mildly. "They are unspoiled and charming, without the pretensions and false sophistication that disgust so many of my sex." Henry's countenance remained neutral as he spoke, although he saw Darcy turn away to hide a sudden grin. Miss Bingley saw Darcy's expression, and her smile remained fixed, though it took on a forced aspect; her eyes narrowed, their intense gaze directed toward Henry. Henry smiled back at her, not at all disturbed. I know how to take up with your sort, madam. You do not disconcert me.

Bingley shared Henry's astonishment at Darcy's mocking response to his sister's question. "Darcy, I shall never understand why you go through the world determined to be displeased with everything and everyone in it."

"And I will never understand why you are in such a rage to approve of everything and everyone that you meet."

"Well, you shall not make me think ill of Miss Bennet, Darcy," said Bingley resolutely, and carried his sherry to the other side of the room.

Miss Bingley attempted to wrench Darcy's attention back upon herself. "Indeed, he shall not. I shall dare his disapproval and declare she is a dear, sweet girl, despite her unfortunate relations, and I should not be sorry to know her better."

"No, no, nor I. You see, Mr. Darcy, we are not afraid of you," said Mrs. Hurst.

"I would not have you so," responded Darcy politely. Henry was at a loss to account for Darcy's conduct that evening, so he sipped his sherry in silence, inspecting one of the ancient portraits that hung about the large room.

Just then Mr. Hurst roused and half-shouted to no one in particular, "Wha? Yah, very true. Demmed tedious waste of an evening." His wife had the good grace to look embarrassed.

After a few more overtures to Darcy, which he ignored, Miss Bingley finally retired. Bingley and the Hursts trailed her up the wide stairway, and Darcy and Henry were left alone.

"More sherry, Tilney?" Darcy refilled his glass.

"No, Darcy, I thank you," said Henry, still staring at the portrait, which was of a remarkably unattractive child and a small, dirty-looking dog.

"You are dull this evening, sir. It seemed that you had an enjoyable time at the assembly, but perhaps my impression was mistaken."

"On the contrary. I enjoyed myself a great deal."

Darcy studied the younger man. "Usually after a dance you are more lively, Tilney. Are you well?"

"I am quite well, I thank you." Henry was silent for a moment, then abruptly turned to Darcy and said, "What are your intentions toward Miss Bingley?"

Darcy was startled. "My intentions? What do you mean?"

"Well, you encourage her arrogant behaviour with satirical remarks and you permit her excessive attentions. I can only conclude that you are in love with her."

"I am not in love with her, Tilney," Darcy protested. "But I cannot be uncivil to Bingley's sister."

"Why not? You were uncivil to an entire roomful of people this evening."

Darcy shook his head impatiently. "Why are you so concerned about people with whom you are barely acquainted?"

"I am acquainted with them now, and so would you be, had you not been so disagreeable." Henry paused and placed a hand on his friend's arm. "I never thought you to have improper pride, Darcy."

Darcy looked uncomfortable. "I have not the gift you do, Tilney, of recommending myself to strangers. I most certainly did not set out to be uncivil."

"I know that, of course, but the people at the assembly did not. Miss Elizabeth Bennet, for example. She is a delightful young lady, but you insulted her within her hearing."

Darcy raised his eyebrows. "You take an active interest in that lady's misfortunes. I hope you have not already forgotten Miss Morland?"

Henry's voice grew quiet, and he turned away. "I have not forgotten Catherine for a moment. What sort of brute do you think me?"

"Forgive me, Tilney," said Darcy in the same quiet tone. "You are quite right. I know you better than that. Come, we are both fatigued from this late evening, and we must rise early if we are to have sport. Let us retire and be comrades again in the morning."

His friend agreed, and they each took a candle and went to their respective bed-chambers. Henry lay wakeful for some time thinking of Catherine and the delight she would have shown in the evening's activities. Darcy, however, had no crises either of conscience or sensibility that served to murder sleep, and he slumbered deeply and peacefully, dreaming of Miss Elizabeth Bennet's impudent smile.

After a fortnight at Netherfield Park, Henry was obliged to return to Woodston. Parish business kept him busy and distracted for nearly a week, but the arrival of a tear-stained missive from Catherine restored him to lowness. Henry moped about the parsonage for several days until he received a note from Bingley, earnest even in its blots and missing words, pressing him to return to Hertfordshire. Henry was disinclined to accept the invitation, feeling that his curate, Mr. Taylor, had already shouldered more than his share.

Mr. Taylor was a married man of middle age, the former chaplain of General Tilney's regiment. An injury received in the line of duty rendered him unfit for further military service, and the General had granted him the curacy of Woodston, a situation ideally suited to a man of energetic temper and uncertain health. The salary was liberal, his duties were not onerous, and he was fond of the young rector, whose warm heart and easy manner endeared him to those of discerning sensibilities.

"Perhaps you should return to your friends," he said gently. "Hertfordshire did you a great deal of good. It is not beneficial to dwell on your unhappiness."

Henry turned a troubled face to his curate. "I like not burdening you with my obligations, sir. I know how your leg has been paining you of late."

"I am well able to take care of the parish for a few more weeks," said Mr. Taylor. "Your parishioners are not well served when the parson is so afflicted."

"I suppose you are right," sighed Henry. "I shall write to Bingley directly."

Mr. Taylor nodded in satisfaction and turned his mind to finding a way to convince General Tilney to give his blessing to his son's marriage to Miss Morland. The curate had met Henry's fiancée when she visited Woodston, and had seen the pride and affection in Henry's eyes when he looked at her, and the obvious regard that Miss Morland had for Henry. Mr. Taylor also understood the General's temperament, so unlike his younger son's. Sometimes it was hard for Mr. Taylor to believe that they were of the same blood. However, it would be a Christian act to bring the Tilney family together once again, and he was determined to help however he could. The General still had a high regard for his former chaplain, and Mr. Taylor's influence could be invaluable.

A few days later, Henry had set off once again for Hertfordshire, his guns and trunk sent ahead with a servant and his Newfoundland puppy, Bear, sprawled across his master's booted feet in inimitable Newfoundland fashion, nose lifted to the wind. Henry found that, once he was underway, the road slipping at a rapid pace beneath the trotting feet of his matched team of bays, his spirits lifted considerably. He looked forward to seeing Bingley and Darcy again, and Bingley's neighbors with whom he had become friendly, especially Lizzy Bennet. For so Henry now thought of the second Bennet daughter; she was no longer Miss Bennet, not even Elizabeth. He still addressed her properly as Miss Bennet, of course, but in his mind, she had acquired the diminutive he had heard her family use.

Long practice and natural aptitude rendered Henry an excellent whip, and he had no taste for unnecessary show; thus it was not obligatory for him to pay a great deal of attention to his driving, and the sameness of the road before him allowed his thoughts to race ahead to Hertfordshire. His acquaintance with Elizabeth had increased during the fortnight he had spent there. Nearly every night there was a gathering at one of the great houses in the neighbourhood, to which Bingley and his guests had often been invited. Henry remembered one evening in particular at Lucas Lodge. He had joined Elizabeth, who was whispering, as usual, with Charlotte Lucas. Both ladies seemed happy enough to admit a third to their tête-à-tête.

"Speak no secrets, Mr. Tilney," laughed Elizabeth. "Your friend Mr. Darcy is very impertinent. He has been listening to my conversations all this evening. What can he be about, sir?"

"I have long ago given up attempting to understand Darcy's mind," said Henry. He glanced around at his friend, who was staring at their grouping, a crease between his eyebrows.

"But if he does it any more, I shall certainly let him know that I see what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him."

"Bravo, Miss Bennet. A set down should do Darcy no harm, and may even do him some good." Although he continued to tease Darcy about Miss Bingley, Henry still feared that his friend was being unduly influenced by that lady's superior pretensions.

Darcy approached them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have any intention of speaking. Charlotte looked at Elizabeth with a smile. "Eliza, here is your opportunity to question Mr. Darcy on his conduct this evening."

Elizabeth immediately turned to Darcy and said, "Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?"

"With great energy; but it is a subject which always makes a lady energetic."

"You are severe on us."

"Indeed, Darcy," laughed Henry. "Even you must admit the idea that a ball is a great deal less enjoyable without the pleasant company of ladies." Darcy merely smiled.

"It will be her turn soon to be teased," said Miss Lucas. "I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows."

"You are a very strange creature by way of a friend! Always wanting me to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable, but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers."

"But rarely do we have the opportunity to hear an artist of such loveliness," cried Henry gallantly. "Do perform for us, Miss Bennet, and give us a treat for the eye as well as the ear."

Elizabeth, who by that time had been long enough acquainted with Henry to understand the exact worth of his nonsensical compliments, laughed heartily and said, "I should not wish to overpower your senses, Mr. Tilney. I had better stay here by the fire and allow the other ladies to take my place."

On Miss Lucas's persevering, however, she added, "Very well; if it must be so, it must." And gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy, who had remained silent during her banter with Henry, "There is a fine old saying, which everybody here is of course familiar with -- 'Keep your breath to cool your porridge;' and I shall keep mine to swell my song."

Despite Henry's teasing, both he and Mr. Darcy enjoyed Elizabeth's performance a great deal, as did many of the others gathered in the Lucas' drawing-room. Henry was loud in his praise, while Darcy kept his opinion to himself; Henry, misunderstanding his friend's silence, was pained to think that Darcy's tastes had grown so nice as to condemn a presentation such as Elizabeth's. Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital, although she had an easy and unaffected manner that gave her listeners more pleasure than did Miss Mary Bennet, who took her sister's place at the pianoforte. Mary, at the end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who, with some of the Lucases and two or three officers, joined eagerly in dancing at one end of the room.

"I suppose we shall have no more conversation this evening," muttered Darcy. Henry raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Sir William Lucas approached the gentlemen and said. "What a charming amusement for young people this is! There is nothing like dancing after all. I consider it as one of the first refinements of polished societies."

Darcy gave him a withering gaze. "Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world. Every savage can dance."

"Then you should be a true proficient, Darcy," said Henry under his breath.

Darcy looked at him sharply, and Sir William only smiled. "Your friend performs delightfully," he continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group with the eldest Miss Bennet; "and I doubt not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy."

"You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir."

"Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do you often dance at St. James's?"

"Never, sir."

"Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?"

"It is a compliment which I never pay to any place, if I can avoid it."

"I can attest to that fact, Sir William," added Henry. "Darcy is equally misanthropic whether gracing high places or low." Both gentlemen ignored him.

"You have a house in town, I conclude?"

Mr. Darcy bowed.

"I had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself, for I am fond of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of London would agree with Lady Lucas."

Henry was very much amused. The Netherfield ladies had received as much intelligence about Sir William's fortune as the Longbourn and Meryton ladies had received about the Netherfield gentlemen's, and he knew that Sir William had abandoned the trade that had brought about his knighthood and likely could not afford a house in town. This little deception was understood by Darcy as well, but his tolerance for it was a great deal less than his friend's.

At that moment Elizabeth, who had been standing with Charlotte a short distance away, began to move toward them. Sir William, struck with the notion of doing a very gallant thing, called out to her, "My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you.'' And taking her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy, who, though extremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William, "Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner."

Lizzy must still be angry about the incident at the Meryton assembly, reflected Henry. One could hardly blame her.

Darcy said with grave propriety, "I would be very happy if you would do me the honour of dancing with me, Miss Bennet."

"I thank you; but excuse me, I am not inclined to dance."

Sir William heartily rejoined Elizabeth, "Come, come, why not? You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us for one half hour."

"Mr. Darcy is all politeness," said Elizabeth, smiling.

"He is indeed -- but considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza, we cannot wonder at his complaisance; for who would object to such a partner?"

Elizabeth looked archly, politely took her leave, and turned away. Henry blushed for his friend, remembering how Darcy had indeed objected to such a partner in the fairly recent past.

Miss Bingley approached Darcy and began a whispered consultation, involving much low laughter on the lady's part. Henry watched them with some apprehension. Although Darcy's countenance showed no symptoms of regard for Miss Bingley--indeed, his eyes were fixed on Elizabeth Bennet for some unfathomable reason--in Henry's view, Darcy's prideful conduct since their arrival in Hertfordshire could only be attributed to Caroline's influence.

Finally he turned to Charlotte. "Would you care to join me in a dance, Miss Lucas?" he asked her with his most charming smile. "Your friend has stated her intention to sit out this evening, and I find myself without a partner and very much desirous of a dance."

Miss Lucas smiled back at Henry, and it occurred to him that she was very nearly pretty when she did so. "I thank you, sir, I would be delighted to be your partner."

Henry promptly held out his arm, and they joined the other dancers, who were delighted to have their numbers increased. Miss Mary continued to play jigs until, exhausted and laughing, they gave her leave to stop. The carriages began to be called shortly afterward, and the room emptied as the revelers gradually dispersed to their own homes.

"Thank you for inviting me to Lucas Lodge, Sir William," said Henry to his host, bowing low. "This evening has been most enjoyable."

"Capital, capital," said Sir William genially. "You are always welcome, Mr. Tilney."

"Yes, indeed," his daughter added. "We rarely have such congenial company, sir. Do call on us again."

Henry smiled down at Charlotte, who was fairly glowing with the exercise of the dance. "Thank you, Miss Lucas. I would be delighted to return if it were in my power to do so, but unfortunately I must return to Woodston tomorrow."

Miss Lucas' smile faltered and she looked away. "I am indeed sorry for our sakes, Mr. Tilney, but we cannot expect to keep you away from your parish permanently," she said quietly. "Please accept my wishes for a safe and pleasant journey."

"Thank you, ma'am," he said politely, bowed again, and went out to Bingley's chaise. Charlotte's eyes followed him, and if her goodbyes to the remaining guests had a distracted quality, no one remarked upon it.

There was a soft knock at the bed-chamber door. Henry, who was lying in bed reading the latest work by Mrs. Radcliffe, which he knew Catherine was also reading, looked up and called, "Come in."

The door opened and Darcy entered, his countenance grim. "I did not plan to make any comment upon your conduct this evening, Tilney," he said. "But I find myself unable to sleep. Your unkind remarks continue to play in my mind." He seated himself deliberately in a chair by the fireplace.

"My conduct?" cried Henry. "That is rich, coming from you, sir! You were deliberately rude to our host!"

"Sir William?" scoffed Darcy. "That foolish old man!"

"That foolish old man invited us to his home," Henry reminded him gently. "He deserved at least the outward signs of respect from his guests."

Darcy's dark eyes flashed. "Fine words from a man who does not even display outward signs of respect for his own friends!"

"I do, when they are deserving of them."

"That is unlike you, Tilney," said Darcy. "I know you are distressed over your engagement, but there is no need to punish your friends for your father's conduct."

"If I am punishing you, Darcy, it is for your conduct alone. I have never known you to behave thus! Has Miss Bingley's influence been so great? I am disappointed, sir. I thought you to have more resistance to a handsome woman's wiles. Or is it her twenty thousand pounds you find so attractive?"

"If I wish to pay court to a young lady, I am free to do so. However, you are an engaged man, you profess yourself broken-hearted over Miss Morland's absence, and yet you dance and flirt with Miss Elizabeth Bennet as if you were free."

Henry sighed. "For the thousandth time, Darcy, I am not paying court to Miss Bennet. I enjoy her company, certainly, as I enjoy my sister's company. There is nothing more between us. My heart belongs to Catherine, and it always will."

Darcy stood abruptly. "I see that you are in no humour to engage in a civilized discussion. I hope that your journey back to Gloucestershire is pleasant." He bowed stiffly and left Henry in a rather inelegant state of open-mouthed amazement.

He put down the book, no longer able to concentrate on mysterious rooms and cries in the night. Darcy's statements puzzled Henry greatly; he thought he had long ago taken his friend's likeness, but Darcy's behaviour since they had arrived at Netherfield was inexplicable.

The incident had provided a sad ending for Henry's sojourn at Netherfield Park; he had left for Woodston the next day with enmity still extant between him and Darcy. However, distance could not help but temper Henry's anger as well as recall to his mind the many kind actions that his friend had performed for him over the years, from rescuing Henry from a bully's intimidation to expressing genuine sympathy over Henry's delayed marriage. My own behaviour has been no better than Darcy's, he had to admit to himself. I have been unforgivably rude to my oldest friend. I must make more of an effort to comprehend his conduct. Perhaps there is an explanation. Henry smiled broadly. Perhaps Darcy is in love! He shouted to the horses and cracked the whip over their backs, the many capes of his greatcoat flying as he raced the wind back to Hertfordshire.

Henry arrived at Netherfield in the late afternoon of the second day after he had set out, having been obliged to stay overnight at an inn in Oxford. The stopover had its compensations, as he had enjoyed a congenial dinner with several of the fellows of his former college, who had been undergraduates when Henry himself had been a fellow before his ordination. The memories of the meal, and especially of the company he had enjoyed, kept Henry's mind occupied until he arrived at Netherfield Park.

A groom hastened to take the reins, and Bear was happy enough to jump down from the floor of the curricle and race around, reacquainting himself with the flora and fauna. Henry climbed down in time to receive a greeting from a hurtling ball of fur flinging itself at his chest; it was Darcy's spotted pointer, Rowley, who greeted Henry with total canine abandon.

"Down, boy," said Henry, laughing and twisting his head to avoid having his face licked overmuch. Rowley sat obediently, his tail thumping happily on the pebbled drive and his tongue lolling in sheer delight. Henry scratched his ears, and the creature writhed with joy until finally he was prone on the ground belly-up, one of his rear legs twitching as Henry scratched a particularly sensitive spot.

"Rowley seems glad to see you, Tilney," said a voice, and Henry looked up to see Darcy smiling down at him. "Depend upon it, the creature has no higher approbation than to allow one to scratch his belly."

Rowley jumped up at the sound of his master's voice and ran to him happily. Bear arrived on the scene shortly afterward, his own explorations complete. He and Rowley eyed one another warily, and Bear finally went to his master and sniffed his hands thoroughly, clearly unhappy about the scent of alien dog they had acquired.

Henry stood, absent-mindedly rubbing Bear's ears, and said quietly, "It is good to see you, Darcy."

Darcy held out his right hand, and Henry took it. "It is good to see you as well, Tilney. Your journey was comfortable, I trust?"

"As much so as can be expected."

"I am glad to hear it." Darcy started back to the house, and Henry followed him. "Bingley has engaged us to dine with the militia officers tonight."

Henry laughed. "I suspected we would not be dining here at Netherfield Park. Bingley's household expenses must be next to nothing. He never has to provide dinner for his guests."

"Well, the ladies are staying behind tonight."

"Not having to feed Hurst should make up the difference."

Darcy laughed heartily at this impertinent observation. Henry grinned in relief, happy to see that Darcy was more his usual self. He renewed his resolve to try to better understand his friend, a much easier task when Darcy was not behaving in that oddly proud and reserved manner he had adopted.

Captain Carter stood, held up his glass, and cried, "Gentlemen, I give you His Majesty! God save the King!"

They all rose and held up their glasses, shouted, "God save the King!" and drank copiously. Toasts followed to the Prince of Wales, various members of the royal family, and the continuing confusion of Bonaparte.

"To Colonel F-F-Forster!" cried little Saunderson. They all drank good-naturedly to the absent officer.

"Where is Colonel Forster tonight?" inquired Bingley.

"He is calling on Miss Watson's family," smirked Carter. "There is a lesson for you, gentlemen; when one wishes to take a young wife, one dances to her tune!" There was a great deal of ribald laughter at this comment.

Henry smiled at Carter's words; Catherine was even younger than Miss Watson. But then, he was a great deal younger than Colonel Forster. He rose, held up his glass, and said, "To Miss Catherine Morland!"

"Miss Morland!" was the cry of the assembled gentlemen.

Bingley rose slowly, and said hesitantly, "To Miss Jane Bennet!" The officers drank to that lady's health. Eyes turned toward Darcy, and Henry wondered for a moment if he would call for a toast to Miss Bingley, but Darcy remained silent.

Chamberlayne rose and cried, "Miss Lydia Bennet!"

There was laughter, some of it rather lewd, and glasses were raised to the youngest Miss Bennet. Carter said something in a low voice that Henry could not make out but which occasioned yet more laughter at the other end of the table and caused Saunderson to turn bright pink and drain most of his glass.

The drinking and toasting carried on for some time until the party finally began to disperse. The Netherfield gentlemen climbed, somewhat unsteadily, into Bingley's carriage. The ride back to the house was rather quiet, until Hurst, his head lolling back against the cushion and his mouth hanging open, suddenly started to snore. The others could not help but laugh at him, their snickers jolting Hurst back into wakefulness, resentful both of their laughter and of his broken slumber.

Back at Netherfield, they stumbled into the house and entered the drawing-room, laughing and teasing one another. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst sat on the sofa, their heads close together, whispering excitedly. When the gentlemen entered the room, Miss Bingley turned to them and said, "Do be quiet, Charles; Jane Bennet is asleep in the blue room."

Bingley was instantly sobered. "Miss Bennet!" he cried. "How did this come to be?"

"Louisa and I invited her to dine with us, and she rode over on horseback, if you can believe that!"

"But it rained all evening!" Bingley was aghast.

"Yes, and the poor girl was caught in it. You should have seen her when she arrived, brother; she was soaked through."

"Why did her parents not send her in their carriage?" cried Henry.

The ladies exchanged a significant glance, and Mrs. Hurst said, "We believe that her mother purposely sent her over on horseback so that she would be unable to return because of the rain. Of course we could not send her home the same way she came, and you had the carriage."

Henry sighed; from what he had observed of Mrs. Bennet, she was perfectly capable of such artfulness. His impatience with Jane's mother was tempered by amusement at the expression on Bingley's face, a combination of anticipation and anxiety. To breakfast with one's beloved unexpectedly will bring such a mix of emotions, I suppose! Henry's amusement did not last long, however; he was reminded of the last time he had breakfasted with his own beloved, so many months ago at Northanger Abbey. Catherine's smile that morning had warmed him on his ride back to Woodston and hastened his return to the Abbey, only to be met there by his father and told to think of her no more. He might as well have told a starving man to think of food no more. The wine he had consumed worked to exacerbate his misery, and he mumbled an excuse and left the room.

He was walking up the stairs when he heard Darcy calling him. He turned and saw his friend at the bottom of the stairway. "Yes, what is it?" Henry's voice held a touch of impatience; he wanted to be alone with his misery.

"Are you well?" asked Darcy quietly.

Henry wiped his hand over his face and replied wearily, "Yes, I am well. I am simply fatigued from my journey, I think."

Darcy did not move. "Is there--" he hesitated for a moment, then continued, "Is there anything I can do for you? I would help you, Henry, any way I can."

His friend's use of his Christian name was not lost on Henry; like most young men, they usually called one another by their surnames, and Henry could not remember a time when Darcy had called him anything else. His heart warmed toward the other man at this sign of consideration. "Yes, Fitzwilliam," he said quietly. "I know you would. And I thank you for your concern. But I am afraid that only one person can help me at this juncture."

Darcy's face showed perfect comprehension. "General Tilney, you mean."

"Yes."

Darcy nodded. "If in the future I can be of assistance in any way, you need only ask."

"Yes, I know, and I thank you." Henry knew that any more show of emotion or gratitude would only serve to embarrass his friend.

"Good night, then."

"Good night." Henry watched him re-enter the drawing room, then turned to ascend the stairs again. He walked toward his chamber, the candle's flame throwing flickering light across the patterned wallpaper, and could not help smiling despite his woes. You are a fortunate man indeed, Tilney, to have such friends!

Henry went in to breakfast the next morning after an early ramble about the grounds with Bear. He was not at all surprised to see Bingley already in the dining-room and dressed in his best blue coat. He was, however, surprised by the thunderous expression on his friend's face.

"Of course she must stay, Caroline!" he was saying as Henry entered the room. "She has a fever! We cannot very well pack her into a carriage and send her home, in the damp and the cold!"

"The weather has moderated, Charles," his sister responded. "It would be quite safe for Jane to ride back to Longbourn in your carriage."

"Absolutely not," said Bingley firmly. "I shall not hear of it. Good morning, Tilney," he added upon noticing Henry.

"Good morning," said Henry. "Were you speaking of Miss Bennet?"

"Yes," said Bingley, frowning. "Unfortunately, she seems to have contracted a fever as a result of her wet ride last night. She will be staying with us until she is better," he added, glaring at his sister.

Miss Bingley did not give up so easily. "What say you, Mr. Darcy?" she appealed that gentleman, who sat across the table from Henry with a cup of tea. "Is it really necessary to invite Jane Bennet to stay at Netherfield indefinitely, over a little trifling cold?"

"This is your brother's establishment, Miss Bingley," said Darcy mildly. "It is not for me to say whom he may invite to his home." The lady's protests subsided under Darcy's reluctance to enter the fray.

The Hursts entered the room at that moment. Mr. Hurst made straight for the breakfast table, surveying the offerings hungrily, while his wife contented herself with a cup of tea.

"That is too bad about Miss Bennet's illness," said Henry, trying not to smile, "but I hope that she will soon feel well enough to join us."

Bingley looked at Henry, and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly as he said, "As do I."

Henry allowed the hovering servant to pour him a cup of tea and helped himself to some eggs and toast. "Shall we go shooting today, Bingley? The day is extremely fine."

"Certainly, if you care to. Hurst, will you join us?" That gentleman answered with a grunt and a mutter that the generous listener could assume to be positive.

"We should be well on our way, then," said Darcy.

"I suppose you are right." Bingley regarded his blue coat with dismay. "I must change."

"Indeed. Your fine feathers would make the birds envious, sir." Henry sipped his tea to hide his smile at his friend's disconcertment.

"I was only thinking that it will be quite dirty outside today, after all the rain last night," said Bingley with some attempt at dignity.

Henry rose from his chair and directed an elaborate bow in Bingley's direction. "I understood you perfectly." Fortunately for Bingley's self-respect, he was a great deal too distracted to notice the twinkle in Henry's eye.

At that moment, a servant announced Miss Elizabeth Bennet. The gentlemen hastily rose and the ladies exclaimed in surprise. Elizabeth entered the room, her cheeks glowing with exertion and the hem of her dress stained with mud.

"Miss Eliza!" cried Caroline. "How came you here, so early? Tell me that you did not walk!"

"As you see," said Elizabeth stiffly.

"In such dirty weather! And by yourself!" cried Mrs. Hurst.

"The distance is only three miles," said Elizabeth. "And I often walk by myself. I enjoy the exercise."

Henry noticed the sisters exchange a smirk, and he sighed in annoyance and determined to make Elizabeth feel welcome.

"Good morning, Miss Bennet," he said brightly. "Will you join us for breakfast?" With this comment, Henry became the object of a venomous stare from Miss Bingley, which he bore with great fortitude.

"I thank you, no, Mr. Tilney," said Elizabeth. "I am only come to inquire after my sister. I hope you will understand my concern when I received her note saying that she was ill."

"Of course," said Bingley warmly. "Caroline, will you take Miss Bennet to her sister?" Miss Bingley could do nothing but comply.

"Are we to have any sport today?" said Hurst gruffly after she was gone, and the gentlemen hastened to fetch their guns and dogs, boots and greatcoats and venture out boldly into the dirty fields.

"Miss Bennet, may I inquire after your sister's condition?" asked Bingley anxiously when Elizabeth joined the company before dinner.

"I am afraid that she is by no means better," she replied quietly. Despite her lovely dress, sent over by her mother after Caroline's reluctant invitation to stay at Netherfield, Elizabeth had a strained look about her eyes that gave Henry some private pain.

"Oh, it is so shocking to have a bad cold," said Miss Bingley in tones of sincerity as false as they were studied. "I am grieved to hear that dear Jane is not better."

"Oh, yes," cried her sister. "I excessively dislike being ill myself."

"Indeed," added Caroline. "I dislike it as well. Poor Jane! We must visit her after dinner, Louisa."

"Of course," agreed Mrs. Hurst. "It is so shocking that she should be ill."

Henry interrupted these effusions with a sympathetic smile at Elizabeth. "I am sure she will soon be feeling better," he said, "especially with such an indefatigable and affectionate nurse." Elizabeth gave him the first genuine smile she had managed since she entered the room.

"She must stay here at Netherfield Park until she is better," added Bingley. "And you must stay as well, Miss Elizabeth. I am sure that your sister cannot do without you."

"I thank you, Mr. Bingley," said Elizabeth warmly. "I should very much like to stay with Jane until she is better."

"Then you shall," he declared. A servant announced dinner, and they all went in. Henry was quick to secure Elizabeth's hand on his arm, ignoring Darcy's furrowed brow.

The civil inquiries of the preceding moments were abandoned in the face of the food. Caroline had placed Elizabeth next to Mr. Hurst, who had nothing to say to her once he had determined that she preferred a plain dish to a ragout. No one else spoke to her except Henry; Darcy was reserved, making monosyllabic replies to Miss Bingley's constant attempts to engage his attention, and even Bingley seemed unusually lost in thought.

Henry watched Elizabeth push the food around on her plate and said, "May I help you to some of this beef, Miss Bennet?" Elizabeth smiled and shook her head.

"I am sorry, Miss Eliza, that you find nothing here to tempt you," said Miss Bingley in tones of cold civility. "My brother keeps a simple table, unlike Mr. Tilney's father. The fare at Northanger Abbey is always elaborate. Perhaps Mr. Tilney's sister will invite you to dine there someday." Henry knew that Caroline was well aware of his estrangement from General Tilney and was quietly furious at her for bringing up his domestic situation.

"I should enjoy that," said Elizabeth politely.

"When I am married, my wife will be glad to have you and your family to dine in our home, should you find yourselves in Gloucestershire," said Henry.

Caroline laughed. "Miss Eliza, it is well that you are not dependent on Mr. Tilney's marriage to gain your dinner. You might starve waiting for that happy event." Mrs. Hurst's high-pitched giggle joined her sister's, although Bingley and Darcy both looked displeased with Miss Bingley's attempt at wit.

Henry leaned back in his chair and smiled at Caroline. "I am gratified that you take such an interest in my affairs, Miss Bingley," he said.

She regarded him coldly. "I am sure that I always treat my brother's guests with propriety, sir."

"Indeed," he observed. "And I am sure that Miss Bennet will join me in approbation of your generosity and kindness."

Lizzy had raised her napkin to her mouth, but her dark eyes twinkled at him. When she lowered the cloth, her countenance was serene. "Oh, yes, Mr. Tilney," she said. "I am in complete agreement. Miss Bingley is all kindness, just as one might expect from a lady of her disposition."

Henry maintained his mask of clerical solemnity. "I find that ladies with a disposition such as Miss Bingley's are considered the best sort of hostess by society in general. They have the highest degree of consideration for their guests' comfort and enjoyment."

"Indeed, sir. Such hostesses are always to be desired. Their guests must feel truly welcome."

Caroline's gaze darted from Henry to Elizabeth and back again, her suspicions aroused, but she was unable to discern any outward mark of contempt from their placid countenances. However, being a woman of mean humour, she did not detect the unholy mirth that passed between the two pair of dark eyes, the owners of which were having a very good joke at her expense. Then Darcy caught Henry's eye, and his keen glance indicated that he knew exactly what Henry and Elizabeth had been up to, and Henry wondered once again if Darcy had taken offense at a perceived slight to the lady of his heart.

Elizabeth rose and said, "I must return to my sister. Please excuse me."

"Oh, certainly," cried Bingley, rising along with the other gentlemen. "Miss Bennet?"

She stopped by the door and turned back to Bingley with a smile. "Yes, sir?"

Bingley opened his mouth to speak, closed it, paused, blushed, and finally said hesitantly, "Please carry my best wishes to your sister for her recovery."

"I will be sure to do so," said Elizabeth with an even wider smile. Her eyes met Henry's a final time, and she was gone.

The door had barely swung shut behind her when Miss Bingley began to abuse her. "Miss Eliza Bennet has very bad manners indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence; do you not agree, Louisa? She has no conversation, no style, no taste, no beauty."

"I agree with you completely, Caroline. She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent walker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really looked almost wild."

"She did indeed. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very nonsensical to come at all! Why must she be scampering about the country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair, Louisa! So untidy, so blowsy!"

"Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been let down to hide it not doing its office."

Henry sipped his wine, considering how he could defend Elizabeth against the sisters' abuse, when to his surprise and delight Bingley rendered such attentions unnecessary.

"Your picture may be very exact, Louisa," said Bingley with some warmth, "but this was all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably well when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice." Henry smiled to himself; Bravo, Bingley!

"You observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure," said Miss Bingley, "and I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see your sister make such an exhibition."

"Certainly not."

"To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is, above her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! What could she mean by it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence, a most country-town indifference to decorum."

"It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing," said Bingley.

"Indeed," agreed Henry. "Miss Bingley, do you wish me to understand that you would not do the same for Mrs. Hurst, and she for you? You would truly leave her alone in a strange house, feverish and wishing for her family? I cannot believe it, madam. You and Mrs. Hurst always seem to me the picture of devoted sisterhood."

Miss Bingley glared at him, then turned her attention to Darcy. "I am afraid, Mr. Darcy," she observed in a half whisper, "that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes."

"Not at all," said Darcy mildly. "They were brightened by the exercise."

Henry nearly laughed aloud at Miss Bingley's expression, which revealed her disappointment in Darcy's answer. In fact, he was so thoroughly distracted by his amusement that he failed to consider the true implications of Darcy's statement.

A short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again. "I have an excessive regard for Jane Bennet, she is really a very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it."

"I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in Meryton."

"Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near--" hissing, "--Cheapside."

"That is capital," added her sister, and they both laughed heartily.

Henry wished to add a comment regarding the late Mr. Bingley having once been a tradesman in an unfashionable section of London, but he would not have pained Bingley for all the world. Henry regarded not the status of his friend's ancestors; he judged Bingley entirely on his own merits. Fortunately Bingley himself jumped once again into the fray.

"If they had uncles enough to fill all Cheapside," cried Bingley, "it would not make them one jot less agreeable."

Darcy spoke up, surprising Henry greatly by his words. "But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any consideration in the world." Why in the world does Darcy care about the Bennet girls' chances of marriage? Is he concerned that Bingley will be making an attachment below his station? He swallowed hard at his next thought: What must Darcy think of Catherine? Henry had great affection for Darcy, but if he were forced to choose between his friendship and his heart, he knew where he would choose, and it gave him great pain to think that Darcy's unaccountable pride might result in an estrangement from his oldest friend.

Bingley did not answer Darcy, but lapsed once more into thoughtful silence; his sisters, however, gave Darcy's statement their hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of their dear friend's vulgar relations.

With a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to her room on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee. They reported Miss Bennet's dreadful condition to the gentlemen, their faces full of woe, but threw off their despair to join in a game of loo that had been begun by Mr. Hurst.

Elizabeth joined them some time later. She was quiet and unusually grave and only said that her sister was sleeping. Bingley looked at her with some concern and failed to tend to his cards until called sharply to attention by Mr. Hurst. Elizabeth was invited to join the group, but she politely declined, making her sister the excuse, and said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay below with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.

"Do you prefer reading to cards?" said he. "That is rather singular."

"Miss Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, laughing and joyful at spending an entire evening close by Mr. Darcy's side, "despises cards. She is a great reader and has no pleasure in anything else."

"I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," cried Elizabeth. "I am not a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things."

"In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure," said Bingley; "and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well."

Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table where a few books were lying. Bingley immediately offered to fetch her others; all that his library afforded.

"And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever look into. Tilney, here, might direct you toward something worth your while. He always has his nose in a book."

Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in the room. Henry, weary of the card game, took the opportunity to ask her what sort of books she liked, that he might direct her selection.

"I am afraid, Mr. Tilney, that you will be disappointed in my taste, for I much prefer reading novels to anything else," said Elizabeth with an arch smile.

"Indeed I shall not be disappointed," said Henry, smiling as he thought of another novel-reading young lady. "I enjoy a novel very well myself."

Hurst stared at him. "You read novels, Tilney?" he said in tones of disgust. "Dreadful things. Nothing but trash and nonsense in 'em."

Henry was visited by a sudden insight: In ten years, John Thorpe shall become Hurst. This thought entertained him so greatly that he feared he would be able to maintain his countenance whilst seated across a card-table from the latter gentleman. He declined to join in a new game being dealt at that moment and went to join Elizabeth where she stood choosing between the books. They immediately engaged in a high-spirited conversation of the merits of various novelists until each finally chose a volume to peruse. Neither of them noticed Darcy watching them with some intensity.

"I am astonished," said Miss Bingley, who did notice the direction of that gentleman's gaze, "that my father should have left so small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!"

"It ought to be good," he replied, "it has been the work of many generations."

"And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books."

"I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these."

"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build your house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley."

"I wish it may."

"But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire."

"With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it."

That's the last thing your sister wishes for, Bingley, my old friend, thought Henry with a smile.

"I am talking of possibilities, Charles."

"Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation."

Henry noticed that Elizabeth was paying more attention to the conversation than her book, which was a history, as Bingley had few novels in his library and none in the room. She soon lay the volume wholly aside, drew near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister to observe the game. He did not blame her for her inattention, as the book was not a very interesting one, nor were any of the others on the table. No wonder Bingley never reads. Perhaps an introduction to Mrs. Radcliffe is all he requires!

"Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?" said Miss Bingley. "Will she be as tall as I am?"

"I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or rather taller."

"How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners, and so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite."

"It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished as they all are."

"All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?"

"Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover skreens, and net purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished."

"Your list of the common extent of accomplishments," said Darcy, "has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse, or covering a skreen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished."

"Nor I, I am sure," said Miss Bingley.

"Bingley's description is as generous as his nature," said Henry. "Like myself, he is simply grateful to those young ladies whose training and application brings so much pleasure to idle and ignorant gentlemen such as ourselves."

Bingley beamed at him, and Darcy agreed with a smile at both of his friends. "But I am afraid that I still must disagree with your definition, Bingley."

"Oh, yes, Darcy, we know your refined tastes," said Bingley with a laugh.

"Then," observed Elizabeth, "you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman."

"Yes, I do comprehend a great deal in it," said Darcy thoughtfully.

"Oh! certainly," cried his faithful assistant, "no one can be really esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved."

"All this she must possess," added Darcy, "and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading."

Well, Catherine fits that definition in one respect at least, thought Henry in some amusement.

Elizabeth smiled beatifically at Mr. Darcy. "I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing any."

Miss Bingley was affronted by this remark, as might be expected. "Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the possibility of all this?"

"I never saw such a woman, I never saw such capacity, and taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe, united."

Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room.

"Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, "is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex by undervaluing their own, and with many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art."

"Undoubtedly," replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed, "there is meanness in all the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable."

Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to continue the subject. Henry watched Darcy's face carefully, wondering if perhaps his assumption about his friend's feelings toward that lady were incorrect. It was a subject that would bear further study, but he dared not question Darcy directly quite yet. The wounds of their last skirmish were still not entirely healed, and he wished to maintain the peace as long as possible.

Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones's being sent for immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most eminent physicians. This she would not hear of, but she was not so unwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness, however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every possible attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister.

Henry quickly became weary of the sisters' duets and Caroline's flirtations with Darcy, and he took a candle and went to his chamber. As he walked down the passage, a door opened, and Elizabeth passed through it. She started at seeing Henry. "Oh! Mr. Tilney," she gasped. "I beg your pardon, sir. I did not expect to see anyone."

"What is your sister's condition?" he said softly, keeping his voice down so as not to disturb the ill woman.

"No better, I am afraid," she said, just as softly. "I was just going to my chamber to fetch my things. I shall not leave her side tonight."

As a clergyman, Henry was well used to providing comfort by sickbeds. He set the candle on a nearby table and took Elizabeth's hands in his. "She will be well," he said soothingly. "I feel quite sure of it. I have seen many fevers such as this. The patient has one bad night and then grows quite well within a day or two. But if your sister has need of the apothecary's services during the night, be not afraid to send the servant to wake me. I shall be glad to fetch him if it will make you easier."

Elizabeth let out a great sigh that was half a sob. "I thank you most sincerely, Mr. Tilney," she said. "Knowing that shall make me a great deal easier."

Henry squeezed her hands reassuringly and raised one of them to his lips. "She will be well, Lizzy, do not fear."

She smiled at him, and they were both startled by a noise at the end of the hallway. Henry turned to see Darcy staring at them, a frown creasing his handsome features.

"Darcy, is all well?" asked Henry, alarmed by his friend's expression.

Darcy did not answer him immediately. "Yes, all is quite well downstairs," he said. "Is all well here?"

"Miss Bennet is fearful for her sister's condition, but otherwise all is well."

"Then perhaps you should not keep Miss Bennet from her sister."

Henry smiled down at Elizabeth. "Are you more comfortable, madam?"

"I am," she said with a small smile. "I thank you, sir."

"Excellent. Then I shall say good night." He bowed to her, took up his candle, and continued down the hallway toward his own chamber, followed closely by Darcy. When he reached the door, he turned to his friend and wished him a warm good night, but Darcy simply nodded and disappeared into his own chamber.

Henry was at a loss to understand Darcy's behaviour. He had been entirely amiable earlier in the day, while they were out shooting together; perhaps he was irritated at Henry and Elizabeth for abusing Miss Bingley to her face? But the comment about cunning... Henry did not know what to think, and at last he climbed into bed and opened a volume of The Italian, willing to allow the mystery of pure invention to take precedence of the unsolveable but very real mystery of Fitzwilliam Darcy until the morrow.

There was a discreet knock on the door of his bed-chamber, and Henry opened it, his face showing the anxiety of his inquiry.

The housemaid smiled at him. "Miss Bennet begged me to convey her gratitude for your kind inquiry and says that her sister's condition has improved this morning, although she is still rather ill."

"Thank you," said Henry, much relieved. He handed the girl a coin, and she bobbed a curtsey and scurried away. Henry prepared to go down to breakfast with a much lighter heart than he had possessed upon awakening. He had been quick in his comfort to Elizabeth the previous night, but was nonetheless glad to know that Jane had taken a turn for the better.

He was walking down the passage when he heard Darcy's voice calling him. He turned to his friend, smiling, but Darcy's face was grave.

"Tilney, I would speak with you," he said.

"Of course," said Henry, concerned by the other man's expression. "What is it?"

"I have never known you to behave as less than a gentleman. Thus, you can imagine my surprise at the display I witnessed in this passage last night."

Henry was all astonishment. "What do you mean, Darcy?"

"I mean--" Darcy lowered his voice, "--you addressed Miss Elizabeth Bennet by her Christian name. And kissed her hand! You have assured me time and time again that you have no romantic intentions toward Miss Bennet. What do you expect me to think of such behaviour, Tilney? And what do you expect Miss Bennet to think?"

"Good heavens! Did I address her by her Christian name? I did not realize--Darcy, I assure you that I only thought to give her comfort. She was distressed over her sister's illness. I confess that I feel--very warmly toward Miss Bennet, but not in a romantic way."

"So you say," said Darcy, one eyebrow archly raised.

"So I mean," cried Henry. "There is only one woman who will be my wife, and that is Catherine Morland. What else can I say to convince you of that?"

"You need not say anything, Tilney. But you could show me, and the rest of the world, by your behaviour toward Miss Bennet."

Henry sighed. "Be assured that I have taken what you have said to heart. But know that I have no romantic intentions toward Miss Bennet. And that I never shall."

"Very well." Darcy did not look convinced, but let the matter drop.

They went in to breakfast, and found Miss Bingley complaining that Elizabeth had sent for her mother to determine whether Jane may return to Longbourn. "You know that woman will not have the good breeding to stay away when she is not needed or wanted," she grumbled. "Are we to be invaded by every Bennet in the neighbourhood?"

A short time later, a footman announced that Mrs. Bennet and two of the Miss Bennets had arrived. Caroline rolled her eyes dramatically and went to conduct them to the sickroom.

"I do not know which is worse, Mrs. Bennet or her youngest daughters," she said on rejoining them. "Two of the stupidest and silliest things I have ever seen! They never stopped chattering from the time I joined them to the time I left them with Jane. It was officers this and regimentals that. Upon my word, they would not recognize a man as such unless he wore a red coat."

"I remember a time, Caroline, when you liked the colour scarlet very well yourself," Mrs. Hurst teased her.

Miss Bingley laughed. "Oh, yes, Louisa, when I was a child, perhaps. I suppose the Miss Bennets' regrettable fancies can be blamed upon youth. But surely they must be sixteen, seventeen years old? By that time I knew the true worth of military men, that is, none at all!" The sisters laughed heartily together.

Henry remained silent, but noticing her brother's and Darcy's obvious displeasure, Miss Bingley was quick to recall that Henry's father and brother, as well as Mr. Darcy's cousin, were in the service of His Majesty. "Oh, I do not speak of gentlemen such as the Tilneys, and Colonel Fitzwilliam," she said quickly. "These militia officers, though, are barely genteel. You have dined with them, gentlemen, surely you have noticed."

"I found them most pleasant, and quite gentleman-like," said Bingley, not much mollified by his sister's quick and unskillful reversal. He looked appealingly at Darcy, perhaps hoping that his friend would join in his disapprobation, but the other gentleman remained silent. Henry, who had not found Miss Bingley's remarks especially offensive, would nonetheless not give her the satisfaction of either excusing or censuring her, and he simply drank his tea quietly. Silence descended over the table, broken only by the slurps and grunts of the feeding Hurst, until finally Miss Bingley announced that it was time she attended Mrs. Bennet and made her escape.

A few moments later the Bennet ladies followed her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley rose and addressed Mrs. Bennet, "I hope you have not found Miss Bennet worse than you expected, ma'am."

"Indeed I have, sir," was her answer. "She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness."

"Removed!" cried Bingley. "It must not be thought of. My sister, I am sure, will not hear of her removal."

"You may depend upon it, madam," said Miss Bingley, with cold civility, "that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she remains with us."

Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.

"I am sure," she added, "if it was not for such good friends I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world -- which is always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to her. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry I hope, though you have but a short lease."

"Whatever I do is done in a hurry," replied he; "and therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here." Henry smiled at Bingley's eagerness.

"That is exactly what I should have supposed of you," said Elizabeth.

"You begin to comprehend me, do you?" cried he, turning towards her.

"Oh! yes -- I understand you perfectly."

"I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen through I am afraid is pitiful."

"That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours."

"Lizzy," cried her mother, "remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home."

Elizabeth blushed for her mother's vulgarity, and Henry gave her a sympathetic smile, which she was not quite able to return.

"I did not know before," continued Bingley immediately, "that you were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study."

"Yes; but intricate characters are the most amusing. They have at least that advantage."

"The country," said Darcy, "can in general supply but few subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society."

"But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be observed in them for ever."

Henry silently agreed with Elizabeth, thinking of Darcy's recent behaviour.

"Yes, indeed," cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood. "I assure you there is quite as much of that going on in the country as in town."

Everybody was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment, turned silently away. Elizabeth looked miserable, and Henry's heart went out to her. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete victory over Darcy, continued her triumph.

"I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country for my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?"

"When I am in the country," he replied, "I never wish to leave it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their advantages, and I can be equally happy in either."

"Aye -- that is because you have the right disposition. But that gentleman," looking at Darcy, "seemed to think the country was nothing at all."

"Indeed, Mama, you are mistaken," said Elizabeth, blushing for her mother. "You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there were not such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in town, which you must acknowledge to be true."

"Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four and twenty families."

Henry was dismayed for Elizabeth, and nothing but concern for that young lady could enable Bingley to keep his countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eye towards Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, clearly trying to do something that might turn her mother's thoughts, asked her if Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since her coming away.

"Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir William is, Mr. Bingley, is not he? So much the man of fashion! So genteel and so easy! He has always something to say to everybody. That is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very important and never open their mouths, quite mistake the matter."

"Did Charlotte dine with you?"

"No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince pies. For my part, Mr. Bingley, I always keep servants that can do their own work; my daughters are brought up differently. But every body is to judge for themselves, and the Lucases are very good sort of girls, I assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that I think Charlotte so very plain -- but then she is our particular friend."

"She seems a very pleasant young woman," said Bingley.

"Indeed," added Henry. "I have very much enjoyed Miss Lucas's company at the assemblies and balls I have attended here."

"Oh! dear, yes; -- but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself has often said so, and envied me Jane's beauty. I do not like to boast of my own child, but to be sure, Jane -- one does not often see anybody better looking. It is what everybody says. I do not trust my own partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a gentleman at my brother Gardiner's in town, so much in love with her, that my sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away. But however he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were."

"And so ended his affection," said Elizabeth impatiently. "There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!"

"I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love," said Darcy.

"Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Every thing nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away."

Henry knew that Elizabeth was funning with Darcy but felt relieved nonetheless, thinking of the passionate sonnets with which he barraged his fiancée, some even of his own composition.

Darcy only smiled. After a short silence Mrs. Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to Jane with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part, indeed, without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to each other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming into the country to give a ball at Netherfield.

"Mr. Bingley," she said, "did you not promise to give a ball at Netherfield as soon as you were settled here? It will be a great scandal if you do not keep your word."

"I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement, and when your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while she is ill."

Lydia declared herself satisfied. "Oh! Yes, it would be much better to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given your ball," she added, "I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not." Henry did not doubt for a moment that Lydia would do so. He found her forwardness to be off-putting; he could not help comparing her with another young lady, only a few years older, who also loved balls but knew how to comport herself with a great deal more propriety.

Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of her, in spite of all Miss Bingley's witticisms on fine eyes.

The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing room. The loo table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing their game.

Elizabeth took up some needlework, and Henry a volume of The Italian, although he noticed that her attention, like his own, was less on her work than on what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual commendations of the lady either on his hand-writing, or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue.

"How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!"

He made no answer.

"You write uncommonly fast."

"You are mistaken. I write rather slowly."

Henry could not help thinking that it was odd that Darcy should be so curt with a lady that he seemed to think of in a romantic sense. Darcy's friends knew that such short answers indicated that he would rather not engage in conversation, and usually had sufficient sense to leave him alone, but Miss Bingley did not seem to know or understand Darcy's mood.

Elizabeth, although her head was bent to her work, lifted her eyes to watch them, and then to Henry, the corners of her mouth curling up.

"How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of the year! Letters of business too! How odious I should think them!"

"It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours."

"Pray tell your sister that I long to see her."

"I have already told her so once, by your desire."

"I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well."

"Thank you, but I always mend my own."

"How can you contrive to write so even?"

He was silent.

"Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley's."

"Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At present I have not room to do them justice."

"Oh! It is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?"

"They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me to determine."

"It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter, with ease, cannot write ill."

"That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline," cried her brother, "because he does not write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?"

"My style of writing is very different from yours."

"Oh!" cried Miss Bingley, "Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest."

"My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them, by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents."

"You mean you write as you speak, Bingley," said Henry with a smile that Bingley returned good-naturedly.

"Your humility, Mr. Bingley," said Elizabeth, "must disarm reproof."

"Nothing is more deceitful," said Darcy, "than the appearance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast."

Bingley laughed, not at all offended. "And which of the two do you call my little recent piece of modesty?"

"The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of thought and carelessness of execution, which if not estimable, you think at least highly interesting. The power of doing any thing with quickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs. Bennet this morning that if you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of panegyric, of compliment to yourself; and yet what is there so very laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or any one else?"

"Nay," cried Bingley, "this is too much, to remember at night all the foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I believed what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless precipitance merely to show off before the ladies."

"I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as dependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, "Bingley, you had better stay till next week," you would probably do it, you would probably not go -- and, at another word, might stay a month."

"You have only proved by this," cried Elizabeth, "that Mr. Bingley did not do justice to his own disposition. You have shown him off now much more than he did himself."

"I am exceedingly gratified," said Bingley, "by your converting what my friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means intend; for he would certainly think the better of me, if under such a circumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I could."

"Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intention as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?"

"Upon my word I cannot exactly explain the matter; Darcy must speak for himself."

"You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call mine, but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to stand according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet, that the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and the delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering one argument in favour of its propriety."

"To yield readily -- easily -- to the persuasion of a friend is no merit with you."

"To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of either."

"You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make one readily yield to a request without waiting for arguments to reason one into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the circumstance occurs, before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend, where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?"

"Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting between the parties?"

"By all means," cried Bingley; "Let us hear all the particulars, not forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have more weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure you that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not know a more awful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening when he has nothing to do."

Mr. Darcy smiled; but Henry thought he could perceive that he was rather offended, and therefore checked his own laugh. Miss Bingley warmly resented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with her brother for talking such nonsense.

"I see your design, Bingley," said his friend. "You dislike an argument, and want to silence this."

"Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me."

"What you ask," said Elizabeth, "is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr. Darcy had much better finish his letter."

Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.

When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth for the indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with alacrity to the piano-forte, and after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead the way, which the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she seated herself.

Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus employed, Elizabeth turned over some music books that lay on the instrument. After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy drew near Elizabeth and exchanged a few words with her. Henry watched them for a moment; Elizabeth did not seem put out by Darcy's conversation, so he returned his attention to his book, although the echoes of the previous discussion - almost an argument - between Darcy and Elizabeth echoed disturbingly through his mind. It pained him to see them so at odds. If only Darcy could be brought to understand the true superiority of a young lady like Elizabeth Bennet!

Elizabeth left them soon after, to return to her sister; and the other ladies retired soon afterward, along with Bingley and Mr. Hurst. A short time after they were gone, Henry looked up to see Darcy standing by the pianoforte, lazily turning over pieces of music, much as Elizabeth had done a short time before.

"You have the look of a man with a great deal on his mind," said Henry with a smile.

Darcy did not answer, and Henry gently called him to attention, making him start and stare at Henry as if he was surprised to see him. "What did you say, Tilney? I beg your pardon. I did not attend."

"I noticed," said Henry, laughing. Darcy smiled, and Henry was emboldened to question him about a subject that had been on his own mind. "I think I can guess what has you so distracted," he ventured.

"Can you?" said Darcy, smiling in a way that only encouraged Henry's ideas.

"I think," said Henry, laying down his book and rising to join Darcy by the pianoforte, "that it has something to do with a certain young lady."

Darcy stared at his friend for a moment; then he visibly relaxed and gave a short, rueful laugh. "Am I so transparent?" he asked.

"Well, I am your oldest friend," responded Henry, somewhat smugly.

"Yes, you are," said Darcy. "I should have known that you would sense my feelings almost before I did." He continued to shuffle the music, finally bunching it together in a ragged pile and turning to Henry, his agitation showing in his face. "I cannot stop thinking about her," he said in a half-whisper. "She has bewitched me, Tilney! In a way that no woman has before!"

Henry was startled at the unusual vehemence of his friend's words. I cannot believe Darcy could feel so strongly about Caroline Bingley! "What are you going to do about it?" he asked.

Darcy sighed heavily. "What can I do about it?" he asked, running a hand through his hair. "There can be no question of marriage. Such a connection could only be deplored. I keep repeating that to myself; it keeps me out of the worst danger."

Although he was dismayed at such evidence of improper pride on his friend's part, Henry was at the same time ashamed to realize that he felt relief at Darcy's words. As much as he enjoyed visiting Pemberley, the thought of visiting a Pemberley presided over by Caroline Bingley alarmed him to such an extent that he chose his words carefully, genuinely concerned for his friend's happiness and not wishing to inadvertently prejudice him against his own heart. "Surely you cannot mean that," he said. "It is an entirely proper connection. Perhaps her family is not as--genteel as yours, but they are hardly objectionable. In light of your hesitation, I cannot help but think that what you feel is not love, but infatuation."

"Perhaps you are right." Darcy was nodding, but talking more to himself than to Henry. "Yes, it is a mere infatuation. We will not be in the same house for much longer; I dare say I shall be safe then."

The only response Henry could form was, "Perhaps that is for the best."

The innocuous reply seemed to give Darcy some relief from his oppressed feelings, which made Henry glad on that account at least. He spent several hours puzzling over the strange idea of Darcy having such violent affection for Caroline Bingley. He remembered something that Catherine had once told him: that love had the power to render a person beautiful to the one who loved them. Sweet Catherine, he thought with a smile, you always attribute the finest motives to everyone, even those least deserving of such regard. I shall act upon your example, my love; I shall look for the good in Caroline, if she is to be my friend's wife.

The next day, Henry prepared to set out for a walk when he noticed Elizabeth and Mrs. Hurst keeping one another silent company in the sitting-room, Mr. Hurst having repaired to the library for an afternoon nap. Henry politely asked the ladies to accompany him; he expected Elizabeth's ready acquiescence, but was surprised when Mrs. Hurst stood to join them. However, he rose gallantly to the occasion and gave an arm to each of the ladies. He whistled for Bear, who lumbered along behind their group, his tongue lagging out and his dog-sense searching for the nearest available body of water in which to hurl himself.

They walked through the shrubbery, speaking of commonplace subjects like the weather and the roads, when they suddenly encountered Darcy with Miss Bingley clinging to his arm. Henry noticed that Miss Bingley's colour rose when she saw them, and wondered if they had been engaging in lovers' talk. After his conversation with Darcy the night before, he was surprised that Darcy would place himself in danger of saying something that he could not honourably retract.

"I did not know that you intended to walk," said Miss Bingley, in some consternation.

"You used us abominably ill," answered Mrs. Hurst, "in running away without telling us that you were coming out." Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth and Henry alone together. The path just admitted three. Henry would have attributed a great deal more delicacy to Mrs. Hurst, but supposed that she must know her sister better than he.

Darcy said, "This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the avenue."

But Elizabeth laughingly answered, "No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting two more. Do you not agree, Mr. Tilney?"

"Indeed," said Henry with a smile. "Gilpin allows that five is as picturesque as three, but I cannot agree with him. Miss Bennet and I shall have to stay a pair and hope that no one of nice taste notices our unhappy circumstances." Henry had truthfully been inclined to join the group, if only to keep Darcy from actions that he would later regret in regard to Miss Bingley, but the presence of Mrs. Hurst would prevent that, and he had much rather be with Elizabeth.

They went off together and rambled about the grounds, talking of many subjects, no longer restricted by the presence of Mrs. Hurst. Henry was delighted with his walking partner; eventually the conversation turned to his parish, his parsonage, and his improvements, and led naturally from there to Catherine. Elizabeth asked Henry many questions about his lady, and he answered them gratefully, happy to unburden his heart to such a disinterested and thoughtful recipient.

"No, Catherine does not play," he said in answer to a polite question regarding Miss Morland's accomplishments. "But she enjoys listening to music very much. I think she would enjoy hearing you play, Miss Bennet."

Elizabeth laughed heartily at this statement. "Then Miss Morland must not be a very discerning judge of music. I believe I would like her very much indeed, Mr. Tilney."

"Yes, I believe you would. And I believe she would like you as well."

They walked along in silence for a few moments, and finally Elizabeth said, "You miss her a great deal, do not you?"

"I do," he said with some feeling. "We spent some time together at my father's home and I became quite warmly attached to her. Now that we must be separated, it is as if a part of me is missing." He smiled at her ruefully. "That is a hackneyed metaphor, I am afraid, and I assure you I am not in the habit of using such trite expressions, but in this case I find that it is very true."

"Are you to be married very soon?"

Henry sighed heavily. "I do not know when we shall be married. There is parental disapprobation that is preventing our union."

"Miss Morland's parents object to you as a son-in-law?" Elizabeth was indignant for his sake.

"No, the disapprobation is on my family's side, I am afraid. My father, General Tilney, is of a volatile temper, and places a great deal too much emphasis on fortune and social standing, especially in those to whom his children become allied. He took the word of an acquaintance of Catherine's brother that her family was rich and that Catherine had been named heiress to the local squire. On that information, he was not only willing but insistent that I should marry her. He has only himself to blame for believing such nonsense."

"Miss Morland's family is not rich, then?"

"Not rich, no, but quite comfortable. She will have a perfectly respectable dowry of three thousand pounds. But my father received information from the same source that led him to believe that the Morlands are not only poor but of uncertain character, which is, of course, as untrue as his first assertions. My father unfortunately does not give as much weight to honour as to wealth, and did not understand the wrong he had done to Catherine, and to me, by forbidding me to pay my addresses to her any longer. But by that time my heart belonged to her, and honour as well as affection bid me to ask for her hand. The Morlands, however, could not sanction a marriage that my father had forbidden, although they kindly added that they would give us their blessing if the General's position should change. And there we stand."

"Three thousand pounds," mused Elizabeth. "That is a great deal more than I shall ever have." At his inquisitive look, she went on. "My father's estate is entailed to the male line, and since he has no son, it will be inherited by our cousin, a Mr. Collins. My father has no funds at his disposal to make dowries for all five of us."

"I should think a gentleman of discernment would see your obvious charms, even without a dowry," said Henry with a gallant bow. "Marrying solely for the sake of your partner's fortune is not the way to ensure your future happiness, Lizzy."

Elizabeth laughed. "Perhaps one should not marry for money, but I am sure you will agree that one cannot marry without it, either."

"Wise words indeed, madam." A pause followed his statement, and then he added, "And now I must beg your pardon. Darcy has chastised me already for my regrettable familiarity, Miss Bennet. I should not call you by your Christian name as if you were my sister. As an excuse I can offer only that I have come to look upon you as quite a close acquaintance."

"That is quite all right, Henry," she said teasingly. "There, now, we are even." She hesitated, then added, "And I am particularly gratified that you count me as such a close acquaintance. I count you as one of my good friends as well." They smiled at each other, and Henry was once again struck by the way that they seemed to exchange thoughts and ideas without speaking, as if they were controlled by a single mind, or two minds so alike that they were nearly indistinguishable.

When they finally returned to the house, they were met with the happy intelligence that Jane was already so much recovered as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening.

When the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing-room after dinner, Miss Bennet was seated near the fire, well-wrapped in several shawls. All four ladies were laughing together when they entered the room, and Henry was pleased to see even Elizabeth smiling and laughing with them. However, Miss Bingley's eyes were instantly turned towards Darcy, and she had something to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed himself directly to Miss Bennet, with a polite congratulation, as did Henry; Mr. Hurst also made her a slight bow, and said he was "very glad;" but diffuseness and warmth remained for Bingley's salutation. He was full of joy and attention. The first half hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she should suffer from the change of room; and she removed at his desire to the other side of the fireplace, that she might be farther from the door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to any one else. Elizabeth retired to a corner with her needlework, and Henry joined her. They talked quietly together while they drank their tea.

When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the card-table, but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr. Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and the silence of the whole party on the subject seemed to justify her. Mr. Hurst had therefore nothing to do but to stretch himself on one of the sofas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same; and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and rings, joined now and then in her brother's conversation with Miss Bennet. It occurred to Henry that Mrs. Hurst, gazing at the shiny baubles that graced her wrists and fingers, looked rather like one of his terriers when he dangled his pocket-watch in front of them: all their attention fixed unblinkingly on the gleaming object, their eyes following intently even the most minute degree of movement. But he was too much of a gentleman to reflect long upon the fact that Mrs. Hurst's eyes showed little more intelligence than those of the dogs.

Miss Bingley's attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr. Darcy's progress through his book, as in reading her own; and she was perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her question, and read on.

Elizabeth observed to Henry, "Mr. Darcy does not seem to be susceptible to Miss Bingley's overtures. I suppose one must admire her persistence, however."

Henry, unwilling to disclose a confidence even to Elizabeth, said only, "If Miss Bingley's attentions were unwelcome, then Darcy would not admit them."

"Speaking for myself, I would hope for more encouragement from a lover than Miss Bingley appears to be receiving."

"Perhaps Darcy feels constrained by having an audience."

"So you do think that there is a mutual attraction?"

"I can have no opinion on that subject," said Henry resolutely.

Elizabeth looked at him keenly for a moment, then returned her gaze to her work. "Very well, Mr. Tilney, you may keep your friend's counsel, as a proper clergyman should. However, I am not in Mr. Darcy's confidence and thus am free to speculate, and I sense that you do not entirely approve of a match between Mr. Darcy and Miss Bingley." Henry opened his mouth to protest, but Elizabeth continued to speak. "Perhaps you feel that they are not well-matched as to temper. You have told me that, among his friends, Mr. Darcy is completely amiable, and I must take you at your word. In return, I will assure you that Miss Bingley can be surprisingly agreeable. During the hour which passed in this room before you and the other gentlemen appeared, I have never enjoyed Miss Bingley's company more, nor Mrs. Hurst's. Their powers of conversation are considerable. They can describe an entertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh at their acquaintance with spirit."

"I am happy to hear that, for Darcy's sake." Henry was silent for a moment, then added, "I see by your expression that you do not agree with my description of Darcy's temper. He has been an excellent and valuable friend to me over the years. Unfortunately, to those with whom he is not closely acquainted, he can give an incorrect impression of his temper. At his home, at Pemberley, he is the master, and like many rich men is accustomed to ordering his household as he desires, and expressing himself freely when his orders are not carried out."

Elizabeth considered this. "And when his friends' households are not ordered as he would desire? Does he express himself freely on such an occasion?"

"Darcy does not interfere in his friends' affairs, Miss Bennet," said Henry. "He offers advice when it is requested, as any good friend would, but he certainly does not impose his will where he should not."

"Perhaps he does not impose his will upon you," said Elizabeth, one eyebrow raised. "Perhaps because you would not allow him to do so."

"Certainly not," said Henry with some warmth.

"I cannot help but wonder if Miss Bingley would allow Mr. Darcy to impose his will upon her," Elizabeth mused. "And how he will accept it if she does not."

Henry suspected that Miss Bingley would accept any indignity or loss of precedence to be Mrs. Darcy, but could hardly say so to Elizabeth, so he changed the subject. "I am glad to see your sister so well recovered. And I believe that Bingley is glad as well."

Elizabeth raised her eyes from her work and smiled as she watched Mr. Bingley rewrap a stray bit of shawl round the eldest Miss Bennet's shoulders. "It is good to see Jane well, and seemingly so happy." She glanced over at Henry and added, "Do you know Mr. Bingley's temper as well as you know Mr. Darcy's?"

"I have not known him quite as long, but I assure you that we are quite close. And I can guess your next question; unfortunately Bingley has not confided in me as to his feelings toward your sister."

"I would not expect you to tell me if he has," said Elizabeth archly, and Henry laughed.

At that moment, Miss Bingley gave a great yawn and said, "How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library."

Like the library at Pemberley, I suppose? thought Henry, and was immediately ashamed of his mean-spiritedness; no one of the party made any reply.

Miss Bingley then yawned again, threw aside her book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest of some amusement; when, hearing her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him and said, "By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure."

"I know you cannot mean Tilney, so you must be speaking of Darcy," cried her brother. "He may go to bed, if he chooses, before it begins; but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send round my cards."

"I should like balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the day." Henry was not surprised at her statement, having heard Darcy make much the same observation at an earlier time. Miss Bingley was far too imperceptive to realize that Darcy had been only half-serious.

"Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be near so much like a ball." Henry chuckled aloud at this and noticed a smile on Elizabeth's face as well.

Miss Bingley made no answer; and soon afterwards got up and walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well; but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. To Henry's astonishment, she turned to Elizabeth and said, "Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude."

Elizabeth was as surprised as Henry, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked up and unconsciously closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing that he could imagine but two motives for their choosing to walk up and down the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would interfere.

"What do you mean, sir?" Miss Bingley said to Darcy, and to Elizabeth she added, "What on earth could he mean?"

"I think we would do better not to inquire," was her answer. "Depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing about it."

"Nay, we insist upon knowing your meaning, sir!"

"I have not the smallest objection to explaining my meaning," said he, as soon as she allowed him to speak. "You either choose this method of passing the evening because you are in each other's confidence, and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking; if the first, I should be completely in your way; and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire."

"Oh! shocking!" cried Miss Bingley. "I never heard any thing so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?"

"Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination," said Elizabeth. "We can all plague and punish one another. Tease him--laugh at him. Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done."

"But upon my honour I do not. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me that. Tease calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, no; I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself."

"Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!" cried Elizabeth. "That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to me to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a laugh." Henry looked up from his volume of Radcliffe in time to exchange a smile with her at that remark.

"Miss Bingley," said Darcy, "has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke."

"Certainly," replied Elizabeth "there are such people, but I hope I am not one of them. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without."

"Perhaps that is not possible for any one. But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule."

"Such as vanity and pride."

"Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation."

Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile, and Henry sighed; it pained him to have two people for whom he had such regard as Elizabeth and Darcy so at odds with one another.

"Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume," said Miss Bingley, "and pray, what is the result?"

"I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise."

"No," said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding--certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion, once lost, is lost for ever."

"That is a failing indeed!" cried Elizabeth. "Implacable resentment is a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I really cannot laugh at it; you are safe from me."

"There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome."

"And your defect is a propensity to hate everybody."

"And yours," he replied with a smile, "is willfully to misunderstand them."

"Do let us have a little music," cried Miss Bingley, tired of a conversation in which she had no share. "Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst."

Her sister made not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was opened, and Miss Bingley spent some time entertaining Mr. Darcy, and by extension the others, with a selection of love-songs.

The next day, Henry came into the house with his gun and dog and stopped to remove his muddy boots. Bingley's valet, as friendly and good-natured as his master, offered his services, and Henry laid the gun on the floor and seated himself on a bench while the man pulled off his boots. Bear pushed between them, attempting to sniff at the dirt and water that stained the edges of Henry's greatcoat, and the valet was hard put to complete his task and avoid the creature's importunities. Henry attempted to call the dog to order, and Bear was happy enough to abandon his prior amusement and leap upon him, place his large, muddy paws on his chest, and salute his master with enthusiastic licks and snuffles. Henry's face and shirtfront were soon covered with canine saliva, but finally he succeeded in pushing the dog away, weakened though he was with laughter at his pet's impertinent behaviour.

Elizabeth entered the hall in time to observe this spectacle. Henry expected her to laugh at him and prepared a properly teasing response, but she did not appear to notice. "Has a messenger come from Longbourn?" she asked a passing footman, who shook his head.

"I'll take these and clean them up for you, Mr. Tilney," said the grinning valet, and bustled off with the boots, the gun, and the muddy greatcoat. Bear padded along behind him, leaving dirty footprints on the sparkling floor, much to his master's dismay.

"Forgive me, Miss Bennet," Henry said, mopping his face with a handkerchief. "I could not help but overhear--I hope there is not a problem at Longbourn? Miss Bennet is not ill again?"

"No, Mr. Tilney. I thank you for your concern. I have written to my mother to beg that the carriage might be sent for Jane and me in the course of the day. I am afraid that we have well overstayed our welcome."

Henry sighed. "I, for one, shall be sorry to see you go, and I dare say that Bingley shall be sorry as well." A sudden suspicion prompted him to ask, "I hope that no one has said anything that has made you feel uncomfortable or unwelcome."

Elizabeth looked archly. "I suppose by 'no one' you mean Miss Bingley. While she has not been entirely civil to me, I have not allowed her to make me feel unwelcome. My own sense of propriety has prompted me to hasten our departure, and Jane agrees with me."

"Well, if you are set on leaving, I can only express a hope that you receive such a message from your mother as you could desire."

"I thank you, sir."

"And now I must make myself presentable for luncheon. If you will excuse me, Miss Bennet."

"Of course, Mr. Tilney." Her answer was distracted, and she went to the window by the door and peeked outside, looking for a rider.

To the surprise of no one, Mrs. Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added that, if Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them very well. At luncheon, Jane requested the use of Bingley's carriage to take her and her sister back to Longbourn. The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day, to work on Jane; and till the morrow their going was deferred. Henry observed that Miss Bingley did not appear especially happy that Jane agreed to stay; he was forcibly reminded of Isabella Thorpe and her habit of expressing one thought or emotion and appearing to feel entirely another.

The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be safe for her, that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where she felt herself to be right.

Darcy did not appear to be particularly moved by the impending departure of the Miss Bennets. At one time during the day, Henry came upon Darcy and Elizabeth, alone together in the drawing-room; Darcy had his nose deep in a volume of history and was studiously ignoring the lady. Elizabeth, for her part, had a book of her own and seemed not at all put out by the gentleman's inattention. Well, at least they are not arguing, thought Henry tiredly.

On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost all, took place. Miss Bingley's civility to Elizabeth increased at last very rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted, after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her to see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most tenderly, she even shook hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of the whole party in the liveliest spirits, except for Henry.

"I shall be sorry to see you go, Miss Bennet," said Henry, taking her hand and bowing. "Your company will be greatly missed."

"As will yours," she said. "You must come to dine at Longbourn. Wait not for an invitation; simply appear some afternoon around four and you will be sure to be asked to stay. I think my father would enjoy your company."

"I shall do that, madam. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Mr. Tilney." She climbed into the carriage after her sister. Bingley stepped away from the glass, where he had been in conversation with Jane, and the carriage rolled away. The two men watched its progress down the drive, and from inside the house Darcy watched his friends thoughtfully.

The next morning proved much too cold and wet even for such ardent sportsmen as the Netherfield gentlemen, and they were forced to stay inside. To a man of Henry's active disposition, such confinement was difficult. He was amply entertained by one of Mrs. Radcliffe's charming works for a while, and spent some time composing a long and witty letter to Catherine, but he soon grew restless.

Darcy had spent the morning writing business letters, Bingley had been in consultation with his steward, Miss Bingley with the housekeeper, and the Hursts doing goodness knew what; thus they were now happy with more sedentary pursuits. Bingley and Hurst were engaged in a seemingly never-ending game of cards, and the ladies in singing duets and trying to wrench Darcy's attention from his book.

Henry paced the drawing-room and stared out the windows at the rain. He politely negatived a request from Bingley to join the card-game, and idly glanced through a pile of books that Darcy had brought from the library, but was unable to find anything worthy of his attention. Miss Bingley's singing was a constant irritation and he thought with longing of how much he would have enjoyed Elizabeth's company on such a day. Thinking of Elizabeth brought her parting words to his mind: "You must come to dine at Longbourn. Wait not for an invitation; simply appear some afternoon around four and you will be sure to be asked to stay. I think my father would enjoy your company." He pulled out his watch and checked it: it was just four now.

"I think I shall pay a call on the Longbourn family," he said suddenly. "Would anyone care to join me?"

Bingley looked up with a smile, and seemed about to voice an acceptance, when Darcy said, "Miss Bennet and her sister have only just returned to their home yesterday. I am sure they would prefer to have time to visit with their family. And Miss Bennet is still recovering from her illness. I dare say such a visit would be most unwelcome." He turned a page in his book and continued to read.

"Besides, it is a great deal too dirty," cried Miss Bingley, irritated at Henry's suggestion and gratified at Darcy's refusal. "The lanes will be impassable."

Caroline's words compelled Henry to action. "I dare say that I can go on horseback very well," he said. "The rain seems to have let up, and horses can always walk a muddy lane where a carriage might not go. Gentlemen, I again invite you to join me."

Darcy remained silent, and Bingley looked from one of his friends to the other and finally said, "I think not, Tilney. You may take one of the saddle-horses, of course, if you are determined to go."

"I am, and I thank you for your generosity, Bingley."

Henry went to his chamber to retrieve his boots, and a servant was ready with his hat and greatcoat by the time he came downstairs. He was surprised to see Bingley waiting in the entry to see him off.

"Please give my best wishes to Miss Bennet," he said in a low voice. "Tell her that we shall certainly call within the next few days, when we are sure that she is quite recovered from her illness."

"Bingley, will not you reconsider accompanying me? I am sure the Bennets would be delighted to see you."

"I cannot very well go off and leave my guests to entertain themselves, and Darcy does not wish to go."

Henry nodded. "You are correct, of course. You do not mind that I am leaving the company this afternoon?"

"Of course not. Just--just remember to give Miss Bennet my message."

"I shall not forget, my friend." Bingley grinned at him, and it was as if the sun had finally come from behind the clouds. Henry hid a grin of his own and went out to where a groom stood with a saddled horse.

The ride to Longbourn was indeed dirty, but Bingley's horse was a good one, and they managed the trip in good time. Henry swung his leg casually over the saddle in front of him and slid gracefully to the ground in a single motion. He handed the horse's reins to a groom and looked up at the house. It was not as large as Netherfield Park or Northanger Abbey, and certainly not as magnificent as Pemberley, but it was solid and attractive. Henry rang the bell and presented his card to the butler, who disappeared for a few moments and came back to conduct him into the drawing-room.

"Mr. Tilney!" cried Mrs. Bennet, rising to greet him. "We are so happy that you came to call today!"

Henry was all astonishment. Mrs. Bennet had never before shown him more than the barest civility.

The lady continued to speak. "You must meet our cousin, Mr. Collins, who has just now arrived. He is a clergyman, like you!"

A tall, heavy-looking young man of five and twenty rose from the chair next to Miss Bennet and made an elaborate bow. "Mr. Tilney and I are already acquainted. We were at Oxford together."

Tilney nodded his head rather coldly in the other man's direction. He well remembered William Collins; at Oxford, he had been dismissive and supercilious with his fellow students, all of whom disliked him heartily. He had further alienated his peers by carrying stories of the misbehaviour of the other undergraduates to the proctors, thereby currying favour for himself. He constantly boasted of how the Church would be no more than a temporary career for him, as he was destined to inherit a great estate in Hertfordshire. He must be the cousin Elizabeth had spoken of who was to inherit Longbourn.

"How delightful! Then you must dine with us, Mr. Tilney. I am sure that you and Mr. Collins have a great deal to talk about."

Collins simpered and bowed and said he was "very glad," and Henry managed to mutter an acceptance that did not sound overly rude. His eyes met Lizzy's, which were dancing with unexpressed humour, and this improved his mood greatly. He took a seat and glanced up to find Mr. Bennet watching him gravely.

Henry had not previously had an opportunity to become closely acquainted with Elizabeth's father. At the informal dinners that they had both attended, they had not been seated together, and in the latter part of the evening, Mr. Bennet usually sought out the card tables or the host's library while Henry made himself agreeable to the young ladies present. Mr. Bennet was a tall man, and his hair had mostly turned white, although it showed signs of previously having been as dark as Henry's own. He had a long, sardonic face, a brown skin, and dark eyes that showed intelligence and humour. The two men gazed at each other for a long moment, and then Mr. Bennet's face relaxed in a small smile, as did Henry's. Henry felt as if he and Mr. Bennet had the same sort of silent communication that he shared with Lizzy, and thought that he liked the older man very much and would enjoy becoming acquainted with him.

Collins had not stopped speaking since he had returned to his seat. "Mrs. Bennet, may I extend my most sincere compliments on having such a fine family of daughters. I have heard much of their beauty, but, in this instance, fame has fallen short of the truth. I have no doubt of you seeing them all in due time well disposed of in marriage."

Miss Lydia Bennet, who had been whispering with her sister Kitty, rolled her eyes at this gallantry, but her mother was delighted. "You are very kind, sir, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may prove so; for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so oddly."

Collins replied in his pompous manner, "You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate."

Mr. Bennet shifted impatiently in his seat at this remark, and Henry was sympathetic. Imagine seeing one's fortune and this fine house entailed away from one's own family to such a man as Collins!

"Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with you, for such things, I know, are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates will go when once they come to be entailed."

"I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins, and could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies that I come prepared to admire them. At present I will not say more, but perhaps when we are better acquainted--"

He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each other. Henry was no less glad, as Collins' rather bald hints and the intensity of the gaze he directed to the eldest Miss Bennet made him uncomfortable, and, judging by her blush and downcast eyes, it made Miss Bennet uncomfortable as well. I must warn Bingley that he has a rival! he thought in some amusement, although he did not consider Collins a serious threat to his friend's chances.

Collins led the way into the dining room with Mrs. Bennet on his arm. Mr. Bennet took in his eldest daughter, and Henry was delighted to find Elizabeth on his arm.

"My father has been looking forward to this visit greatly," she whispered to him as Collins loudly extolled the virtues of the hall, the dining-room, and the furniture within it; Henry could not escape the feeling that Collins was inventorying the contents of his future inheritance. "He hoped that Mr. Collins would not be a sensible man, and I believe all his fondest wishes have been answered."

Henry laughed. "From what I remember of Collins from Oxford, your father will be greatly entertained by his guest this evening, as will we all." He held Elizabeth's chair while she seated herself, and took his own place across from Collins, at Mr. Bennet's left hand.

The dinner also received Collins' highest admiration. "Pray tell me, Mrs. Bennet," he said, helping himself to yet another portion of roasted beef, "to which of my fair cousins' domestic skill is this delightful meal owing?"

Mrs. Bennet replied with some asperity, "We are very well able to keep a good cook, and I assure you that my daughters have nothing to do in the kitchen, unlike the daughters of some of our neighbours."

"My dear madam, I beg your pardon. I am sure that I did not mean to displease you."

In a softened tone she declared herself not at all offended; but he continued to apologise for about a quarter of an hour.

During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants were withdrawn, he observed, "Mr. Collins, you seem very fortunate in your patroness. Lady Catherine de Bourgh's attention to your wishes, and consideration for your comfort, appear very remarkable."

"Lady Catherine de Bourgh?" exclaimed Henry. "She is your patroness?"

"Oh, yes," said Collins, fixing him with a supercilious gaze. "And who is the grantor of your living, Mr. Tilney?"

"I hold a family living that was granted by my father," said Henry. "The parish is called Woodston, in Gloucestershire."

"But your family does not live in the parish?"

"No. My father's holdings are quite extensive." Henry was not given to boasting of his father's wealth, but he was entirely given to setting down puffed-up fools a peg or two.

"Yes, well," said Collins, somewhat deflated, "you have heard of Lady Catherine? I am not surprised that you have, for she is a daughter of the Earl of --------, and her estate, Rosings Park, is one of the finest in the country--"

Henry, sensing a lengthy panegyric to the merits of Lady Catherine, interrupted him rather rudely with, "Yes, Lady Catherine is the aunt of my very good friend Fitzwilliam Darcy."

Mrs. Bennet and her two eldest daughters cried out their astonishment. "Have you met Lady Catherine, Mr. Tilney?" asked Jane.

"No, I have never met her, but Darcy speaks of her occasionally." He decided that it might be best not to elaborate on the exact content of those conversations.

Mrs. Bennet said to Collins, "Mr. Darcy is staying in the neighbourhood at Netherfield Park with his friend Mr. Bingley and Mr. Bingley's sisters and brother-in-law, as is Mr. Tilney."

"Indeed, madam!" cried Collins. "Then I must pay my respects to Lady Catherine's nephew! I hope that I can rely on you for an introduction, Mr. Tilney?"

Henry silently cursed Collins for putting him in the position of being forced to introduce such a pandering fool to his friend. "We shall have to see if the opportunity for such an introduction presents itself," he said. Collins seemed wholly satisfied with his answer, however indefinite.

"You must tell Lady Catherine that we have been acquainted with her nephew," said Mrs. Bennet. "I am sure that will raise you in her good opinion."

"I am sure, madam, that I have never in my life witnessed such behaviour in a person of rank -- such affability and condescension, as I have myself experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to approve of both the discourses which I have already had the honour of preaching before her. She has also asked me twice to dine at Rosings, and sent for me only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of quadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many people I know, but I have never seen any thing but affability in her. She has always spoken to me as she would to any other gentleman; she made not the smallest objection to my joining in the society of the neighbourhood, nor to my leaving his parish occasionally for a week or two, to visit my relations."

Henry had always regretted that Woodston had no resident squire, as such a person perhaps would have been a companion, a friend to relieve his solitude at the parsonage; however, listening to Collins' discourse, Henry decided that no squire was better than such a one as Lady Catherine.

Collins continued to speak. "She has even condescended to advise me to marry as soon as he could, provided I chose with discretion," he added, glancing at Miss Bennet with an expression that he probably thought complimentary, which Henry reflected made him look as if his dinner had not agreed with him. Then he glanced sharply at Henry and added, "Mr. Tilney, are you a married man, sir?"

"I am not yet married, but I am engaged, sir."

Collins was delighted; this Tilney was no rival for the hand of the lovely Miss Bennet. "Excellent, excellent! Lady Catherine says, and I agree, that all clergymen should marry. It not only sets the example for the parish, but it ensures that the parson is a settled man. I am sure that you would agree, sir. The Church is such a wholesome profession for a married man, as Lady Catherine says. Her condescension, sir, beyond anything that one of my station could hope for, I cannot praise more highly. She once paid me a visit in my humble parsonage, where she had perfectly approved all the alterations I have been making, and had even vouchsafed to suggest some herself: some shelves in the closets up stairs."

Elizabeth, seated next to Collins, suddenly coughed and brought her napkin up to cover her mouth, her eyes sparkling in Henry's direction.

"That is all very proper and civil, I am sure," said Mrs. Bennet, "and I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies in general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?"

"The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane from Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence."

"I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any family?"

"She has one only daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very extensive property."

"Ah!" cried Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, "then she is better off than many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she handsome?"

"She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says that in point of true beauty, Miss De Bourgh is far superior to the handsomest of her sex; because there is that in her features which marks the young woman of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has prevented her making that progress in many accomplishments which she could not otherwise have failed of; as I am informed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still resides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies."

This was quite a different picture of Miss de Bourgh than that presented by Darcy, who had described his cousin as "thin, rather plain, rarely goes into company" in a completely disinterested tone of voice.

Mrs. Bennet, however, was clearly fascinated by the wealthy and mysterious Miss de Bourgh. "Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at court."

"Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine myself one day, has deprived the British court of its brightest ornament. Her ladyship seemed pleased with the idea, and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine that her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her." He leaned toward Mr. Bennet and Henry with a confidential air. "These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay."

"You judge very properly," said Mr. Bennet, "and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?"

Elizabeth choked once again into her napkin, and Jane hastily raised her glass of water to her lips.

"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible."

Henry could resist no longer. "In that case, sir," he said, his countenance as grave and composed as Mr. Bennet's, "may I suggest that you take the time to rehearse these little elegant compliments whilst gazing at yourself in a mirror? Do you not agree, Mr. Bennet, that the aspect of one's countenance only reinforces the sincerity of one's words?"

"Indeed, Mr. Tilney. The expression is everything. I add my recommendation to Mr. Tilney's. I believe that practice is necessary to making such compliments felt as they truly should be." Mr. Bennet's face was all seriousness, but his eyes twinkled with humour that was reflected in Henry's own.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Bennet," said Henry, his face still grave. "I agree. A great deal of practice is necessary, I think. You should not even delay until you return to your home, Collins; you must begin directly. It is never too soon to make yourself perfect in these compliments; you never know when they may be required. There is a looking-glass in your chamber here at Longbourn, I trust?"

"Oh dear," said Elizabeth in a strangled voice. "I seem to have dropped my spoon." She dove under the table to retrieve the item, and had another choking fit while doing so. Jane shakily refilled her water glass and gulped at it in an uncharacteristically unladylike manner.

Collins did not notice these interruptions, but gazed at Henry with deep consideration. "I believe you are correct, Mr. Tilney. I shall take your advice, sir. I shall assemble a small store of compliments--you know, the sort that all ladies like, that will do for many occasions--and I shall rehearse them in the looking-glass. I thank you, sir! You are most kind!"

"My pleasure," said Henry, sure that Collins had absolutely no idea what real pleasure his foolish conversation had given in more than one quarter. Elizabeth had sat up in her chair once more, her face rather flushed, and she looked pleadingly at Henry as if begging him to stop. Henry smiled at her with his eyes, then glanced over at Mr. Bennet. The older man sat with his elbow resting on the table, his chin propped on one hand, looking at Henry approvingly. Two pair of dark eyes exchanged unsmiling sparkles of humour, and once again there was that strange sense of communication between them.

When the ladies withdrew, however, all the humour came to an end. Mr. Bennet's excellent port made Collins even more loquacious, and after thirty minutes of listening to his guest sing the praises of Lady Catherine, Miss de Bourgh, and Rosings Park, both Henry and his host were happy enough to go into the drawing-room for tea.

When tea was over, Mr. Bennet, weary of his cousin's chatter, asked him if he would care to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but on beholding it (for everything announced it to be from a circulating library), he started back, and begging pardon, protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at him, and Lydia exclaimed.

"Mr. Tilney, surely you will support me in this," cried the beleaguered Collins, mistakenly thinking he had found an ally in Henry. "Surely you, as a clergyman, do not support the reading of novels by young ladies!"

"On the contrary," said Henry. "I enjoy a novel very much myself. I can hardly condemn a young lady for wishing to read one."

"But surely, sir, you do not recommend that your fiancee read such books?"

"Miss Morland has read a great many novels, and with pleasure. I have cautioned her against taking fictitious stories too much to heart, and she has learned to enjoy novels without being negatively affected by them." Collins certainly did not need to know the rest of Catherine's adventure with the works of Mrs. Radcliffe.

"I do not scruple to confess myself greatly surprised!" cried Collins. "How can you countenance such behaviour in your future wife? Lady Catherine says, and I concur, that the reading of novels has contributed to the general lack of morals in our generation, and that the authors who produce such trash should be severely censured."

"You would censure the authors of novels, sir? I cannot agree. Although their productions have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has been so much decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, their foes are almost as many as their readers. And while the abilities of the nine-hundredth abridger of the History of England, or of the man who collects and publishes in a volume some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior, with a paper from the Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne, are eulogized by a thousand pens, there seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them. I cannot support it, nor the common practice today of censuring young ladies who read such novels, making them ashamed of an activity which provides such wholesome enjoyment. 'Oh! it is only a novel!' the young lady will say, while she lays down her book with affected indifference, or momentary shame. 'It is only Cecilia, or Camilla, or Belinda;' or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language. Now, had Miss Lydia Bennet or Miss Catherine Bennet presented you with a volume of the Spectator, instead of a novel, how readily you would have given their reading-matter your approval; though you must agree, Collins, that the chances must be against those young ladies being occupied by any part of that voluminous publication, of which either the matter or manner would not disgust a young person of taste: the substance of its papers so often consisting in the statement of improbable circumstances, unnatural characters, and topics of conversation which no longer concern anyone living; and their language, too, frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable idea of the age that could endure it."

Collins stared at him, as did the two youngest Miss Bennets. Mr. Bennet, who had followed the whole conversation with a grave countenance that did not match the sparkle in his eyes, said only, "Perhaps you would like to read to the ladies, then, Mr. Tilney?"

"With pleasure, sir!" cried Henry, and Kitty hastened to hand him the book, which proved to be one of Miss Edgeworth's works. Collins, somewhat offended although he professed himself perfectly sanguine, turned to Mr. Bennet and offered himself as his antagonist at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements.

After a half hour or so, Lydia and Kitty grew tired of Miss Edgeworth, and gave Henry leave to lay the book aside. He took a seat next to Elizabeth, who was engaged with her needlework.

She glanced up at him gravely. "You are very impertinent, Mr. Tilney," she said. "Teasing Mr. Collins in such a way, and encouraging my father in his own bad behaviour! I sensed that you two would get along, but I had no idea how well!"

"Miss Bennet, surely you cannot expect me to pass up such an opportunity to amuse you and your sisters. I should not be able to call myself a gentleman otherwise, and I am sure the Mr. Bennet feels the same way."

"Oh, yes," said Elizabeth archly, "I am quite sure that was your intention, to amuse me and my sisters! Your altruism is commendable, sir."

"I thank you, madam."

In such enjoyable conversation with Elizabeth and, later, with Jane, the evening passed quickly. Henry finally excused himself and called for his horse. The entire family accompanied him to the door, where he bowed to the ladies and Collins. Mr. Bennet, to Henry's great surprise, held out his hand.

"You may call at Longbourn anytime, Mr. Tilney," he said.

"I should like that very much, sir," Henry replied. "I cannot stay in Hertfordshire much longer; my duties call me back to Woodston. However, I hope to see you again before my departure."

"Yes, well." The older man turned back to the house with a dismissive wave, and Mr. Collins and the ladies followed him. Henry mounted his horse and turned to ride away; but as he glanced back at the house, he saw Mr. Bennet's face at the library window, smiling at him.

This chapter is dedicated to Rhonda, the Chief Acolyte, on the occasion of her nineteenth birthday.

Answering a knock at his bed-chamber door the following morning, Henry was a little startled to find Bingley on the other side. "Did you give my message to Miss Bennet?" he asked anxiously.

Henry managed not to smile. "I informed Mrs. Bennet that you intended to call and inquire after Miss Bennet's health sometime this week. She was most gratified."

Bingley bit his lip and looked away. "You were correct, of course. It would not have been entirely proper for me to send a private message to Miss Bennet."

"I can tell you, however, that Miss Bennet was privy to my conversation with her mother and blushed in a very proper, demure, and ladylike manner," Henry could not resist adding, and was rewarded with his friend's delighted smile.

"I shall go today," Bingley declared. "Will you join me?"

"Yes, but let us call early," said Henry. "I would not have the Bennets thinking I am there for another dinner."

At breakfast, Bingley announced his plans and invited the others to join him. The Hursts and Miss Bingley declined, to no one's surprise, although Miss Bingley sent her best love to Miss Bennet. Darcy considered, and seemed about to decline, but after a moment agreed to accompany his friends. Some time later, the gentlemen accordingly mounted their horses and set off for Longbourn.

The road took them through Meryton, where a group of young ladies were gathered on the pavement with three gentleman, one wearing regimentals. As they drew closer, Henry recognized the Miss Bennets, their cousin, and Mr. Denny, the gentleman of the militia. Bingley recognized them as well, and rode toward them wearing a wide smile.

"Miss Bennet!" he cried upon gaining the attention of the object of his gallantry. "We were on our way to Longbourn on purpose to inquire after you! I am gratified to see that you are well enough to take exercise outdoors." Miss Bennet smiled up at him sweetly.

Henry watched Collins carefully, but he did not seem to be put out by Bingley's rather marked attentions to Miss Bennet. Henry also noticed that Collins was standing rather closer than necessary to Elizabeth, who was clearly not pleased. Oh, no, poor Lizzy, he thought in some amusement. I detect the fine hand of Mrs. Bennet in this. She must have told Collins that Jane had a potential lover, and he transferred his affections to the next sister! Well, one certainly cannot fault his taste. Henry had no worries that Elizabeth would fall prey to Collins' powers of seduction, nor that Mr. Bennet would allow a marriage between them. However, Collins was clearly determined to marry one of the Bennet girls, and Henry could not imagine Mrs. Bennet allowing Longbourn to slip from her control if it was in her power to retain it, even if it would be through the rights of a mother-in-law. Perhaps Miss Mary Bennet could be prevailed upon to accept him, he thought with a barely suppressed smile. She is of a philosophical turn of mind and will make a good wife for an ambitious clergyman. And, should they inherit, she would probably never realize that her mother remained the true mistress of Longbourn.

Denny was introducing his companion to Bingley, and as the man turned toward Henry and Darcy, who had remained a little back from the group, Henry was surprised at Darcy's expression; his eyes grew wide and registered surprise and not a little anger; his mouth was tight and his jaw rigid. Then Henry recognized Denny's companion as George Wickham, the son of the former steward of Pemberley. Wickham's reaction was no less strong; his eyes showed a flash of surprise and anger that was quickly quenched; he assumed a bland expression and, after a few moments, touched his hat, a salutation which Darcy just deigned to return.

Henry had met Wickham during visits to Pemberley before the death of Darcy's father five years previously, but had not seen or heard of him since, from Darcy or any other source. As Darcy steadfastly avoided Wickham's company whenever possible, Henry did not know him well; however, his own powers of observation had told him that Mr. Wickham's air of gentility and breeding was often given lie by his behaviour. The elder Mr. Darcy had doted on young Wickham, who exerted himself to be engaging to the father while being consistently uncivil and disrespectful to the son. Henry remembered a fishing expedition to the Pemberley lake one hot summer's day while he and Darcy were down from Eton. Wickham accompanied them at the urging of Mr. Darcy, and there was a heated exchange between Darcy and Wickham that nearly turned into a brawl, with Henry and the gillie desperately trying to separate the combatants. 'Tis strange, mused Henry to himself. One would think that two boys, brought up together as were Darcy and Wickham, would get along as brothers. Then he recalled his relationship with his own brother, Frederick, and understood his friend a little better.

The ladies professed their intention to visit their aunt Philips, so Bingley, satisfied with seeing Miss Bennet well and glad to see him, was ready to return to Netherfield Park. They took their leave and turned their horses about.

Bingley was in high spirits, and his conversation with Henry kept the latter from noticing that Darcy had fallen back and did not join in their conversation or even appear to be listening. Finally, Bingley lapsed into silent contemplation, and Henry reined in his mount and fell back abreast of Darcy. He noted the tightness of his friend's jaw and the whiteness around his lips, and said quietly, "The appearance of Wickham in Hertfordshire has disturbed you, Darcy?"

"It has indeed."

"I know you two have never really gotten on well, but there will be little chance of meeting him except as a single member of a large group. I dare say you may avoid him easily." Henry studied his friend's face more closely and added, "Darcy, what is it? This is not a mere manifestation of boyhood antagonism. What injury has Wickham given you?"

"I cannot speak of it," said Darcy, his strong emotions obvious though tightly controlled. "Even to you, Tilney. Suffice to say that he has importuned my family in the most infamous way possible." He slapped the horse's rump with his crop and galloped ahead.

Henry was all astonishment. It must have something to do with Mr. Darcy's estate, he thought. Wickham probably wanted more than he was given, or perhaps was given more than he deserved. Henry knew how much regard Darcy had had for his late father; it was Wickham's offhand, disrespectful remark about the squire that had begun the altercation all those years ago. If Wickham had somehow importuned Darcy in reference to the disposition of his father's estate, that would indeed explain Darcy's anger.

Henry sighed and clucked to the horse, increasing its speed so that he could catch up to his friends. He must take care to keep Darcy and Wickham apart as much as possible; but what would happen when he returned to Woodston in a week's time?

"I have been thinking," mused Bingley at dinner that evening. "Now that Miss Bennet is well, it is time that I set a date for the ball. I promised Miss Lydia Bennet that she should name the date of the ball, and when I saw her today, we agreed that one evening next week would do very well."

"I must return to Woodston on Wednesday," Henry reminded his friend.

"Of course. I have business in London on Wednesday as well, and must stay some two or three days. Will Tuesday night be acceptable? Or will you find it impossible to drive that fancy curricle of yours after an evening of wine and dancing?" Bingley's eyes twinkled at Henry.

"I can out-drive you after a week of such dissipation, my friend," Henry retorted, laughing.

"Then Tuesday it is," Bingley declared with a grin. "What say you, Darcy?"

"I dare say one day will do as well as another."

"Caroline? May I depend upon you to act as hostess?"

"Of course, Charles, if you are really determined upon having this ball." Miss Bingley's disinterest so matched Darcy's that she could almost be a puppet, miming the words that came from Darcy's mouth.

"Tilney, you will be returning to Netherfield when your business is completed?"

"Yes, I expect to return the Monday following."

"Excellent. I should hate to see our merry party broken up." Bingley beamed at them all and applied himself to his roasted fowl.

The evening of the ball finally arrived. Netherfield Park had been plunged into a flurry of activity for several days, but at last all was ready; the drawing-room, dining-room, and ballroom were festooned with flowers and greenery and banks of candles, which twinkled and reflected from the mirrors and gilt. The guests began to arrive, and they too shimmered in the candlelight, the jewels of the ladies glittering and the eyes of the young people shining. In the middle of all of them was Bingley, seemingly everywhere at once, smiling and welcoming, completely in his element.

Henry watched Darcy nervously pacing the perimeter of the drawing-room and sighed. He had been dreading the moment when Wickham entered the house ever since he had learned that Bingley had issued an invitation to the militia officers. He knew he could trust Darcy not to make a scene in Bingley's home, but he did not know Wickham well enough to form an opinion on that gentleman's behaviour. It would be best to keep them apart, but how would that be possible in a crowded ballroom?

He saw Elizabeth Bennet in the drawing-room, looking about her anxiously, as if waiting for someone. She was wearing a particularly lovely gown and her hair was dressed in a becoming style, festooned with flowers and ribbons. He walked over to join her and was rewarded by a smile and a warm if somewhat distracted greeting, while she continued to peek over his shoulder toward a cluster of red coats there assembled.

Henry was very much amused. Lizzy must have formed a tendre for one of the officers! I wonder which one? And I wonder what Collins thinks of it? He did not question her, however, but merely made small talk about the weather and the state of the roads, which were still quite dirty from the rain they had received over the past several days.

Lydia Bennet flounced toward them and rather rudely interrupted their tête-à-tête. "Lizzy," she demanded, "have you seen Mr. Wickham? I had hoped to dance with him, and Mr. Denny and Mr. Carter and the other officers are here, but Mr. Wickham has never arrived!"

"I have not seen him," said Elizabeth quietly. She glanced rather pointedly at Henry and added, "Perhaps he was not included in Mr. Bingley's invitation."

"Come with me. We shall ask Mr. Denny." Lydia seized her sister's wrist and dragged her toward the group of officers. Elizabeth shrugged and glanced apologetically at Henry, who trailed behind them, as interested in Wickham's whereabouts as the young ladies, although for an entirely different reason.

Lydia eagerly applied to Denny, who told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business the day before, and was not yet returned. Lydia's lower lip protruded and she turned away, thus missing Denny's next words, which he delivered to Elizabeth with a significant smile. "I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if he had not wished to avoid a certain gentleman here."

Henry saw the flash of anger in Elizabeth's eyes with a sinking heart. Oh, no, she cannot have developed an affection for Wickham! Of all the officers, she would choose him! At the same time he experienced gratitude for Wickham's forbearance in staying away from the ball, which a less charitable part of him labeled cowardice. Before he could say anything to her, Elizabeth turned to walk away and was confronted by Darcy, who addressed her with great civility.

"Good evening, Miss Bennet," he said politely. "You are well, I trust?"

"I thank you, yes," she said, rather more shortly than was normal for her. Henry frowned; surely she does not blame Darcy for Wickham's absence! She cannot even know their relationship...or can she? What can he have told her?

"And your family, they are all in health? Your sister seems to be quite recovered from her illness."

"Yes, Jane is well, as is my family. I thank you for your concern, sir." She pushed past him and walked away while Darcy was opening his mouth for his next question. His face registered bewilderment and not a little injury; Henry was no less bewildered, and he followed Elizabeth into the ballroom, where she stood with Charlotte Lucas.

"Miss Lucas," he greeted her. "Do forgive my interruption, but I must have a word with Miss Bennet."

Elizabeth glared at him. "Anything you have to say to me, Mr. Tilney, you may certainly say in front of Charlotte."

"Very well, madam. I was simply wondering if my friend Darcy has offered you some kind of insult."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, your recent behaviour toward Darcy was of such an uncharacteristically uncivil tone that I assumed that he must have importuned you in some disgraceful manner. If you will acquaint me with the particulars, I shall confront him directly, and you shall have his apology." He watched her face carefully.

Elizabeth raised her eyes to Henry's, and he saw impatience in them, bordering on anger. "It is not I who has been importuned by Mr. Darcy, nor I who is owed an apology. Much more than an apology."

"I see. You have been speaking with Mr. Wickham."

"I have indeed."

"And you took his word as to his relationship with Darcy."

"And why should I not?"

Henry chose his words carefully. "You should be cautious in your dealings with Mr. Wickham. His character is not consistent with his appearance."

Elizabeth tilted her head to one side and looked at Henry curiously. "Do you know Mr. Wickham very well?"

"No, I am not very well acquainted with him, but--"

Her dark eyes flashed. "Then you have your information from Mr. Darcy! I at least make my judgments from what I have observed with my own eyes!"

Henry clamped down his growing impatience. "Miss Bennet, I am not well acquainted with Mr. Wickham, but I have been in company with him, and I have observed him with my own eyes as well. And I can tell you that he is able to present himself however he wishes you to perceive him. However, this facade is as false as--as a coat of whitewash on a crumbling building. The exterior is clean and perfect, but underneath there is rot and decay."

"You have observed Mr. Wickham in company, and I have observed Mr. Darcy in company. You tell me that Mr. Darcy is perfectly amiable amongst his friends, but I have experienced no such amiability, even when among those whom he calls his friends; on the contrary, my family and I have been on the receiving end of his incivilities. You tell me that Mr. Wickham is not to be trusted, when I have spoken with him at length and found him to be a perfectly unexceptionable young man. I beg your pardon, Mr. Tilney, but considering our past differences of opinion, I am having a difficult time trusting your powers of observation over my own, which are uncoloured by the bonds of friendship and are based on unbiased and disinterested perception."

"Unbiased? Disinterested? On the contrary, madam! Come, confess! You are interested in Wickham, and will entertain no advice from truly unbiased parties, who have only your best interests in mind!"

Elizabeth flushed angrily. "How dare you! You are not my father, or my brother, and have no right to speak to me so!"

"I hoped that I had the right as your friend. I see I was wrong."

Two pair of identical brown eyes glared at each other until they were interrupted by the gentle voice of Miss Lucas, who endeavoured to point out to Elizabeth that Collins was hovering nearby, waiting to claim his cousin's hand for the first two dances. Elizabeth placed her hand on Collins' arm and walked away, her head high and her cheeks burning, without looking back at Henry.

He sighed and turned to Miss Lucas, who was smiling faintly. "I beg your pardon, madam. I would not have had you witness that."

She laughed gently. "You only said the things that I would say to Eliza, although perhaps not quite so forcefully. She is foolish, in my opinion, to throw away the regard of Mr. Darcy for a man of such little consequence as Mr. Wickham."

Henry stared at her. "Regard? Of Darcy? I am afraid that you are mistaken, Miss Lucas. I believe Darcy's heart to be engaged elsewhere." He pushed away his distaste yet again at the thought of Darcy marrying Caroline Bingley.

Her eyebrow raised. "Am I mistaken? I am beginning to agree with Eliza's assessment of your powers of observation, Mr. Tilney." She pointed across the room with her fan. "Look at him now."

Darcy was standing in a corner, watching Elizabeth dancing with Collins, a smile softening his handsome features. At first Henry thought he was amused by her partner, who was certainly a potential object of ridicule; awkward and solemn, apologizing instead of attending, and often moving wrong without being aware of it, giving Elizabeth all the shame and misery which a disagreeable partner for a couple of dances can give. Henry's ire melted away at the sight of her mortification. Then he glanced back at Darcy and realized that Miss Lucas was correct. Darcy was not laughing at Collins; indeed he was not even aware of him. He had eyes only for Elizabeth. There was affection in Darcy's gaze, and his smile was more wistful than mocking. Good God, Henry thought in utter astonishment. Darcy is in love with Lizzy!

His mind reeled as it played back all the events of the past weeks. Darcy's incivility to the Bennets, then his attentions to Elizabeth during her stay at Netherfield--they were more than just polite. Henry's face flushed as he remembered his private conversation with Darcy by the pianoforte. I thought he was speaking of Caroline Bingley when he said that he had been bewitched, he thought in mortification. He was speaking of Lizzy. And his censure of my conduct with her! Of course, he was jealous of my friendship with Lizzy! How could I not have realized this? I, his oldest friend, who boasted of my deep knowledge of Darcy's character and heart! Perhaps Lizzy is right; perhaps my perceptions cannot be trusted, of Wickham or anyone else. He sighed and turned back to Charlotte, who watched him with the same faint smile. "Miss Lucas, would you care to dance with the greatest fool in the kingdom?"

"No, Mr. Tilney," she laughed. "But I should very much like to dance with you."

Henry smiled and bowed, accepting her gentle compliment. He offered her his arm and they joined the set. His thoughts were distracted, but he did his best to be charming to his partner, and she responded with smiles and laughter. Her rather plain features were graced with a becoming blush, which Henry attributed to the exertions of the dance; his vanity did not extend to thinking his company the cause of her heightened colour, being more accustomed to the openly worshipful regard of his own Catherine. At the close of the set, Henry delivered her back to her friend, whose eyes met his and then glanced away coldly. He had been going to ask Elizabeth to be his partner for the next two dances, but instead he turned on his heel and left them, and his reawakened anger did not allow him to look back. If he had, he would have seen an expression on Miss Lucas' face similar to that he had seen not long before on the face of his friend Darcy.

Henry joined Darcy, who was still hidden away in a corner, thus avoiding the attentions of the mammas and allowing him to watch Elizabeth's movements. "You are not dancing, Tilney?" he asked in some surprise.

"I would like to dance, but I have no partner at present," he responded shortly.

Darcy looked at his friend with raised eyebrows. "I expected you would ask Miss Elizabeth Bennet," he said, then glanced away and added, "You always seem to favour her."

Henry smiled to himself and said, "Why do you not ask her to be your partner, Darcy?" Elizabeth's hand was claimed at that moment by one of the officers, who led her to the set. "She certainly seems inclined to dance tonight."

"Why should I set myself up for disappointment?" his friend said quietly. "You saw how she behaved when I attempted to speak with her earlier. I am sure that if I ask her to dance she will decline."

"Well, if you do not ask her, she cannot accept, either," said Henry archly, and left to join Lady Lucas' party, where he was introduced to Mrs. Long's nieces, the eldest of whom he promptly asked to dance. When those dances were over he requested the hand of her sister, and thus it was not until the music began that he noticed Darcy had taken a place in the set, and stood opposite Elizabeth.

He wondered briefly what had made Elizabeth change her manner toward Darcy so completely; then he realized that he was dancing to the same music with which he had first danced with Catherine, all those months ago at the Lower Rooms in Bath. His thoughts were necessarily drawn to her, but he had at last conquered melancholy at the thought of his lady, and he was able to conduct himself in such a way that Mrs. Long's nieces later told their aunt that Mr. Tilney was a most agreeable gentleman indeed.

At the close of the dances, Henry delivered Miss Franklin back to her aunt with a gallant bow that made her smile and blush. He turned away and saw Darcy walk away from Elizabeth, his face sternly set. He tried to catch Elizabeth's eye, but she was accosted by Miss Bingley. Their exchange was not a pleasant one, judging by Elizabeth's angry expression and Caroline's disdainful sneer; Henry stood by rather stupidly, debating whether he should interfere, when Miss Bingley turned away, her expression haughtier than ever.

Elizabeth, looking around, caught Henry's eye; he smiled, but she frowned and glanced away. He would have joined her in an attempt to re-establish their former good will, when his elbow was seized by Bingley. "Tilney," his friend said in a low voice, "Miss Bennet has been asking me questions about Wickham! What do you know about him?"

"I know that his father was Mr. Darcy's steward," said Henry. "And I know he has importuned Darcy's family in some way."

"Yes, Darcy has told me that much," his friend replied. "Do you know the particulars?"

"I do not. Does Miss Bennet require particulars?"

"I believe that Miss Elizabeth Bennet is interested in Wickham. I warned Miss Bennet that she should caution her sister that Wickham's character is not what it should be." Bingley frowned and watched Jane, who stood talking to Elizabeth.

Henry sighed. "I have already cautioned her, Bingley. She is convinced that Darcy is engaged in a campaign to sully Wickham's reputation, little realizing that Wickham needs no assistance in that endeavour."

"Perhaps I should ask Darcy," Bingley mused. "If I was able to give the exact particulars--"

"No," said Henry immediately. "Do not mention Wickham's name to Darcy. Not now, not here. I would not have your ball disrupted."

Bingley smiled. "You are a good friend, Tilney. Very well, I will follow your advice. Hopefully Miss Bennet will be able to convince her sister without our interference."

Henry watched as Elizabeth shook her head impatiently and grasped Jane's hand. "I share your hope, Bingley, although the signs are not promising."

"I must speak to the servants about the supper. Excuse me, Tilney."

"Of course." Henry went to stand by Darcy, who was gazing thoughtfully at Elizabeth and Jane.

"Are you enjoying the ball, Darcy?" Henry asked him brightly.

Darcy lifted and eyebrow and said in tones of high irony, "Oh, yes. It has been a delightful evening."

Henry could not help but laugh. "I am glad to see that you have retained your sense of humor, sir! My tutelage has not been a complete waste."

"Tell me, Tilney," said Darcy, ignoring his banter, "do you think that Bingley likes Miss Bennet?"

"I do indeed, and I applaud his taste. She is a lovely young lady."

"Yes, but does she return his regard, do you think?"

Henry was not sure how to respond. "She seems to enjoy his attentions."

"Of course she enjoys his attentions. What young lady would not? But do you think she has very deep feelings for him?"

"Why do you ask?"

Darcy's frown grew deeper. "It has come to my attention that all of Meryton expects our friend to announce his engagement to Miss Bennet at any time."

"I must say, Darcy, that such an announcement would not surprise me in the least. You do not approve?"

"No. I cannot approve. She has no fortune, and her family is objectionable."

Henry began to grow angry. "Her family is perfectly unexceptionable! Bingley is a gentleman, and Miss Bennet is a gentleman's daughter! How can you object on those grounds?"

"If there were mutual affection in the case, I could not object. Bingley is fortunately in a position to marry without regard to fortune. But if he is to make a marriage with a young woman who does not return his affection, I would see him at least make a connection that will not expose him to the censure of society."

"You do not think that Miss Bennet returns Bingley's affection?" Henry turned back to look at Elizabeth and Jane, who had been joined by Bingley.

"No, I do not. Watch her, Tilney. She smiles, but her countenance is serene. I see no symptoms of love in her expression."

Henry watched Jane, who was smiling up at Bingley. "I am sorry, Darcy, I cannot agree. Every young lady expresses her affection differently."

Darcy glanced at his friend. "How certain were you of Miss Morland's affection when you offered her your hand?"

Henry smiled widely. "Quite sure. But I was afraid that my father's behaviour had set her against me irrevocably."

"Yes, but before your father put her from the Abbey, were you sure of her affection?"

"I was indeed."

Darcy's gaze returned to Bingley and Miss Bennet. "And yet you cannot read such signs of affection in Miss Bennet's expression?"

Henry had to admit that he could not. Darcy nodded to himself thoughtfully, and then his attention was claimed by Collins, who had suddenly appeared before him.

"Mr. Darcy," he greeted with an obsequious bow. "I could not let the opportunity pass to pay my respects to you. Indeed, I consider it a solemn point of duty."

Darcy was staring at him as if he were a wild beast on display in a zoo. "I beg your pardon, sir. I do not believe that we have been introduced."

Collins gave Henry a significant glance and cleared his throat. Henry said reluctantly, "Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, may I present Mr. William Collins?"

Henry would have said more, but Collins began to babble. "I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, sir! I hold the living of Hunsford by the obliging condescension of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh. You may imagine my joy when I learned that the nephew of my esteemed patroness was in the same neighbourhood as my cousins, the Bennets. And it is my very great pleasure to pass to you the intelligence that Lady Catherine was quite well yesterday se'nnight."

"That is very good news," said Darcy in tones of cold civility.

"Please accept my most sincere apology for failing to pay my respects to you previously, but I have been much engaged with my cousins." To Henry's mingled amusement and horror, he glanced back tellingly toward Elizabeth.

Collins paused, and Darcy saw that he should say something. "I am so well convinced of Lady Catherine's discernment as to be certain she could never bestow a favour unworthily." Henry nearly laughed aloud at the irony in Darcy's tone, which was fortunately lost on Collins.

"Oh, indeed, Mr. Darcy! I assure you, sir, that I am fully aware of my very good fortune. The condescension I have enjoyed from your aunt, so much beyond what one could reasonably expect! And Miss de Bourgh, your cousin, such a delightful young lady! It is so unfortunate that her health does not allow her to go into society. I have told Lady Catherine that Miss de Bourgh's delicate health has deprived the British court of one of its brightest ornaments!"

Collins paused for breath, and Darcy, weary of his obsequious attentions, made a slight bow and turned away. He muttered to Henry, "Ridiculous toad-eater! It is no wonder that Lady Catherine gave him the living. He is just the sort of man whose attentions she would entertain. How do you know him?"

"He was in my college at Oxford, and was every bit as much of a toad-eater then."

"My condolences, and my thanks for your forbearance in not performing the introduction at that time."

"You are quite welcome." The call soon came for supper, and the guests all trooped into the dining-room. Henry took a seat next to Darcy and opposite Elizabeth; however, she would not meet his eye, let alone speak to him. Mrs. Bennet, seated next to Elizabeth, was speaking to Lady Lucas in a half-whisper that was nonetheless perfectly intelligible to the gentlemen.

"Mr. Bingley is such a charming young man, and so rich! And you must agree, Lady Lucas, that it is very fortunate that he lives only three miles from us. And it is such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters are of Jane! I am certain that they must desire the connection as much as I could do. It is, moreover, such a promising thing for my younger daughters, as Jane's marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of other rich men. And I tell you, Lady Lucas, that it is so pleasant at my time of life to be able to consign my single daughters to the care of their sister, that I might not be obliged to go into company more than I like. I sincerely wish you such good fortune as I am enjoying, Lady Lucas."

Henry heard Lizzy urging her mother in low tones to speak more quietly, as she was sure that Mr. Darcy and Mr. Tilney could hear them.

"Oh, stop being so nonsensical, Lizzy! What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say nothing HE may not like to hear."

"For heaven's sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be for you to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to his friend by so doing!"

But Mrs. Bennet continued to speak in the same intelligible half-whisper, and Henry saw Elizabeth blush with shame and vexation. She still would not meet his eye. He glanced at Darcy, whose face had shown contempt when Mrs. Bennet's speech began; he now wore a grave expression that did not alter all through her recitation.

Finally Mrs. Bennet lapsed into silence, and they all applied themselves to the cold ham and chicken. When supper was over, singing was talked of, and Miss Mary Bennet, after very little entreaty, prepared to oblige the company. However, Mary's powers were by no means fitted for such a display; her voice was weak, and her manner affected. She progressed through several stanzas and received polite applause, enough to encourage her to begin another song. Henry glanced at Darcy, who continued imperturbably grave; Bingley was deep in conversation with Jane and oblivious to anything else, although his sisters made signs of derision at one another. Elizabeth's face, however, showed severe mortification, and she looked pleadingly at Mr. Bennet; he took the hint, and when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud, "That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough. Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit."

Although Henry felt the necessity of Mr. Bennet's interference, he could regret his method, and he glanced down at his plate, embarrassed for Elizabeth and for her family. Mary looked disconcerted, but left the pianoforte, and other members of the company were applied to.

"If I," said Collins, "were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an air; for I consider music as a very innocent diversion, and perfectly compatible with the profession of a clergyman. I do not mean, however, to assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time to music, for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The rector of a parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make such an agreement for tithes as a may be beneficial to himself and not offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making as a comfortable as a possible. And I do not think it of light importance that he should have attentive and conciliatory manner towards everybody, especially towards those to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit him of that duty; nor could I think well of the man who should omit an occasion of testifying his respect towards anybody connected with the family." And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech, which had been spoken so loud as to be heard by half the room.

Many stared -- many smiled; Henry himself was very much entertained by Collins' speech, and longed to give him some sort of rejoinder, but genuine concern for Elizabeth, whose misery was obvious, kept his expression solemn. He glanced at Mr. Bennet, who did not share Henry's delicacy, and whose countenance showed his great amusement. Once again Henry felt regret at that gentleman's actions; he esteemed Mr. Bennet, but could not like his behaviour that evening.

Across the table, Mrs. Bennet observed in a half-whisper to Lady Lucas, "Mr. Collins is a remarkably clever, good kind of young man."

At last the supper was over, and Henry sought out Elizabeth. Collins was hovering, but Miss Lucas had engaged him in conversation, and Henry took advantage of his fellow clergyman's inattention to address Elizabeth.

"Miss Bennet, please accept my sincere apology for my behaviour this evening. I would not quarrel with you over Wickham."

Elizabeth smiled wearily. "Nor I with you, Mr. Tilney."

"I am very glad to hear that, madam, although I could not be perfectly comfortable if I did not give you a last warning to take very good care in your dealings with him. Will you promise me that?"

"Be assured that I respect your opinion and will take what you have told me to heart."

"Very well. I cannot hope for more in regard to Wickham, but dare I hope that you will agree to be my partner for the next two dances?"

"I am afraid that is not within my power, sir. I do not intend to dance any more this evening."

Henry was all astonishment. "The night is still young, Miss Bennet! Has our disagreement wearied you so much?"

"No, I am not tired." She leaned closer and dropped her voice. "Mr. Collins is very eager to dance with me, and he has been extremely importunate. As much as I would like to dance with you, I cannot, since I have refused him."

"Of course." Henry was disappointed, but understood and applauded her sense of propriety. "Are you enjoying the ball otherwise?"

Elizabeth laughed shortly. "Oh, yes, I am enjoying it mightily! I tell you, Mr. Tilney, had my family made an agreement to expose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it would have been impossible for them to play their parts with more spirit or finer success."

Henry could not disagree with her, but he did not wish to embarrass her further by remaining on the subject. "Even though you cannot dance, will you accept my company? Between us, perhaps Miss Lucas and I can deflect Collins' attention from you for the rest of the evening."

"No, sir!" she declared, laughing. "You shall not deprive the other young ladies on my account! Go and dance with them, and enjoy yourself. Tomorrow you return to your parish, and I would not keep you from enjoying your last night of dissipation." He laughed and bowed, and did as he had been bid.

The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart, and, by a manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet, had to wait for their carriage a quarter of an hour after everybody else was gone, which gave Mrs. Hurst and her sister the opportunity to show how heartily they wished the Bennets away; they scarcely opened their mouths, except to complain of fatigue, and were evidently impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed every attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by so doing threw a languor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by the long speeches of Collins, who was complimenting Bingley and his sisters on the elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and politeness which had marked their behaviour to their guests. Darcy said nothing at all. Mr. Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene. Bingley and Jane were standing together, a little detached from the rest, and talked only to each other. Henry attempted to engage Elizabeth in conversation, but she seemed out of spirits, and preserved as steady a silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was too much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of "Lord, how tired I am!" accompanied by a violent yawn.

When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn. "Mr. Bingley, I assure you that we would be very happy to have you eat a family dinner with us at any time." She glanced over at Henry and added, "Your friend Mr. Tilney will tell you that a formal invitation is not required."

Bingley was all grateful pleasure. "I thank you, madam. I am obliged to go to London tomorrow, and must stay for a short time, but I assure you that I shall wait upon you--" he glanced over at Jane, who smiled shyly at him "--at the earliest opportunity."

Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied, and at last the carriage arrived and the Longbourn family quitted the house. Henry went outside with them. "I am very glad that we are friends again," he said to Elizabeth. "I will take care that we remain so."

"As will I, Mr. Tilney. Will you shake hands with me?" asked Elizabeth, holding out her right hand. Henry took it and they exchanged smiles, their mutual trust rebuilt and their dark eyes reflecting their true regard for one another, deep and meaningful however recent in date.

When he turned back to the house, he noticed Darcy watching him with a frown. Henry said in a low voice, "You may cease your detestable behaviour, sir. I am not your rival."

"I know that, Tilney," said Darcy, his face grave. "But at least she accepts your friendship. She accepts nothing from me." He turned around hastily and began to ascend the wide stairway two steps at a time. Henry watched him, his face concerned; then a footman emerged from the drawing-room supporting the stumbling Hurst on one shoulder, trailed by Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and deep contemplation was no longer possible in the face of such an absurd display.

Henry stood back to let them ascend the stairs, and when they were all gone he followed them, although he suspected that the tangled affairs of his friends--and not least of all his own--would prevent him from achieving sleep for some hours yet.

Henry arrived back at Netherfield Park on Tuesday afternoon, weary from the two-day trip from Woodston and thinking for the first time that he might prefer to stay in Gloucestershire. He passed the reins to a groom and went up the curving stairs to the house, only to be met by a footman who handed him two letters. One was from Darcy, the other from Bingley, both sent from London. As he stared at the letters in some confusion, he slowly became aware that the house was unusually still. He walked down to the drawing-room and glanced inside, only to see that the servants were covering the furniture with sheets of muslin.

He turned to the footman. "Is there a room ready for me?"

"Yes, Mr. Tilney. Mr. Bingley told us to make sure you were taken care of. He thought that his letter might not reach you in time to prevent you from traveling here, but we are to make you comfortable for as long as you care to stay, then follow him to London."

"If Mr. Bingley is not here, I cannot stay. I shall return to Gloucestershire in the morning."

"Very good, sir. I'll see that your curricle is ready for you."

Henry allowed the footman to see him to his room. A servant soon brought hot water, helped him remove his boots, and took away his dusty greatcoat. Henry stripped to his shirtsleeves, washed off the dirt from the road, and poured himself a glass of wine, then settled down in a cushioned chair by the fire. Bear, who seemed lost without the company of Bingley's and Darcy's dogs, lay down at his master's feet with a whooshing exclamation of breath followed by a small canine moan that sounded so world-weary that Henry had to laugh in spite of himself. He opened Darcy's letter first.

London, 30 November

My dear Tilney,

If you are reading this letter, than mine did not reach you at Woodston in time to prevent your return, and I am sorry for your trouble. Mr. and Mrs. Hurst determined to return to Grosvenor-street, and Miss Bingley would accompany them. I am eager to return to town as well, to see how my sister gets on with her new governess and to spend Christmas with her. I do not like to be away from her for very long.

As you know, Bingley was confident that his business in town would be finished in some three or four days, but I do not believe it to be possible. Indeed I believe Bingley will not return this winter. I must confess that I see this as a good thing. Bingley's attentions to Miss Bennet were putting him in some danger. If they continued, he would find himself in a position where he might feel obliged to make her an offer for the sake of propriety when neither heart was really attached to the other. I do not fear for his peace. How many times have we seen Bingley fall violently in love, and then fall as violently out of love after only a few weeks? I am convinced that any affection he felt for Miss Bennet will be forgotten when he meets another pretty girl.

Will you visit us in town? My home is yours, as always. However, if your situation requires that you return to Gloucestershire, go there with every good wish for your health and happiness from

your most devoted friend,

FITZWILLIAM DARCY

Henry stared at the letter, caught between friendship and anger. How could Darcy interfere in Bingley's life in such a way? Naturally Miss Bingley wished to return to town and renew an acquaintance with Georgiana, hoping it would excite Darcy's interest, but why did Darcy feel it necessary to accompany them, and to prevent Bingley's return? Henry could not help suspecting that Darcy left Hertfordshire to get away from Elizabeth Bennet, and wished to prevent Bingley's romance with her sister for the same reason. He broke the wafer on Bingley's letter impatiently and opened the sheet.

London, 2 December

My dear Tilney,

You must forgive (blot) way I have treated you, press you return to Netherfield and you arrive at empty house! I have left servants behind to care you, (blot) stay as long as you wish. Business here very pressing -- cannot return. Darcy tells me he has invited you stay with him -- do, Tilney, we all (blot) see you.

Here for winter, I think. Christmas, then season, (blot) invitations already. Caroline trying to get vouchers for Almack's. Comical to watch her (blot) the patroness, you know which I mean, the (blot) one, at a ball last night. Should not laugh at my sister, I know, but sometimes cannot help it. Do not understand -- one ball good as another. Tea at Almack's dreadful.

Do come to London, Til(blot). Will not be as enjoyable without you. Best wishes Miss M. -- Miss T. -- yourself, from

your affectionate (blot)

CHAS. BINGLEY

It was impossible not to smile at such a letter, so typical of Bingley, his good nature and affection evident even in the blots and missing words. Well, there was nothing for it; he would return to Gloucestershire in the morning. He took out his watch; it was not quite two. There was plenty of time to call at Longbourn and take his leave of Elizabeth. Henry sincerely regretted the social conventions that did not allow an unmarried woman to correspond with a man; otherwise he should have asked Elizabeth to write to him.

An hour later he presented himself at Longbourn and was admitted to the drawing-room, where Elizabeth sat with Miss Lucas.

"Mr. Tilney!" cried Elizabeth, rising to greet him. "I am delighted to see you, but I confess I am astonished! You know that Mr. Bingley and his party have gone to town."

"Yes, I know. Unfortunately their letters did not reach me in time to prevent my return from Gloucestershire."

"I am sorry for you, of course, but glad on my own account. Although I suppose you will return to Gloucestershire now?" She indicated that he should sit in a chair by the fire, and he did so.

"Yes, I cannot stay in Bingley's house when he is absent, although his good nature would allow for any imposition from a friend."

"I can well believe it of Mr. Bingley."

Henry wondered at the odd, bitter emphasis of her sentence but did not pursue it. "Miss Lucas, I am glad that you are here. I can take my leave of you both. I depart in the morning."

Elizabeth glanced briefly at her friend and said, "Mr. Tilney, you must congratulate Charlotte. She is to be married."

"Indeed!" cried Henry with real delight. "My felicitations, madam! Who is the fortunate man upon whom you have bestowed your hand?"

"I have had the honour of an offer of marriage from Mr. Collins," said Miss Lucas mildly.

Henry stared at her and worked to control his countenance. "Collins? William Collins?"

"Yes."

"I am surprised--forgive me, Miss Lucas, but I did not know that you and Collins--"

"Yes," said Elizabeth with some asperity, "you have been away a whole week, Mr. Tilney. Affection blossomed quickly in this case." She threw an incomprehensible glance at Charlotte. Lizzy cannot be jealous? thought Henry in astonishment. No, that is not the rub. Lizzy is revolted by the thought of her friend married to Collins, and who would not be?

Charlotte's gentle voice interrupted his thoughts. "Neither Mr. Collins nor I wished to delay, so the matter was decided very quickly."

Her cold description told Henry everything he needed to know. Miss Lucas had accepted Collins simply because she wanted to be married, and he had offered for her. He had to admit that it was an excellent match for her. She had no fortune, and Collins was well-established at Hunsford; in addition, there was always the possibility that Lady Catherine would bestow other livings on him, and he was to inherit Longbourn someday. Yes, it was an excellent match, and judging by Charlotte's serene and satisfied countenance, that was her sole criteria for accepting Collins' obliging offer. Henry understood the social conventions that dictated her decision, but regretted it nonetheless. He could countenance a woman marrying for security even in the absence of love, but in the absence of respect such a union was abhorrent. And he could not imagine a young lady of good common sense such as Charlotte Lucas ever having respect for William Collins.

At that moment the Longbourn housekeeper entered the room and curtseyed. "Miss Elizabeth," she said, "your mother requires you upstairs."

Elizabeth frowned. "Hill, please tell my mother that I cannot leave my guests."

"She was very pressing, ma'am." Hill looked at Elizabeth pleadingly, twisting her apron between her hands.

Elizabeth sighed and said, "Very well. Mr. Tilney, Charlotte, do forgive me, but--"

"Of course," said Henry, rising as she exited the room. He glanced over at Charlotte, who had become very interested in her embroidery. He watched her for a few moments, then finally said, "Miss Lucas--"

She looked up at him with a faint smile. "I know what you are thinking, Mr. Tilney. I read it in your face. You think I am foolish to go through with this marriage."

"How can you marry Collins?" he blurted out. "You have such good sense, you must see what he is!"

She laughed shortly. "Yes, I have good sense. And that is exactly why I accepted Mr. Collins." She set down the embroidery and looked into his eyes. "I am not romantic, Mr. Tilney, and never have been. I have no fortune. I am seven and twenty, and even in the first blush of youth was never considered a beauty. I have no wish to be a burden on my father or my brothers. I desired an establishment of my own, and in spite of my personal misfortunes, one was offered to me. I am not foolish to marry Mr. Collins; I would have been foolish to have turned him away."

"And someday you will be mistress of Longbourn," he said, keeping his tone neutral. "That must have been a great attraction."

She shook her head impatiently. "A thousand things could prevent Mr. Collins from inheriting Longbourn. I do not consider it as certain at all. His situation at Hunsford was sufficient recommendation. I look forward to helping my husband with his duties as rector, and to having a comfortable home of my own. That is all I have ever sought."

Henry had only one argument to that. "What of your heart, Miss Lucas?"

"What of my heart?" She stood and turned away toward the window. "My heart cannot be indulged. I have given it where it cannot be accepted."

A-ha! She IS in love, and not with Collins! "You do not know that," he said urgently, rising and following her. "This man to whom you have given your heart--is he married?"

"He is not."

"Then there is hope, Miss Lucas." He moved in front of her and took her hands, despite her protests. "It is not for us to question why or how we learn to love. Why did the Creator give us hearts, if not to use them? Do not disdain love, Miss Lucas, and do not disdain hope. And do not throw them away for a comfortable establishment and an unloving marriage."

She lifted her eyes to his, and in that moment Henry understood everything. "Your words are wise, but it cannot be, Mr. Tilney."

They gazed at one another for a moment, she offering what he was unable to accept. "Miss Lucas," he whispered. "I am so sorry. I did not know."

"I took very good care that you should not know." She gave him a faint smile. "If you were not engaged, sir, I assure you that I would have made my feelings very clear. I am of the opinion that women should not hide their affection from the object of it; rather the opposite."

"I regret that I cannot return your affection. My heart and my faith alike are pledged. That shall not change."

"I would not have it so. That has been the most difficult part of my dilemma. Oh, I longed for you to throw over Miss Morland, to turn your affections toward me, but even if you had I could not have accepted you. Such a breach of honour would make you less than you are, less than the man who captured my heart."

"I did not intend to do so, madam. I am very sorry indeed that I have injured you."

"Mr. Tilney, I assure you I shall not pine. I told you that I was not romantic, and I was in earnest. Would you be surprised if I told you that I set out very purposely to attach Mr. Collins once I understood that Eliza intended to refuse his offer?" He was a little surprised, but shook his head. Charlotte continued to speak. "I am convinced that my chances of happiness with Mr. Collins are as good as they would have been with you." Henry opened his mouth to protest, but she gently covered it with her fingers. "I have seen couples violently in love who marry, and only a few years or months later their affection cools and they discover they have nothing in common. I shall enter this marriage with my eyes open. I have no illusions about Mr. Collins. However, he is a respectable man, his situation in life is unexceptionable, and has assured me that he will allow me to order the housekeeping as I think best. Many a woman has worse prospects in beginning her married life."

Despite her reassurances, Henry could not be at peace with her decision. "Miss Lucas, I regret if my behaviour toward you was unguarded. If I have said anything or done anything that gave you a mistaken impression of my intentions--"

"You have behaved with perfect propriety." She hesitated, then added, "I shall always remember you, Mr. Tilney. The memory of the time we have spent together will always be with me, and will always bring me pleasure. I thank you for that, sir."

He gazed down at her sorrowfully and took her hands once again. "I cannot convince you to reconsider your decision?"

"No, sir. My mind is quite made up."

"Then there is nothing else for me to do but kiss the bride. May I?"

Charlotte looked surprised, but nodded, and Henry leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek as he would his sister, gently brushing her skin with his lips. "I wish you every happiness, Charlotte." He pulled away and looked down at her. Her cheeks showed the attractive blush he had noticed before, and she gazed up at him with an expression in her eyes that made Henry think, just for a moment, that had he never met Catherine Morland his stay in Hertfordshire might have ended very differently.

"Papa! Papa!" cried Lydia, running into the sitting-room, where Mr. Bennet had taken a seat by the fire, wishing to spend some time in the congenial company of his two eldest daughters while his wife was busy in her own chamber. "Mary says that I am not to read The Mystery of the Ancient Castle of the Rhine, which I have been waiting these three months to get from the circulating-library! Tell her that Kitty and I may read it!"

Mary was close on her sister's heels. "Father, such books do nothing to improve the female mind. A small amount of novel reading is all very well, especially if the stories are chosen carefully for their moral content and didactic value. I have told Lydia that if she wished to read about castles on the Rhine, it would be better to peruse the journal of a learned traveler who can describe such sights in elegant and refined language that will illuminate the mind."

"I do not wish to have my mind illuminated," Lydia cried stubbornly, glaring balefully at Mary.

Mr. Bennet's expression reminded Elizabeth of a portrait she had seen of a martyred saint in the throes of his death pangs. "That is fortunate, child, for I fear it would be a hopeless business. Let me see the book." Lydia handed it to him, and he opened it and squinted at the pages. "I cannot read this type. Lizzy, fetch my spectacles from the top drawer of my desk in the library."

Elizabeth, grateful for even a moment's escape from her squabbling sisters, obediently went into the library and to her father's desk. She smiled at the papers and books negligently piled there, eliminating any useful work space. Hill and the maids kept the rest of the house spotlessly clean and neat, but they were forbidden to touch Mr. Bennet's desk. He insisted that he knew exactly where everything was and the servants' interference only resulted in necessary papers and books being irretrievably mislaid. Indeed he was able to produce any wanted item from the desk after only a few moments' search, to the unceasing amazement of his wife.

She opened the drawer and was greeted with a similar jumble, in which her father's spectacles did not immediately display themselves. Elizabeth smiled and shook her head, then began to gingerly poke and prod at the drawer's contents. She noticed a wink of gold peering through a white handkerchief wrapped round a small bundle tucked into one of the drawer's many compartments. Thinking it might be her father's spectacles, she picked up the bundle and unwrapped it, only to find a gold-framed miniature portrait of a woman she had never before seen.

She stared at it for several moments, wondering why the miniature had been so carefully preserved in her father's desk drawer. Judging by the clothing, it had been painted during Elizabeth's own childhood, or not long before. Her father had no sisters, and the woman was too young to be his mother. She heard a noise and glanced up to see Mr. Bennet standing in the open library doorway, gazing at her steadily but with a touch of sorrow.

"Father, who is this lady?" asked Elizabeth curiously, then added hastily, "That is, if you wish to tell me."

"'tis no great secret, Lizzy." Mr. Bennet shut the door and advanced toward her. He removed the miniature from her hands and gazed at it tenderly. "This is the first Mrs. Bennet," he said softly. "My first wife."

Elizabeth was all astonishment. "Father, I did not know--why have you never told me?"

He glanced up at her keenly. "It is not a subject that I can speak of in front of your mother."

"No, I suppose not." Elizabeth took the miniature back from her father and studied it. "She was very beautiful."

"Aye, she was, and had an elegant, cultured mind and a lively temper. You remind me of her in many ways. You are named for her, you know."

"Am I?" Elizabeth was rather startled to discover that this revelation pleased her. She looked at the portrait again, trying to discover why this other Elizabeth Bennet's countenance seemed so familiar, although she knew she had never seen it before. "What happened to her?"

"She died of a consumption, or so the doctors said."

Elizabeth looked up at her father in surprise. "You did not agree?"

"No. Well, I suppose there was an infection of the lungs, but she lost the desire to live when our son was lost."

"Your son? You had a son? Did he die as well?"

A shadow passed over her father's face, and for a moment he looked very old. "No, Lizzy, as far as I know he is still alive. He was taken from us, and I was unable to find him."

"Taken from you? How dreadful!" She stared at the miniature and felt sorrow for the pretty, delicate woman depicted there. "But that means--I have a brother?"

"Aye, you do. He would be six and twenty now. His name is Thomas."

"Thomas. My brother Thomas." Elizabeth turned over the idea in her mind. A brother! "Oh, Father, if you could find him now, it would be so wonderful! You would have someone to help you with the estate--"

"And someone to assist me in ending the entail so that you and your sisters should have dowries."

Elizabeth blushed. "I was not thinking of that."

Mr. Bennet smiled at her and brushed an errant curl away from her face. "No, dearest Lizzy, you would not. But I was thinking of it, and often do." He sighed heavily. "I often think about finding Thomas, for my own selfish sake as well as yours and your sisters', but after all these years I fear it would be impossible."

"What was he like?" she asked. She tried to picture a younger version of her father, tall and dark-haired and intelligent and cynical. An imperfectly-formed idea played about the corners of her mind, but she was unable to grasp it; it teased, it advanced, it retreated, but it never revealed itself to her, and at last she reluctantly allowed it to escape.

"I cannot give you that information. He was still an infant when he was taken from us. A little more than three months old."

Her father's expression wrenched her heart. "Oh, Father, forgive me! I did not mean to make you sad."

"It does not make me sad to remember young Thomas." He touched her chin. "And I still have my Lizzy, who is a constant joy to me."

Elizabeth impulsively embraced her father and kissed his cheek. He held her for a moment, then said, "There now, child, go out to your sisters." She obeyed with a smile, knowing that her father was uncomfortable with excessive displays of emotion but never doubting his affection. At the door she paused for a moment and glanced back at him; he stood by the desk, gazing down at the miniature with a sad, loving smile.

Excerpt from letter to Miss Catherine Morland from the Rev. Mr. Henry Tilney, dated 4 December.

As you can see, my sweet, I am back at Woodston, I think for the winter. While I truly enjoyed the company of my friends, I confess that all the traveling back and forth to Hertfordshire has been tiring, and that it is good to be home. It would only be better if you were here. The drawing-room is still cold and empty and waits for its mistress to fit it up. I know you will do so charmingly, my love. Perhaps by spring, when the apple-trees are in bloom, you will be here to see them. I miss you and think of you constantly, as I hope you think of me. Your letters are my joy and my consolation.

Excerpt from letter to Miss Jane Bennet from Miss Caroline Bingley, dated 15 December.

We are settled here very comfortably at Mr. Hurst's house in Grosvenor-street and mean to stay here through the winter. My brother Charles remains in town as well, although he is an inmate at Mr. Darcy's very elegant town house, along with Miss Darcy. She is such a delightful girl! If you were to meet her, Jane, you would love her as Louisa and I do. And so accomplished! She plays the pianoforte so beautifully, and her voice is so sweet! We have been much at Mr. Darcy's house, as you can imagine, and have spent a great deal of time with her. I believe my brother is growing quite attached to her as well, and Mr. Darcy looks upon the match with great approbation. Louisa and I greatly look forward to a time when we shall call Miss Darcy our sister, and I venture to predict that time is not far off. I have rarely seen Charles so happy as he is now. But who would not be happy, an inmate in Mr. Darcy's home? It is in the first style of elegance, and his plans to order new furniture for the drawing-room have me in raptures. However, Charles directs me to express his regret at not having had time to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left the country. Louisa sends her best love.

Excerpt from letter to Miss Elizabeth Bennet from Miss Jane Bennet, dated 10 January.

I cannot account for Caroline's silence! You know I wrote to her from Longbourn to tell her I was coming to town. I have now been here a week and have not heard from her. It is all so very strange! But I suppose it is possible that the letter was lost by some mischance. My aunt is going to-morrow into that part of town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor-street.

Excerpt from letter to Miss Elizabeth Bennet from Miss Jane Bennet, dated 11 January.

I called in Grosvenor-street yesterday as I planned, and was fortunate enough to find my friend at home. I did not think Caroline in spirits, but she was very glad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming to London. I was right, therefore; my last letter had never reached her. I enquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much engaged with Mr. Darcy, that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that Miss Darcy was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was not long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall soon see them here.

Excerpt from letter to the Rev. Mr. Henry Tilney from Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, dated 20 January.

We continue here in town as comfortably as ever. The only thing missing in our felicity is the presence of our old friend Tilney. I understand that your nice sense of duty dictated your presence in your parish at the Christmas season, but surely now you may join us? We are engaged nearly every evening. Can I tempt your with the promise of balls and the theatre and musical evenings? If not, I confess I quite despair of you. Bingley, as you might guess, is enraptured by the beauties of London, and I speak not of parks and edifices. Nay, despite your concern for his heart, I am confident that Miss Jane Bennet has not made a permanent mark upon it. He speaks of returning to Netherfield, but I have so far been successful in discouraging such schemes. The longer he stays away from Longbourn, the better it is for him. You know how it is with Bingley -- out of sight, out of mind. Jane Bennet will soon be forgotten, like the endless parade of beauties before her who captured his affections. Your kind inquiries after my own heart are much appreciated but misplaced. Like Bingley, I suffered no permanent injury from my acquaintance with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Indeed I rarely spare her a thought.

Excerpt from letter to Miss Elizabeth Bennet from Miss Jane Bennet, dated 1 February.

My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in her better judgment, at my expence, when I confess myself to have been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley's regard for me. But, my dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not think me obstinate if I still assert that, considering what her behaviour was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. I do not at all comprehend her reason for wishing to be intimate with me, but if the same circumstances were to happen again, I am sure I should be deceived again. Caroline did not return my visit till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the mean time. When she did come, it was very evident that she had no pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal, apology for not calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and was in every respect so altered a creature, that when she went away I was perfectly resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity, though I cannot help blaming her. She was very wrong in singling me out as she did; I can safely say, that every advance to intimacy began on her side. But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been acting wrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for her brother is the cause of it, I need not explain myself farther; and though we know this anxiety to be quite needless, yet if she feels it, it will easily account for her behaviour to me; and so deservedly dear as he is to his sister, whatever anxiety she may feel on his behalf is natural and amiable. I cannot but wonder, however, at her having any such fears now, because, if he had at all cared about me, we must have met long, long ago. He knows of my being in town, I am certain, from something she said herself; and yet it should seem by her manner of talking, as if she wanted to persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Darcy. I cannot understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should be almost tempted to say that there is a strong appearance of duplicity in all this. But I will endeavour to banish every painful thought, and think only of what will make me happy: your affection, and the invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from you very soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never returning to Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not with any certainty. We had better not mention it. I am extremely glad that you have such pleasant accounts from our friends at Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir William and Maria. I am sure you will be very comfortable there.

Excerpt from letter to the Rev. Mr. Henry Tilney from Mr. Charles Bingley, dated 15 February.

My hasty remove Netherfield necessary but regrettable. My business town needed my attention and I must stay. Only regret my acquaintance Miss Bennet cut short. She such a (blot) young lady. I have not known any girl like her before. Did not you (blot) her the loveliest lady ever beheld? She danced with such grace and elegance. And her figure--well, one can only say was (blot). Suppose not compare to Miss M. but must allow my partiality. I think about her often--Miss B., not Miss M.--and the way her hair (blot) in candlelight. No ladies in town with (blot) like hers! Hope you come to town. Would like to talk about Miss B. with you. Darcy good friend but such a (blot) that when I speak of Miss B. he changes the subject. Do not pretend to understand.

Excerpt from letter to Miss Catherine Morland from the Rev. Mr. Henry Tilney, dated 1 March.

I have had letters from both Darcy and Bingley. Darcy assures me that Bingley has suffered no hurt by his sudden removal from Hertfordshire, but Bingley's epistle can only be termed wistful. Well, I suppose it could also be termed ungrammatical, blotted, and careless, but those negatives serve only to contribute to the charms of Bingley's correspondence. I can hear you now, my sweet one, protesting that I grant my friend indulgences that I censure in your sex. But I said to you once before that I hold it as a truth that ladies write letters no better than gentlemen. I will, however, allow that ladies are more dependable correspondents. Darcy writes letters that I once heard described as "long and charming" but I am afraid they serve only to concern me. Darcy has been privy to our circumstances--has been a sympathetic listener when I have described my unhappiness at being separated from you--yet he can inflict this same pain on Bingley by keeping him away from his own beloved. His behaviour is quite beyond my understanding. Darcy tells me that Bingley thinks not of Jane Bennet but I question his confidence. I confess I am in a quandary, my love. I must trust that Darcy, being on hand, can judge Bingley's circumstances better than I, who remain at such a great distance.

Excerpt from letter to the Rev. Mr. Henry Tilney from Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, dated 15 March.

Your concerns about our friend can only do credit to your strong affections, but fear not for him, no matter what he writes. I assure you that he has not mentioned Miss Bennet to me these four weeks. Perhaps he fancied himself in love with her while he was in Hertfordshire but that is all over. We must congratulate our friend on the safety of his affections and his fortune. Tilney, you saw Miss Bennet yourself. She showed no symptoms of particular regard toward Bingley. She welcomed his attentions, naturally--what young lady would not?--but I saw no more true regard in her mien than did you. Is this not true? You, whose heart has been captured, are eager to confer the same felicity upon your friends. We must be grateful for such kindness, but do not credit an attachment where there is none. Knowing his warm heart, would you have Bingley forced by honour into a loveless marriage with a woman who is cold to him? I know you could not be so cruel. -- I leave in a few days for Kent to make my annual visit to my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Naturally I shall pass your compliments to her toad-eating parson as I know you are such old friends. Direct correspondence to me at Rosings Park for the nonce. I hope to make the stay as short as possible. Fitzwilliam accompanies me so all the company shall not be uncongenial.

Excerpt from letter to the Rev. Mr. Henry Tilney from Miss Eleanor Tilney, dated 10 April.

I have a piece of news for you that I am sure you will find surprising. I am to be married. I know what you are thinking, dearest Henry--how could your sister marry anyone other than John White, whom she has declared to be the only man she could love? Let me explain. I marry John, who is no longer a mere Mr. White but has become Viscount Whiting through the premature death of a second cousin. The title brought with it a large fortune and an estate, Windlestrae, which is only twenty miles from Woodston. His first action after learning of his accession was to visit my father and ask for my hand in marriage. Oh, Henry, could my felicity be any greater? -- to have John, and to be so near you? We are to marry the fifth day of May. I know you will forgive the nature of this letter, dearest, dearest Henry. My thoughts fly in a thousand directions--but the foremost was that I must share my joy with you.

Excerpt from letter to Miss Jane Bennet from Miss Elizabeth Bennet, dated 12 April.

Less than a week and I shall be with my dearest Jane. I have enjoyed seeing Charlotte here in Hunsford, and seeing her content, but how I have missed you! I hope we shall have a chance to talk together--but I suppose my aunt will have many engagements planned for us. She is always so kind that way. What news I have to impart can wait until we are at Longbourn. I am sure that London will provide us with many other diversions before we are to go home. Expect Maria and me in Gracechurch-street in time for dinner Saturday.

Excerpt from letter to Miss Catherine Morland from the Rev. Mr. Henry Tilney, dated 20 April.

Eleanor is to be married, to Viscount Whiting of Windlestrae. I know you must be surprised, but I hasten to add that her partiality to his lordship is not of recent origin. He is a friend of mine from Oxford, though when I knew him he was simply John White, a son of the untitled branch of the Whitings. He met Eleanor when I invited him to pay a visit to Northanger one summer while I was a fellow. A law student, however fine his connexions, did not satisfy the General's nice requirements for Eleanor's prospective husband as to situation and fortune; thus he was unable to secure her hand, though he won her heart. However, the untimely death of a cousin has elevated him to the peerage and a fortune. My sweet, we must rejoice for Eleanor. My only regret is that I shall not be present at their joining. The old vicar died a few months ago, and the General has not named his successor, so Mr. Taylor shall perform the ceremony in his capacity as a long-time friend of the family. Despite Eleanor's warning, I think I shall ride over to the church on the appointed day. The General cannot bar me from the church.

Continued in Part II