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 sur-
prise of what had happened; it was impossible to think of anything else;
and, totally indisposed for employment, she resolved, soon after breakfast,
to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding directly to her
favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy's sometimes coming
there stopped her, and instead of entering the park, she turned up the lane,
which led farther from the turnpike-road. The park paling was still the
boundary on one side, and she soon passed one of the gates into the ground.
After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was
tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and look
into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent had made a
great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the verdure of
the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk, when she
caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which edged the
park; he was moving that way; and, fearful of its being Mr. Darcy, she was
directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now near enough to
see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced her name. She
had turned away; but on hearing herself called, though in a voice which
proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the gate. He had by that
time reached it also, and, holding out a letter, which she instinctively took,
said, with a look of haughty composure, "I have been walking in the grove
some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of read-
ing that letter?" And then, with a slight bow, turned again into the planta-
tion, and was soon out of sight.
With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity, Eliza-
beth opened the letter, and, to her still increasing wonder, perceived an en-
velope 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 hap-
piness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the for-
mation and the perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been
spared, had not my character required it to be written and read. You must,
therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your
feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice.
"Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of equal mag-
nitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was, that, re-
gardless 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 sever-
ity of that blame which was last night so liberally bestowed, respecting each
circumstance, I shall hope to be in the future secured, when the following
account of my actions and their motives has been read. If, in the explanation
of them, which is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feel-
ings which may be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The
necessity must be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd.
"I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with oth-
ers, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any other young woman in
the country. But it was not till the evening of the dance at Netherfield that I
had any apprehension of his feeling a serious attachment. I had often seen
him in love before. At that ball, while I had the honour of dancing with you,
I was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas's accidental information,
that Bingley's attentions to your sister had given rise to a general expecta-
tion 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 be-
haviour attentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss
Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also
watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever,
but without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced
from the evening's scrutiny, that though she received his attentions with
pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of sentiment.
If you have not been mistaken here, I must have been in error. Your superior
knowledge of your sister must make the latter probable. If it be so, if I have
been misled by such error to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not
been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert, that the serenity of your
sister's countenance and air was such as might have given the most acute
observer a conviction that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not
likely to be easily touched. That I was desirous of believing her indifferent
is certain—but I will venture to say that my investigation and decisions are
not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did not believe her to be in-
different 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 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 imme-
diately before me. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situa-
tion of your mother's family, though objectionable, was nothing in compari-
son to that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly be-
trayed 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 repre-
sentation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that, to have con-
ducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure, is praise no
less generally bestowed on you and your elder sister, than it is honourable
to the sense and disposition of both. I will only say farther that from what
passed that evening, my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every in-
ducement heightened which could have led me before, to preserve my
friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. He left Nether-
field 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 accord-
ingly went—and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my
friend the certain evils of such a choice. I described, and enforced them
earnestly. But, however this remonstrance might have staggered or delayed
his determination, I do not suppose that it would ultimately have prevented
the marriage, had it not been seconded by the assurance that I hesitated not
in giving, of your sister's indifference. He had before believed her to return
his affection with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley has great
natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgement than on his
own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself, was no very
difficult point. To persuade him against returning into Hertfordshire, when
that conviction had been given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I can-
not 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 unknow-
ingly 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 con-
duct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of ser-
vice to him; and on George Wickham, who was his godson, his kindness
was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and
afterwards at Cambridge—most important assistance, as his own father, al-
ways poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to
give him a gentleman's education. My father was not only fond of this
young man's society, whose manner were always engaging; he had also the
highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be his profession, in-
tended 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 propensi-
ties—the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowl-
edge 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 recom-
mended 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 fami-
ly living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was also a legacy
of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long survive mine, and
within half a year from these events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that,
having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it
unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage,
in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be benefited. He had some
intention, he added, of studying law, and I must be aware that the interest of
one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient support therein. I rather
wished, than believed him to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly
ready to accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a
clergyman; the business was therefore soon settled—he resigned all claim
to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situa-
tion to receive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connec-
tion 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 unprof-
itable 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 hard-
ly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every
repetition to it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his cir-
cumstances—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 acquain-
tance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But last summer he was again
most painfully obtruded on my notice.
"I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget my-
self, and which no obligation less than the present should induce me to un-
fold 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, acknowl-
edged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Re-
gard 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 had imposed on you;
but his success is not perhaps to be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously
were of everything concerning either, detection could not be in your power,
and suspicion certainly not in your inclination.
"You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night; but I
was not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be
revealed. For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more particu-
larly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our near relation-
ship 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"
