Miss Bingley's letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for the winter, and concluded with her brother's regret at not having had time to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left the country.
Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest of the letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss Bingley's praise of the sister was as warm as she could desire, and the account of their kindness to her was as flattering as she could have fancied; but there was no mention of any intention of renewing the acquaintance, and, indeed, the whole of the letter seemed designed to convince her that their interest in her was at an end.
Elizabeth, to whom Jane naturally turned for comfort, listened to all she had to say, and then said:
"My dear Jane, you are too good. Your sweetness and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say to you. I feel that you are right, and that I ought to judge as you do; but I cannot. I believe him to be sincere, and I am sure that he is very much in love with you. But I am also sure that his sister and his friend are acting in a way that is not right."
"I wish I could think as you do, Lizzy. But I cannot be deceived in what I feel. I know that Mr. Bingley must have changed his feelings. We must not expect him to be always so attentive as he was at first."
"But why should he change? If he was really in love with you, he would not let his sister or his friend influence him against you."
"I cannot tell. Perhaps it is pride on his side, or prejudice on mine. But I cannot help feeling that there is something more that we do not know."
The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt and to a milliner's shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions; their minds were more vacant than their sisters', and when nothing better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and however bare of news the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the headquarters.
Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge of the officers' names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a secret, and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr. Philips visited them all, and this opened to his nieces a source of felicity unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr. Bingley's large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of an ensign.
After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr. Bennet coolly observed:
"From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but I am now convinced."
Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with perfect indifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter, and her hope of seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the next morning to London.
"I am astonished, my dear," said Mrs. Bennet, "that you should be so ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly of anybody's children, it should not be of my own, however."
"If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of it."
"Yes, but as it happens, they are all of them very clever."
"This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must so far differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly foolish."
"My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of their father and mother. When they get to our age, I dare say they will not think about officers half as much as they do now. I remember the time when I liked a red-coat myself very well, and, indeed, so I do still at my heart; and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year, should want one of my girls, I shall not say nay to him."
Elizabeth felt her mother's speech acutely, but she knew better than to answer. She turned away, and soon after left the room, resolving to bear her vexation as well as she could, and to think instead of Mr. Darcy.