“But you―how are you?”cried Elizabeth.“You look pale.How much you must have gone through!”

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

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

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