After a few minutes’ reflection, however, she continued, “I do

remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of

his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition

must be dreadful.”
“I will not trust myself on the subject,” replied Wickham; “I can

hardly be just to him.”
Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, “To

treat in such a manner the godson, the friend, the favourite of his

father!” She could have added, “A young man, too, like you, whose very

countenance may vouch for your being amiable.” But she contented herself

with—“And one, too, who had probably been his own companion from

childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest

manner.”
“We were born in the same parish, within the same park; the greatest

part of our youth was passed together: inmates of the same house,

sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. My

father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Philips,

appears to do so much credit to; but he gave up everything to be of use

to the late Mr. Darcy, and devoted all his time to the care of the

Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most

intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to

be under the greatest obligations to my father’s active superintendence;

and when, immediately before my father’s death, Mr. Darcy gave him a

voluntary promise{104} of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it

to be as much a debt of gratitude to him as of affection to myself.”
“How strange!” cried Elizabeth. “How abominable! I wonder that the very

pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you. If from no better

motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest,—for

dishonesty I must call it.”
“It is wonderful,” replied Wickham; “for almost all his actions may be

traced to pride; and pride has often been his best friend. It has