CHAPTER XVI.

Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, as

Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy

with him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine's

visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time to

tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in

momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed

their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the

habit of walking, Mary could never spare time, but the remaining five

set off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to

outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy,

were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty was

too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a

desperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same.

They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon

Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern,

when Kitty left them, she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the

moment for her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was

high, she immediately said,

"Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving

relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding your's. I

can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor

sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to

acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest

of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express."

"I am sorry, exceedingly sorry," replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise

and emotion, "that you have ever been informed of what may, in a

mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs.

Gardiner was so little to be trusted."

"You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to

me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could

not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again,

in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced

you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the

sake of discovering them."

"If you _will_ thank me," he replied, "let it be for yourself alone.

That the wish of giving happiness to you, might add force to the other

inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your

_family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe, I thought

only of _you_."

Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause,

her companion added, "You are too generous to trifle with me. If your

feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. _My_

affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence

me on this subject for ever."

Elizabeth feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of

his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not

very fluently, gave him to understand, that her sentiments had undergone

so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make

her receive with gratitude and pleasure, his present assurances. The

happiness which this reply produced, was such as he had probably never

felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as

warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth

been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the

expression of heart-felt delight, diffused over his face, became him;

but, though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of

feelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his

affection every moment more valuable.

They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to

be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She

soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding

to the efforts of his aunt, who _did_ call on him in her return through

London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the

substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on

every expression of the latter, which, in her ladyship's apprehension,

peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance, in the belief that

such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise from

her nephew, which _she_ had refused to give. But, unluckily for her

ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.

"It taught me to hope," said he, "as I had scarcely ever allowed myself

to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain, that,

had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have

acknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly."

Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, "Yes, you know enough of

my _frankness_ to believe me capable of _that_. After abusing you so

abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all

your relations."

"What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your

accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour

to you at the time, had merited the severest reproof. It was

unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence."

"We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that

evening," said Elizabeth. "The conduct of neither, if strictly examined,

will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved

in civility."

"I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I

then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of

it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your

reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: 'had you behaved in a

more gentleman-like manner.' Those were your words. You know not, you

can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;--though it was some

time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice."

"I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an

impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such

a way."

"I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper

feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never

forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible

way, that would induce you to accept me."

"Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at

all. I assure you, that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it."

Darcy mentioned his letter. "Did it," said he, "did it _soon_ make you

think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its

contents?"

She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her

former prejudices had been removed.

"I knew," said he, "that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was

necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part

especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the

power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might

justly make you hate me."

"The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the

preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my

opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily

changed as that implies."

"When I wrote that letter," replied Darcy, "I believed myself perfectly

calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a

dreadful bitterness of spirit."

"The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The

adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings

of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now so

widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant

circumstance attending it, ought to be forgotten. You must learn some

of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you

pleasure."

"I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. _Your_

retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment

arising from them, is not of philosophy, but what is much better, of

ignorance. But with _me_, it is not so. Painful recollections will

intrude, which cannot, which ought not to be repelled. I have been a

selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a

child I was taught what was _right_, but I was not taught to correct my

temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride

and conceit. Unfortunately an only son, (for many years an only _child_)

I was spoilt by my parents, who though good themselves, (my father

particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable,) allowed, encouraged,

almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyond

my own family circle, to think meanly of all the rest of the world, to

_wish_ at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with

my own. Such I was, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I might

still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not

owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most

advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a

doubt of my reception. You shewed me how insufficient were all my

pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased."

"Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?"

"Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be

wishing, expecting my addresses."

"My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally I assure you.

I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead me wrong.

How you must have hated me after _that_ evening?"

"Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began to take

a proper direction."

"I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me; when we met at

Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?"

"No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise."

"Your surprise could not be greater than _mine_ in being noticed by you.

My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I

confess that I did not expect to receive _more_ than my due."

"My object _then_," replied Darcy, "was to shew you, by every civility

in my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped

to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you

see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes

introduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an

hour after I had seen you."

He then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance, and of her

disappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally leading to

the cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution of

following her from Derbyshire in quest of her sister, had been formed

before he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness

there, had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must

comprehend.

She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject to

each, to be dwelt on farther.

After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know

any thing about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that

it was time to be at home.

"What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!" was a wonder which

introduced the discussion of _their_ affairs. Darcy was delighted with

their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information of

it.

"I must ask whether you were surprised?" said Elizabeth.

"Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen."

"That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much." And

though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much

the case.

"On the evening before my going to London," said he "I made a confession

to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I told him of

all that had occurred to make my former interference in his affairs,

absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had the

slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself

mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent

to him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was

unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together."

Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his

friend.

"Did you speak from your own observation," said she, "when you told him

that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?"

"From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visits

which I had lately made her here; and I was convinced of her affection."

"And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to

him."

"It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had

prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but

his reliance on mine, made every thing easy. I was obliged to confess

one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not

allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months

last winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was

angry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained

in any doubt of your sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me

now."

Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful

friend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but she checked

herself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laught at, and it

was rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley,

which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he continued the

conversation till they reached the house. In the hall they parted.