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Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and was opened immediately. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little, hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady’s fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister’s countenance change as she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some particular passages. Jane recollected herself soon; and putting the letter away, tried to join, with her usual cheerfulness, in the general conversation: but Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no sooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from Jane invited her to follow her upstairs. When they had gained their own room, Jane, taking out her letter, said, “This is from Caroline Bingley: what it contains has surprised me a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their way to town; and without any intention of coming back again. You shall hear what she says.”

Swift to the battlement the victor flies, Tugs with full force, and every nerve applies: It shakes; the ponderous stones disjointed yield; The rolling ruins smoke along the field. A mighty breach appears; the walls lie bare; And, like a deluge, rushes in the war. At once bold Teucer draws the twanging bow, And Ajax sends his javelin at the foe; Fix’d in his belt the feather’d weapon stood, And through his buckler drove the trembling wood; But Jove was present in the dire debate, To shield his offspring, and avert his fate. The prince gave back, not meditating flight, But urging vengeance, and severer fight; Then raised with hope, and fired with glory’s charms, His fainting squadrons to new fury warms. “O where, ye Lycians, is the strength you boast? Your former fame and ancient virtue lost! The breach lies open, but your chief in vain Attempts alone the guarded pass to gain: Unite, and soon that hostile fleet shall fall: The force of powerful union conquers all.”

While to the ramparts daring Glaucus drew, From Teucer’s hand a winged arrow flew; The bearded shaft the destined passage found, And on his naked arm inflicts a wound. The chief, who fear’d some foe’s insulting boast Might stop the progress of his warlike host, Conceal’d the wound, and, leaping from his height Retired reluctant from the unfinish’d fight. Divine Sarpedon with regret beheld Disabled Glaucus slowly quit the field; His beating breast with generous ardour glows, He springs to fight, and flies upon the foes. Alcmaon first was doom’d his force to feel; Deep in his breast he plunged the pointed steel; Then from the yawning wound with fury tore The spear, pursued by gushing streams of gore: Down sinks the warrior with a thundering sound, His brazen armour rings against the ground.

As my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a gloomy and black melancholy that nothing could dissipate. The image of Clerval was for ever before me, ghastly and murdered. More than once the agitation into which these reflections threw me made my friends dread a dangerous relapse. Alas! Why did they preserve so miserable and detested a life? It was surely that I might fulfil my destiny, which is now drawing to a close. Soon, oh, very soon, will death extinguish these throbbings and relieve me from the mighty weight of anguish that bears me to the dust; and, in executing the award of justice, I shall also sink to rest. Then the appearance of death was distant, although the wish was ever present to my thoughts; and I often sat for hours motionless and speechless, wishing for some mighty revolution that might bury me and my destroyer in its ruins.