Chapter 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 anything 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
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 offenses 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 the 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 yours, I can only say that I am
sorry. The necessity must be obeyed, and further apology would be
absurd. "I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in
common with others, that Bingley preferred your elder 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
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 investigation 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 acknowl edged to have 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 to
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 elder 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 that 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 judgement 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 godson,
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 manner 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 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 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 to it. His resentment was in pro portion
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
dropped. 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 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 had imposed on you; but his
success is not perhaps to be wondered at, ignorant as you
previously were of everything 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 everything 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 "