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
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
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.
<CHAPTER XIII (36)>
IF 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
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 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.