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 mo-
ment 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 yours. 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 dis-
covering 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 noth-
ing. 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 feel-
ings 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 sub-
ject 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 mate-
rial 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 vio-
lently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth been able to encounter
his eye, she might have seen how well the expression of heartfelt 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 impor-
tance 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 per-
verseness and assurance; in the belief that such a relation must assist her en-
deavours 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 acknowl-
edged 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 abom-
inably 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 accu-
sations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour to
you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was unpardonable. I can-
not 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 re-
proof, so well applied, I shall never forget: 'had you behaved in a more gen-
tlemanlike manner.' Those were your words. You know not, you can scarce-
ly conceive, how they have tortured me;—though it was some time, I con-
fess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice."
"I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an im-
pression. 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 feel-
ing, 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 nec-
essary. 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 bit-
terness 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 retrospec-
tions must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment arising from
them is not of philosophy, but, what is much better, of innocence. 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 fol-
low 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, en-
couraged, 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
showed 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 show you, by every civility in
my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped to ob-
tain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you see that your
reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes introduced them-
selves 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
anything 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 in-
troduced the discussion of their affairs. Darcy was delighted with their en-
gagement; 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 confes-
sion 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 suspi-
cion. 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 per-
ceive that his attachment to her was unabated, I felt no doubt of their happi-
ness 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 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 prevent-
ed 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 con-
ceal 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 her-
self. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laughed 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.
