CHAPTER XII.

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."