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
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
"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 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 mortification. 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 XII (35)>
ELIZABETH 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
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.