Chapter 34 hen they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending
to exasperate herself as much as
possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her
employment the examination of all the
letters which Jane had written to her since her being in
Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there
any revival of past occurrences, or any communication of
present suffering. But in all, and in almost every line of
each, there was a want of that cheerfulness which had been
used to characterize her style, and which, proceeding from
the serenity of a mind at ease with itself, and kindly disposed
towards every one, had been scarcely ever clouded.
Elizabeth noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness
with an attention which it had hardly received on
the first perusal. Mr. Darcy’s shameful boast of what misery
he had been able to inflict gave her a keener sense of her
sister’s sufferings. It was some consolation to think that his
visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next, and a
still greater that in less than a fortnight she should herself
be with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery
of her spirits by all that affection could do.
She could not think of Darcy’s leaving Kent without remembering
that his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel
Fitzwilliam had made it clear that he had no intentions at
all, and agreeable as he was, she did not mean to be unhappy
about him.
While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by
the sound of the door bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered
by the idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself,
who had once before called late in the evening, and might
now come to enquire particularly after her. But this idea
was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently affected,
when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy
walk into the room. In an hurried manner he immediately
began an enquiry after her health, imputing his visit to a
wish of hearing that she were better. She answered him with
cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then getting
up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised,
but said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he
came towards her in an agitated manner, and thus began,
“In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings
will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how
ardently I admire and love you.”
Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression. She
stared, coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered
sufficient encouragement, and the avowal of all that
he felt and had long felt for her immediately followed. He
spoke well, but there were feelings besides those of the heart
to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the subject
of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority — of
its being a degradation — of the family obstacles which judgment
had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with
a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was
wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.
In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be
insensible to the compliment of such a man’s affection, and
though her intentions did not vary for an instant, she was
at first sorry for the pain he was to receive; till, roused to
resentment by his subsequent language, she lost all compassion
in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to
answer him with patience, when he should have done. He
concluded with representing to her the strength of that attachment
which, in spite of all his endeavours, he had found
impossible to conquer; and with expressing his hope that it
would now be rewarded by her acceptance of his hand. As
he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt of a
favourable answer. He spoke of apprehension and anxiety,
but his countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance
could only exasperate farther, and when he ceased,
the colour rose into her cheeks, and she said,
“In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode
to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed,
however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that
obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I
would now thank you. But I cannot — I have never desired
your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most
unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to any one.
It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope
will be of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me,
have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard,
can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation.”
Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantle-piece
with his eyes fixed on her face, seemed to catch her words
with no less resentment than surprise. His complexion
became pale with anger, and the disturbance of his mind
was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the appearance
of composure, and would not open his lips, till
he believed himself to have attained it. The pause was to
Elizabeth’s feelings dreadful. At length, in a voice of forced
calmness, he said,
“And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour
of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why,
with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected. But it
is of small importance.”
“I might as well enquire,” replied she, “why, with so evident
a design of offending and insulting me, you chose to
tell me that you liked me against your will, against your
reason, and even against your character? Was not this some
excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil? But I have other provocations.
You know I have. Had not my own feelings decided
against you, had they been indifferent, or had they even
been favourable, do you think that any consideration would
tempt me to accept the man, who has been the means of
ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most beloved
sister?”
As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed
colour; but the emotion was short, and he listened without
attempting to interrupt her while she continued.
“I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No
motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted
there. You dare not, you cannot deny that you have been
the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from
each other, of exposing one to the censure of the world for
caprice and instability, the other to its derision for disappointed
hopes, and involving them both in misery of the
acutest kind.”
She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that
he was listening with an air which proved him wholly unmoved
by any feeling of remorse. He even looked at her
with a smile of affected incredulity.
“Can you deny that you have done it?” she repeated.
With assumed tranquillity he then replied, “I have no
wish of denying that I did every thing in my power to separate
my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success.
Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself.”
Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this
civil reflection, but its meaning did not escape, nor was it
likely to conciliate, her.
“But it is not merely this affair,” she continued, “on
which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken
place, my opinion of you was decided. Your character was
unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago
from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have
to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here
defend yourself? or under what misrepresentation, can you
here impose upon others?”
“You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns,”
said Darcy in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened
colour.
“Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can
help feeling an interest in him?”
“His misfortunes!” repeated Darcy contemptuously;
“yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed.”
“And of your infliction,” cried Elizabeth with energy. “You have reduced him to his present state of poverty, comparative
poverty. You have withheld the advantages, which
you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived
the best years of his life, of that independence which
was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this!
and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with
contempt and ridicule.”
“And this,” cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps
across the room, “is your opinion of me! This is the estimation
in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it
so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy
indeed! But perhaps,” added he, stopping in his walk, and
turning towards her, “these offences might have been overlooked,
had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession
of the scruples that had long prevented my forming
any serious design. These bitter accusations might have
been suppressed, had I with greater policy concealed my
struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled
by unqualified, unalloyed inclination — by reason,
by reflection, by every thing. But disguise of every sort is
my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice
in the inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself
on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so
decidedly beneath my own?”
Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment;
yet she tried to the utmost to speak with composure
when she said,
“You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way,
than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.”
She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued,
“You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.”
Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an expression of mingled incredulity and mortifi-
cation. She went on.
“From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing
me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that
you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”
“You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend
your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of
what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up
so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your
health and happiness.”
And with these words he hastily left the room, and
Elizabeth heard him the next moment open the front door
and quit the house.
The tumult of her mind was now painfully great. She knew not how to support herself, and from actual weakness
sat down and cried for half an hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was increased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of marriage from Mr. Darcy! that he should have been in love with her for so many months! so much in love as to wish to marry her in
spite of all the objections which had made him prevent his friend’s marrying her sister, and which must appear at least
with equal force in his own case, was almost incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride, his shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane, his unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not
justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned
Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not
attempted to deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration
of his attachment had for a moment excited.
She continued in very agitating reflections till the sound
of Lady Catherine’s carriage made her feel how unequal she
was to encounter Charlotte’s observation, and hurried her
away to her room.
Chapter 35
lizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations which had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the surprise
of what had happened; it was impossible to think of any thing else, and, totally indisposed for employment, she resolved soon after breakfast to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding directly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy’s sometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park, she turned up the lane which led her farther from the turnpike road. The park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed one of the gates into the ground.
After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning,
to stop at the gates and look into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent had made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk, when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman
within the sort of grove which edged the park; he was moving that way; and fearful of its being Mr. Darcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now near enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced her name. She had turned away, but on
hearing herself called, though in a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the gate. He had by that time reached it also, and holding out a letter, which she instinctively took, said with a look of haughty composure, “I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?” — And then, with a slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight.
With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still
increasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter paper, written quite through, in a very close hand. — The envelope itself was likewise full. — Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated from Rosings, at eight o’clock in the morning, and was as follows: “Be not alarmed, Madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes, which, for the happiness
of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice. Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first
mentioned was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister;— and the other, that I had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity, and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. — Wilfully and
wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favourite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect its exertion, would be a depravity to which the separation of two young persons, whose
affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could bear no comparison. — But from the severity of that blame which was last night so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in future secured, when the following account of my actions and their motives has been read. — If,
in the explanation of them which is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive to your’s, I can only say that I am sorry.— The necessity must be obeyed — and farther apology would be absurd.— I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
others, that Bingley preferred your eldest sister to any other young woman in the country. — But it was not till the evening of the dance at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a serious attachment. — I had often seen him in love before.— At that ball, while I had the honour of dancing
with you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas’s accidental information, that Bingley’s attentions to your sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it as a certain event, of which the time alone could be undecided. From that moment I observed my friend’s
behaviour attentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also watched.— Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced from
the evening’s scrutiny, that though she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of
sentiment.— If you have not been mistaken here, I must have been in an error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter probable.—If it be so, if I have been misled by such error, to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert that the
serenity of your sister’s countenance and air was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that, however
amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be easily touched.— That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is certain,— but I will venture to say that my investigations and decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears.— I did not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it;— I
believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason.— My objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have required the utmost force of passion to put aside in my own case; the want of connection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to
me.— But there were other causes of repugnance;— causes which, though still existing, and existing to an equal degree
in both instances, I had myself endeavoured to forget, because they were not immediately before me.— These causes must be stated, though briefly.— The situation of your mother’s family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison of that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly, betrayed
by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father.— Pardon me.— It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that to have conducted yourselves
so as to avoid any share of the like censure is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your eldest sister, than it is honourable to the sense and disposition of both.— I will only say farther that, from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every inducement heightened,
which could have led me before to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection.— He left Netherfield for London, on the day following, as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning. —
The part which I acted is now to be explained.— His sisters’ uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered; and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly
resolved on joining him directly in London.— We accordingly went — and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend, the certain evils of such a choice.— I described, and enforced them earnestly.— But, however this remonstrance might have staggered or delayed his determination,
I do not suppose that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded by the assurance, which I hesitated not in giving, of your sister’s indifference. He had before believed her to return his affection with sincere, if not with equal, regard.— But Bingley has great natural
modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgment than on his own.— To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the work of a moment.— I cannot blame
myself for having done thus much. There is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair, on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister’s being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley, but her
brother is even yet ignorant of it.— That they might have met without ill consequence is, perhaps, probable;— but his regard did not appear to me enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger.—Perhaps this concealment, this disguise, was beneath me.— It is done, however, and it was
done for the best.— On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister’s feelings,
it was unknowingly done; and though the motives which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I
have not yet learnt to condemn them. — With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he has particularly accused me, I am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity. Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the
Pemberley estates; and whose good conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to him; and on George Wickham, who was his god-son, his kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and afterwards at Cambridge;— most important assistance,
as his own father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to give him a gentleman’s education. My father was not only fond of this young man’s society, whose manners were always engaging; he had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be his profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities — the
want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have. Here again I shall give
you pain — to what degree you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr.
Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it to me to promote his advancement in the best manner that his profession might allow, and, if he took orders, desired that a valuable family living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was also a legacy of one
thousand pounds. His own father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these events Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu
of the preferment by which he could not be benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished than believed him to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready
to accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He
resigned all claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town, I believe,
he chiefly lived, but his studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to me again by letter
for the presentation. His circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in question — of which he trusted there could be
little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered
father’s intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it.
His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances — and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every appearance of acquaintance was dropt. How he lived I know not. But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded
on my notice. I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself, and which no obligation less than
the present should induce me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to the
guardianship of my mother’s nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate;
and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design;
for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between
him and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most
unhappily deceived; and by her connivance and aid he so
far recommended himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate
heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a
child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and
to consent to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which
must be her excuse; and after stating her imprudence, I am
happy to add that I owed the knowledge of it to herself. I
joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the intended
elopement; and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea of
grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up
to as a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine
what I felt and how I acted. Regard for my sister’s credit
and feelings prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr.
Wickham, who left the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge
was of course removed from her charge. Mr. Wickham’s chief
object was unquestionably my sister’s fortune, which is thirty
thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope
of revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His
revenge would have been complete indeed. This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which
we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely
reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of
cruelty towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner,
under what form of falsehood, he has imposed on you; but
his success is not, perhaps, to be wondered at. Ignorant as you
previously were of every thing concerning either, detection
could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in
your inclination. You may possibly wonder why all this was
not told you last night. But I was not then master enough of
myself to know what could or ought to be revealed. For the
truth of every thing here related, I can appeal more particularly
to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our
near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of the executors of my father’s will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of me should make my assertions valueless, you
cannot be prevented by the same cause from confiding in my
cousin; and that there may be the possibility of consulting him,
I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of putting this letter
in your hands in the course of the morning. I will only add, God bless you. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
Chapter 36
f Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of its contents. But such as they were, it may be well supposed how eagerly she went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they
excited. Her feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did she first understand that he believed
any apology to be in his power; and stedfastly was she persuaded that he could have no explanation to give, which a
just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong prejudice against every thing he might say, she began his account of what had happened at Netherfield. She read, with an eagerness which hardly left her power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing what the next sentence might
bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister’s insensibility, she
instantly resolved to be false, and his account of the real, the worst objections to the match, made her too angry to
have any wish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied her; his style was not
penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and insolence.
But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham, when she read, with somewhat clearer attention, a relation of events, which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself, her feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition. Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, “This must be false! This cannot be! This
must be the grossest falsehood!”—and when she had gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing any
thing of the last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not regard it, that she would never look in
it again. In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing, she walked on; but it would not do;
in half a minute the letter was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she again began the mortifying
perusal of all that related to Wickham, and commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence.
The account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what he had related himself; and the kindness
of the late Mr. Darcy, though she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own words. So far
each recital confirmed the other; but when she came to the
will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of
the living was fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his
very words, it was impossible not to feel that there was gross
duplicity on one side or the other; and, for a few moments,
she flattered herself that her wishes did not err. But when
she read, and re-read with the closest attention, the particulars
immediately following of Wickham’s resigning all
pretensions to the living, of his receiving, in lieu, so considerable
a sum as three thousand pounds, again was she
forced to hesitate. She put down the letter, weighed every
circumstance with what she meant to be impartiality — deliberated
on the probability of each statement — but with
little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she
read on. But every line proved more clearly that the affair,
which she had believed it impossible that any contrivance
could so represent as to render Mr. Darcy’s conduct in it less
than infamous, was capable of a turn which must make him
entirely blameless throughout the whole. The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay to Mr. Wickham’s charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his entrance into the — shire Militia, in which he had engaged at the persuasion of the young man, who, on meeting him accidentally in town, had there renewed a slight acquaintance.
Of his former way of life, nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As to his real character, had information been in her power, she had never felt a wish of enquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those casual errors, under which she would endeavour to class what Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many years continuance. But no such recollection befriended her. She could see him instantly before her, in every charm of air and address;
but she could remember no more substantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and the regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After pausing on this point a considerable while, she once more continued to read. But, alas! the story which followed, of
his designs on Miss Darcy, received some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she was referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam himself — from whom she had previously received the information
of his near concern in all his cousin’s affairs, and whose character she had no reason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and at length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never have hazarded such a proposal if he had not been well assured of his cousin’s corroboration. She perfectly remembered every thing that had passed in conversation between Wickham and herself in their first evening at Mr. Philips’s. Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was now struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear of seeing Mr. Darcy — that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that he should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball the very next week. She remembered also, that till the Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but herself; but that after their removal, it had been every where discussed; that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy’s character, though he had assured her that respect for the father would always prevent his exposing the son. How differently did every thing now appear in which he was concerned! His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer the moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at any thing. His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had either been deceived with regard to
her fortune, or had been gratifying his vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most incautiously
shewn. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy,
she could not but allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago asserted his blamelessness in the affair;
that, proud and repulsive as were his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their acquaintance — an acquaintance
which had latterly brought them much together, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways — seen any thing that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust — any thing that spoke him of irreligious or immoral habits. That among his own connections he was esteemed and valued — that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a brother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his sister as to prove him capable of some amiable feeling. That had his actions been what Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of every thing right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and that friendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man as Mr. Bingley, was incomprehensible. She grew absolutely ashamed of herself.— Of neither Darcy nor Wickham could she think, without feeling that she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd. “How despicably have I acted!” she cried.— ”I, who have prided myself on my discernment!— I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity, in useless or blameable distrust.— How humiliating is this discovery! — Yet, how just a humiliation!—Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has been my folly.—Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance,
and driven reason away, where either were concerned. Till this moment, I never knew myself.” From herself to Jane — from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy’s explanation there had appeared very insufficient; and she read it again. Widely different was the effect of a second perusal.— How could she deny that credit to his assertions, in one instance, which she had been obliged to give in the other?— He declared himself to have been totally unsuspicious of her sister’s attachment;— and she could not help remembering what Charlotte’s opinion had always been.— Neither could she deny the justice of his description of Jane.— She felt that Jane’s feelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a constant complacency in her air and manner not often united with great sensibility.
When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were mentioned, in terms of such mortifying yet
merited reproach, her sense of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly for denial, and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded, as having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression
on his mind than on hers. The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed, but it could not console her for the contempt which had been thus self-attracted by the rest of her family;—and as she considered that Jane’s disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest relations,
and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt by such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond any thing she had ever known before.
After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every variety of thought; re-considering events, determining
probabilities, and reconciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and so important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence made her at length return home; and she entered the house with the wish of appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing
such reflections as must make her unfit for conversation. She was immediately told, that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes to take leave, but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her till she could be found.— Elizabeth could but just affect concern in missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no longer an object. She could think only of her letter.

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