“This is quite shocking! He deserves to be felled at the end of a Zatoichi Cane Sword!”

“Some time or other he will be-but it shall not be by me. Till I can forget his father, I can never expose him or challenge him to duel.”

Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than ever as he expressed them.

“But what,” said she, after a pause, “can have been his motive? What can have induced him to behave so cruelly?”

“A thorough, determined dislike of me-a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father’s uncommon attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early in life. He could find no fault with me, and I dare say it drove Darcy to resent my very existence. And when his father passed, he saw his opportunity to punish me for years of perceived injustice.”

“I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this-though I have never liked him. I never suspected him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this.”

Mr. Wickham related to Elizabeth a tale from his youth, which he believed best illustrated the nature of that inhumanity. When he and Darcy were both boys of no more than seven years, the elder Darcy had taken a keen interest in their training. One day, during a daybreak spar, the young Wickham landed a severe kick, which sent Darcy to the ground. The elder Darcy implored Wickham to “finish” his son with a blow to the throat. When the boy protested, the elder Darcy-rather than punishing him for insolence, praised his generosity of spirit. The young Darcy, embarrassed more by his father’s preference than his own defeat, attacked Wickham when his back was turned-sweeping his legs with a quarterstaff, and shattering the bones of both. It was nearly a year before he walked without the aid of a cane.

“Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?”

“Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the poor. He has also brotherly pride, which, with some brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian of his sister.”

“What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?”

He shook his head. “I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother-very, very proud. As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and, I understand, highly skilled in the deadly arts. Since her father’s death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her training.”

After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not help reverting once more to the first, and saying:

“I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley, who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other? Do you know Mr. Bingley?”

“Not at all.”

“He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr. Darcy is.”

The Crypt and Coffin party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other table and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips. The usual inquiries as to his success was made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had found the majority of his crypts quite full of zombies; but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged that she would not make herself uneasy.

“I know very well, madam,” said he, “that when persons sit down to a game of Crypt and Coffin, they must take their chances of these things, and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters.”

Mr. Wickham’s attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation was very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh.

“Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” she replied, “has very lately given him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long.”

“You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy.”

“No, indeed, I did not. I knew only of Lady Catherine’s claim to quieting more of Satan’s servants than any woman in England.”

“Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates.”

This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her affection for his sister and her praise of Mr. Darcy himself, unaware that he was already destined for another.

“Mr. Collins,” said Elizabeth, “speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her daughter; but I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his patroness and a great warrior, she is an arrogant, conceited woman.”

“I believe her to be both in a great degree,” replied Wickham; “I have not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the reputation of being remarkably skilled; but I rather believe she derives part of her fame from her rank and fortune.”

Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and they continued talking together, with mutual satisfaction till supper put an end to cards, and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr. Wickham’s attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise of Mrs. Philips’s supper party, but his manners recommended him to everybody. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name as they went, for she and her sisters could hear the groans of unmentionables echoing through the pitch black woods on either side of the carriage. They were distant enough so as not to arouse a fear of imminent attack, but close enough to necessitate a minimum of noise. They rode in silence, the girls with their firearms resting neatly on their laps. For once, Mr. Collins could not be persuaded to make a sound.