Her aunt now called her to look at a picture.She approached and saw the likeness of Mr.Wickham,suspended,amongst several other miniatures, over the mantelpiece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly,how she liked it.The housekeeper came forward,and told them it was a picture of a young gentleman,the son of her late master's steward,who had been brought up by him at his own expense.“He is now gone into the army,”she added;“but I am afraid he has turned out very wild.”
Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation,but she saw and admired every remarkable spot and point of view.They gradually ascended for half-a-mile,and then found themselves at the top of a considerable eminence,where the wood ceased,and the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley,into which the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large,handsome stone building,standing well on rising ground,and backed by a ridge of high woody hills;and in front,a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater,but without any artificial appearance.Its banks were neither formal nor falsely adorned.Elizabeth was delighted.She had never seen a place for which nature had done more,or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste.They were all of them warm in their admiration;and at that moment she felt that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!