Chapter: Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners were very much admired at the parsonage,
and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasure of
their engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they
received any invitation thither, for while there were visitors in the
house, they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day,
almost a week after the gentlemen's arrival, that they were honoured by
such an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to
come there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very little
of either Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had called
at the parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr. Darcy they had
only seen at church.

The invitation was accepted of course, and at a proper hour they joined
the party in Lady Catherine's drawing-room. Her ladyship received them
civilly, but it was plain that their company was by no means so
acceptable as when she could get nobody else; and she was, in fact,
almost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them, especially to Darcy,
much more than to any other person in the room.

Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them; any thing was a
welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins's pretty friend had
moreover caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by her, and
talked so agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying
at home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so
well entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much
spirit and flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself, as
well as of Mr. Darcy. _His_ eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned
towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship after a
while shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not
scruple to call out,

"What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking
of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is."

"We are speaking of music, Madam," said he, when no longer able to avoid
a reply.

"Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I
must have my share in the conversation, if you are speaking of music.
There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment
of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I
should have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her health
had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have performed
delightfully. How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?"

Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister's proficiency.

"I am very glad to hear such a good account of her," said Lady
Catherine; "and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel,
if she does not practise a great deal."

"I assure you, Madam," he replied, "that she does not need such advice.
She practises very constantly."

"So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write
to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often
tell young ladies, that no excellence in music is to be acquired,
without constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that
she will never play really well, unless she practises more; and though
Mrs. Collins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often
told her, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the piano-forte in
Mrs. Jenkinson's room. She would be in nobody's way, you know, in that
part of the house."

Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt's ill breeding, and made
no answer.

When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having
promised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the instrument. He
drew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then
talked, as before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away from
her, and moving with his usual deliberation towards the piano-forte,
stationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer's
countenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first
convenient pause, turned to him with an arch smile, and said,

"You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear
me? But I will not be alarmed though your sister _does_ play so well.
There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at
the will of others. My courage always rises with every attempt to
intimidate me."

"I shall not say that you are mistaken," he replied, "because you could
not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I
have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know, that you
find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact
are not your own."

Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to
Colonel Fitzwilliam, "Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of
me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky
in meeting with a person so well able to expose my real character, in a
part of the world, where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree
of credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention
all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire--and, give me
leave to say, very impolitic too--for it is provoking me to retaliate,
and such things may come out, as will shock your relations to hear."

"I am not afraid of you," said he, smilingly.

"Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of," cried Colonel
Fitzwilliam. "I should like to know how he behaves among strangers."

"You shall hear then--but prepare yourself for something very dreadful.
The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know,
was at a ball--and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced
only four dances! I am sorry to pain you--but so it was. He danced only
four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge,
more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr.
Darcy, you cannot deny the fact."

"I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly
beyond my own party."

"True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball room. Well, Colonel
Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders."

"Perhaps," said Darcy, "I should have judged better, had I sought an
introduction, but I am ill qualified to recommend myself to strangers."

"Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?" said Elizabeth, still
addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. "Shall we ask him why a man of sense and
education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend
himself to strangers?"

"I can answer your question," said Fitzwilliam, "without applying to
him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble."

"I certainly have not the talent which some people possess," said Darcy,
"of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot
catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their
concerns, as I often see done."

"My fingers," said Elizabeth, "do not move over this instrument in the
masterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same
force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I
have always supposed it to be my own fault--because I would not take the
trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe _my_ fingers as
capable as any other woman's of superior execution."

Darcy smiled and said, "You are perfectly right. You have employed your
time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you, can
think any thing wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers."

Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know
what they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began playing again.
Lady Catherine approached, and, after listening for a few minutes, said
to Darcy,

"Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss, if she practised more, and
could have the advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion
of fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne's. Anne would have
been a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn."

Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he assented to his
cousin's praise; but neither at that moment nor at any other could she
discern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his behaviour to Miss
De Bourgh she derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he might have
been just as likely to marry _her_, had she been his relation.

Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth's performance, mixing
with them many instructions on execution and taste. Elizabeth received
them with all the forbearance of civility; and at the request of the
gentlemen remained at the instrument till her Ladyship's carriage was
ready to take them all home.





Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to Jane,
while Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village,
when she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain signal of a
visitor. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to be
Lady Catherine, and under that apprehension was putting away her
half-finished letter that she might escape all impertinent questions,
when the door opened, and to her very great surprise, Mr. Darcy, and Mr.
Darcy only, entered the room.

He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for his
intrusion, by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies to
be within.

They then sat down, and when her enquiries after Rosings were made,
seemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely
necessary, therefore, to think of something, and in this emergence
recollecting _when_ she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and feeling
curious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty
departure, she observed,

"How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy!
It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you
all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day
before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London."

"Perfectly so--I thank you."

She found that she was to receive no other answer--and, after a short
pause, added,

"I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever
returning to Netherfield again?"

"I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend
very little of his time there in future. He has many friends, and he is
at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually
increasing."

"If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the
neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we
might possibly get a settled family there. But perhaps Mr. Bingley did
not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as
for his own, and we must expect him to keep or quit it on the same
principle."

"I should not be surprised," said Darcy, "if he were to give it up, as
soon as any eligible purchase offers."

Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his
friend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the
trouble of finding a subject to him.

He took the hint, and soon began with, "This seems a very comfortable
house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr.
Collins first came to Hunsford."

"I believe she did--and I am sure she could not have bestowed her
kindness on a more grateful object."

"Mr. Collins appears very fortunate in his choice of a wife."

"Yes, indeed; his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one of
the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made
him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding--though
I am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest
thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and in a
prudential light, it is certainly a very good match for her."

"It must be very agreeable to her to be settled within so easy a
distance of her own family and friends."

"An easy distance do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles."

"And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day's
journey. Yes, I call it a _very_ easy distance."

"I should never have considered the distance as one of the _advantages_
of the match," cried Elizabeth. "I should never have said Mrs. Collins
was settled _near_ her family."

"It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Any thing beyond
the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far."

As he spoke there was a sort of smile, which Elizabeth fancied she
understood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and
Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered,

"I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her
family. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many
varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expence of
travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the
case _here_. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not
such a one as will allow of frequent journeys--and I am persuaded my
friend would not call herself _near_ her family under less than _half_
the present distance."

Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, "_You_ cannot
have a right to such very strong local attachment. _You_ cannot have
been always at Longbourn."

Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of
feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and,
glancing over it, said, in a colder voice,

"Are you pleased with Kent?"

A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either side
calm and concise--and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte
and her sister, just returned from their walk. The tete-a-tete surprised
them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which had occasioned his intruding
on Miss Bennet, and after sitting a few minutes longer without saying
much to any body, went away.

"What can be the meaning of this!" said Charlotte, as soon as he was
gone. "My dear Eliza he must be in love with you, or he would never have
called on us in this familiar way."

But when Elizabeth told of his silence, it did not seem very likely,
even to Charlotte's wishes, to be the case; and after various
conjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from
the difficulty of finding any thing to do, which was the more probable
from the time of year. All field sports were over. Within doors there
was Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard table, but gentlemen cannot be
always within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the
pleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the
two cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither
almost every day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes
separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their
aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he
had pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course recommended
him still more; and Elizabeth was reminded by her own satisfaction in
being with him, as well as by his evident admiration of her, of her
former favourite George Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw
there was less captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners,
she believed he might have the best informed mind.

But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage, it was more difficult
to understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there
ten minutes together without opening his lips; and when he did speak, it
seemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice--a sacrifice to
propriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really
animated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel
Fitzwilliam's occasionally laughing at his stupidity, proved that he was
generally different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told
her; and as she would have liked to believe this change the effect of
love, and the object of that love, her friend Eliza, she sat herself
seriously to work to find it out.--She watched him whenever they were at
Rosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success. He
certainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that
look was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often
doubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it
seemed nothing but absence of mind.

She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his
being partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs.
Collins did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of
raising expectations which might only end in disappointment; for in her
opinion it admitted not of a doubt, that all her friend's dislike would
vanish, if she could suppose him to be in her power.

In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying
Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison the pleasantest man; he
certainly admired her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but,
to counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had considerable patronage
in the church, and his cousin could have none at all.





More than once did Elizabeth in her ramble within the Park, unexpectedly
meet Mr. Darcy.--She felt all the perverseness of the mischance that
should bring him where no one else was brought; and to prevent its ever
happening again, took care to inform him at first, that it was a
favourite haunt of hers.--How it could occur a second time therefore was
very odd!--Yet it did, and even a third. It seemed like wilful
ill-nature, or a voluntary penance, for on these occasions it was not
merely a few formal enquiries and an awkward pause and then away, but he
actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He never
said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking or of
listening much; but it struck her in the course of their third rencontre
that he was asking some odd unconnected questions--about her pleasure in
being at Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her opinion of Mr.
and Mrs. Collins's happiness; and that in speaking of Rosings and her
not perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to expect that whenever
she came into Kent again she would be staying _there_ too. His words
seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel Fitzwilliam in his thoughts?
She supposed, if he meant any thing, he must mean an allusion to what
might arise in that quarter. It distressed her a little, and she was
quite glad to find herself at the gate in the pales opposite the
Parsonage.

She was engaged one day as she walked, in re-perusing Jane's last
letter, and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not
written in spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy,
she saw on looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her. Putting
away the letter immediately and forcing a smile, she said,

"I did not know before that you ever walked this way."

"I have been making the tour of the Park," he replied, "as I generally
do every year, and intend to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are
you going much farther?"

"No, I should have turned in a moment."

And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage
together.

"Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?" said she.

"Yes--if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He
arranges the business just as he pleases."

"And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least
great pleasure in the power of choice. I do not know any body who seems
more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy."

"He likes to have his own way very well," replied Colonel Fitzwilliam.
"But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it than
many others, because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak
feelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and
dependence."

"In my opinion, the younger son of an Earl can know very little of
either. Now, seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and
dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going
wherever you chose, or procuring any thing you had a fancy for?"

"These are home questions--and perhaps I cannot say that I have
experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater
weight, I may suffer from the want of money. Younger sons cannot marry
where they like."

"Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often
do."

"Our habits of expence make us too dependant, and there are not many in
my rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to
money."

"Is this," thought Elizabeth, "meant for me?" and she coloured at the
idea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, "And pray, what is
the usual price of an Earl's younger son? Unless the elder brother is
very sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds."

He answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt
a silence which might make him fancy her affected with what had passed,
she soon afterwards said,

"I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of
having somebody at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a
lasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps his sister does as well
for the present, and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he
likes with her."

"No," said Colonel Fitzwilliam, "that is an advantage which he must
divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy."

"Are you, indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make? Does your
charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age, are sometimes a
little difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she
may like to have her own way."

As she spoke, she observed him looking at her earnestly, and the manner
in which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to
give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other
got pretty near the truth. She directly replied,

"You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare
say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a
very great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and
Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them."

"I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentleman-like
man--he is a great friend of Darcy's."

"Oh! yes," said Elizabeth drily--"Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr.
Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him."

"Care of him!--Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ take care of him in
those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in
our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to
him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that
Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture."

"What is it you mean?"

"It is a circumstance which Darcy of course would not wish to be
generally known, because if it were to get round to the lady's family,
it would be an unpleasant thing."

"You may depend upon my not mentioning it."

"And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be
Bingley. What he told me was merely this; that he congratulated himself
on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most
imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other
particulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him
the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from
knowing them to have been together the whole of last summer."

"Did Mr. Darcy give you his reasons for this interference?"

"I understood that there were some very strong objections against the
lady."

"And what arts did he use to separate them?"

"He did not talk to me of his own arts," said Fitzwilliam smiling. "He
only told me, what I have now told you."

Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with
indignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she
was so thoughtful.

"I am thinking of what you have been telling me," said she. "Your
cousin's conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?"

"You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?"

"I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of
his friend's inclination, or why, upon his own judgment alone, he was to
determine and direct in what manner that friend was to be happy." "But,"
she continued, recollecting herself, "as we know none of the
particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed
that there was much affection in the case."

"That is not an unnatural surmise," said Fitzwilliam, "but it is
lessening the honour of my cousin's triumph very sadly."

This was spoken jestingly, but it appeared to her so just a picture of
Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an answer; and,
therefore, abruptly changing the conversation, talked on indifferent
matters till they reached the parsonage. There, shut into her own room,
as soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption
of all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other
people could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There
could not exist in the world _two_ men, over whom Mr. Darcy could have
such boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures
taken to separate Mr. Bingley and Jane, she had never doubted; but she
had always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and
arrangement of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him,
_he_ was the cause, his pride and caprice were the cause of all that
Jane had suffered, and still continued to suffer. He had ruined for a
while every hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart
in the world; and no one could say how lasting an evil he might have
inflicted.

"There were some very strong objections against the lady," were Colonel
Fitzwilliam's words, and these strong objections probably were, her
having one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in
business in London.

"To Jane herself," she exclaimed, "there could be no possibility of
objection. All loveliness and goodness as she is! Her understanding
excellent, her mind improved, and her manners captivating. Neither could
any thing be urged against my father, who, though with some
peculiarities, has abilities which Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain,
and respectability which he will probably never reach." When she thought
of her mother indeed, her confidence gave way a little, but she would
not allow that any objections _there_ had material weight with Mr.
Darcy, whose pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from
the want of importance in his friend's connections, than from their want
of sense; and she was quite decided at last, that he had been partly
governed by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of
retaining Mr. Bingley for his sister.

The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned, brought on a
headache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening that, added to
her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her
cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins,
seeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go, and as much
as possible prevented her husband from pressing her, but Mr. Collins
could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine's being rather
displeased by her staying at home.





When 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 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.





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 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 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."





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 steadfastly 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.

 One day, Darcy visits the Parsonage to find Elizabeth alone, and she takes the opportunity to enquire whether Bingley will return to Netherfield. It doesn't seem hopeful. Darcy makes a point of seeking out Elizabeth whilst on her walks, and she becomes agitated by this. However, one day she meets Colonel Fitzwilliam, and the conversation turns to Darcy. He reveals that Darcy is a good friend to have. He has helped Bingley escape a most imprudent marriage", and Elizabeth immediately realizes that he is referring to Jane, although the Colonel knows less. When she is alone, she is full of anger and breaks down in tears, feeling unable to attend dinner at Rosings, so she sends her apologies that she is unwell. When Darcy hears this, he comes to visit her, totally taking Elizabeth by surprise. She is further shocked by Darcy's declaration of love for her and his proposal of marriage. What further shocks Elizabeth is the manner of his proposal. He speaks of his struggle to deny his feelings, and despite Elizabeth's "inferiority '' it being a degradation '' there are immense family obstacles", he is still inclined to make the proposal. Elizabeth has the feeling that she should feel grateful to Darcy for his proposal, but she responds by saying, "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." Now it's Darcy's turn to be surprised and he asks for reasons for his rejection. She responds by saying it was twofold - firstly, by breaking up Jane and Bingley's relationship, and secondly, because of his cruel treatment of Wickham. Darcy angrily leaves, and Elizabeth is overwhelmed with emotion. The next day, she receives a letter from Darcy in which he explains his role with his friend Bingley where he advised him that in his view, Jane did not love him. He now realizes that this is an error, and bows to Elizabeth's view of her sister's feelings, as clearly sisters are very close. However, he stands by the criticisms that he aired concerning Elizabeth's mother, and the three younger sisters, believing that they act improperly in public, and are a source of embarrassment. So far as Wickham is concerned, the truth of the matter is that the position offered to Wickham on the death of his father was refused. Wickham did not wish to become a preacher, and wished to study law. Darcy gave him '3,000 for his purpose. This he squandered and tried to elope with Darcy's sister. Colonel Fitzwilliam can confirm all these facts. Elizabeth reads the letter several times, and comes to the conclusion that certain facts are irrefutable, and therefore, the whole letter must be true. She suddenly realizes that she has been blind in regard to her feelings towards Darcy.

