Chapter 35

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 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 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.

ELIZABETH woke the next morning with the same thoughts that had occupied her until she finally fell asleep. She still could not get over her surprise at what had happened. She could think of nothing else and had no desire to do anything. So, soon after breakfast, she decided to treat herself to some fresh air and exercise. She was heading straight for her favourite walk when she remembered that Mr. Darcy sometimes went there. The thought stopped her. Instead of entering the park, she turned up the lane that led her farther from the toll road. The park fence still ran along one side of the lane. She soon passed one of the gates into the grounds.

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.

After walking two or three times along that stretch of the lane, she stopped at the gates. The pleasant morning had tempted her to look into the park. The countryside had changed greatly during her five weeks in Kent. Every day, the trees that came into leaf early were growing greener. She was about to continue her walk when she glimpsed a gentleman among the trees along the park’s edge. He was coming her way, and she immediately began to retreat, afraid he might be Mr. Darcy. But the approaching gentleman was now close enough to see her. He stepped forward eagerly and called her name. She had turned away, but when she heard her name, she moved back towards the gate. She did so even though his voice made it clear that he was Mr. Darcy. By then, he too had reached the gate. He held out a letter, which she took instinctively, and spoke with a proud, composed expression. “I have been walking among the trees for some time, hoping to meet you. Will you do me the honour of reading this letter?” Then, with a slight bow, he turned back into the trees 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:—

Elizabeth expected no pleasure from the letter, but she opened it with intense curiosity. To her growing amazement, the envelope contained two sheets of paper, filled on both sides with small, tightly packed handwriting. The envelope itself was also covered in writing. She began reading as she continued along the lane. The letter was dated from Rosings, at eight o’clock in the morning, and read 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.

“Do not be alarmed, madam, that this letter might repeat the feelings or renew the offers that disgusted you last night. I have no intention of hurting you or humiliating myself by dwelling on my wishes. For the happiness of us both, those wishes cannot be forgotten too soon. I would have spared myself the effort of writing this letter, and you the effort of reading it. But defending my character requires me to write and you to read. You must therefore forgive me for taking the liberty of demanding your attention. I know your feelings will make you unwilling to give me that attention. But I demand your attention out of your sense of 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 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 others, 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 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 godson, 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 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 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 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 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 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.

“Last night you accused me of two offences, very different in nature and by no means equally serious. First, you said I had separated Mr. Bingley from your sister, without caring about either of their feelings. Second, you said I had ruined Mr. Wickham’s present livelihood and future prospects, ignoring his claims on me, honour, and humanity. To abandon him deliberately and without cause would indeed have been deeply wrong. He was my childhood companion, my father’s acknowledged favourite, and a young man almost entirely dependent on our support. He had also been brought up to expect that support. Such wrongdoing could not be compared with separating two young people whose affection could have developed over only a few weeks. But I hope your severe and freely expressed blame on both subjects will end after you read this account. I will explain my actions and my reasons for them. In defending myself, I may have to describe feelings that will offend you. If so, I can only say I am sorry. I must explain myself, and any further apology would be absurd. Soon after arriving in Hertfordshire, I noticed, as others did, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to every other young woman nearby. But only at the Netherfield ball did I begin to suspect that his attachment was serious. I had often seen him in love before. While I had the honour of dancing with you, Sir William Lucas happened to tell me something I had not known. Bingley’s attentions to your sister had led everyone to expect their marriage. Sir William spoke of the marriage as certain, with only the date still undecided. From that moment, I watched my friend closely. I could see that his affection for Miss Bennet went beyond anything I had seen in him before. I watched your sister too. Her expression and manner were as open, cheerful, and charming as ever. But she showed no sign of any special affection for him. After watching her that evening, I remained convinced that she enjoyed his attentions but did not return his feelings. If you have not been mistaken about her feelings, I must have been wrong. Your greater knowledge of your sister makes my mistake more likely. If my mistake has caused her pain, your anger has not been unreasonable. But I will say without hesitation that your sister’s expression and manner were remarkably calm. Even the keenest observer might have concluded that, however sweet her nature, her heart was not easily touched. I certainly wanted to believe she felt no affection for him. But I will venture to say that my hopes and fears do not usually influence my observations or judgments. I did not believe her indifferent because I wanted her to be. My belief came from an impartial judgment, just as my wish came from what I thought reasonable. My objections to the marriage went beyond those I admitted last night had required overwhelming passion to overcome in my own case. Your lack of important family connections mattered less to my friend than to me. But I had other reasons for opposing the marriage. Those reasons still existed and applied equally to both marriages. I had tried to forget them in my own case because they were not directly before me. I must state those reasons, though briefly. The social position of your mother’s family was objectionable. But it was nothing beside the almost constant lack of proper behaviour shown by your mother and your three younger sisters. Even your father sometimes behaved improperly. Forgive me. It pains me to offend you. You may feel distressed by your close relatives’ faults and angry at my description of them. But take comfort in knowing that you and your eldest sister have avoided any share of such criticism. You are both widely praised for your conduct, which does credit to your good sense and character. I will only add that the events of that evening confirmed my opinion of everyone concerned. They strengthened every reason I already had for protecting my friend from what I considered a deeply unhappy marriage. As you certainly remember, he left Netherfield for London the next day, intending to return soon. I must now explain my part in what followed. His sisters were as uneasy as I was. We soon discovered that we shared the same feelings. We all believed we must act quickly to separate their brother from your sister. So we soon decided to follow him directly to London. We went, and I readily took on the task of explaining the certain disadvantages of his choice. I described them and pressed them on him earnestly. But those arguments alone might only have shaken his resolve or delayed his decision. I do not believe they would ultimately have prevented the marriage without my assurance that your sister did not love him. I gave him that assurance without hesitation. He had believed she returned his love sincerely, even if her feelings were less strong. But Bingley is naturally very modest and trusts my judgment more than his own. It was therefore not very difficult to convince him that he had deceived himself. Once convinced, he needed scarcely a moment’s persuasion to give up returning to Hertfordshire. I cannot blame myself for doing so much. Only one part of my conduct in the whole affair gives me any dissatisfaction. I lowered myself to deception by hiding from him that your sister was in London. I knew she was there, as did Miss Bingley. Her brother still does not know. Perhaps they could probably have met without any harmful result. But his affection did not seem sufficiently extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this concealment, this deception, was beneath me. Nevertheless, it is done, and I did it with the best intentions. I have nothing more to say on this subject and no other apology to offer. If I hurt your sister’s feelings, I did so unknowingly. My reasons may quite naturally seem insufficient to you, but I have not yet learned to condemn them. As for the other, more serious accusation, that I harmed Mr. Wickham, I can answer it only with a full account. I must explain his entire connection with my family. I do not know what he has particularly accused me of. But more than one unquestionably truthful witness can confirm what I am about to tell you. Mr. Wickham’s father was a very respectable man who managed all the Pemberley estates for many years. His faithful service naturally made my father wish to help him. My father therefore showed great generosity to George Wickham, who was his godson. My father paid for his schooling and later his education at Cambridge. This was essential help. His own father, always poor because of his wife’s extravagance, could not have afforded a gentleman’s education for him. My father enjoyed this young man’s company, for his manners were always charming. He also thought very highly of him. Hoping Wickham would become a clergyman, my father intended to provide him with a position in the church. I began to form a very different opinion of Wickham many, many years ago. He carefully hid his immoral habits and lack of principle from his greatest friend, my father. But those faults could not escape a young man nearly his own age. I had opportunities to see him off his guard that my father, Mr. Darcy, could never have had. Here again I will cause you pain. Only you can know how much. But whatever feelings Mr. Wickham has inspired in you, my suspicions about those feelings will not stop me revealing his true character. Indeed, those suspicions give me another reason to do so. My excellent father died about five years ago. His affection for Mr. Wickham remained so strong that he specifically recommended him to me in his will. He asked me to advance Wickham’s career as well as his profession allowed. If Wickham became a clergyman, my father wanted him to receive a valuable church living once it became vacant. This was a paid parish position controlled by our family. My father also left him one thousand pounds. Wickham’s own father died not long after mine. Within six months of these deaths, Mr. Wickham wrote to say he had finally decided against becoming a clergyman. He hoped I would think it reasonable to give him money instead of the church position he could not use. He added that he had some intention of studying law. I must understand, he said, that the interest on one thousand pounds would not nearly cover his expenses. I wished he was sincere more than I believed him. In any case, I was perfectly willing to accept his proposal. I knew Mr. Wickham should not be a clergyman. We therefore settled the matter quickly. He gave up every claim to help in the church, should he ever qualify to receive it. In return, he accepted three thousand pounds. All connection between us now seemed ended. I thought too badly of him to invite him to Pemberley or keep his company in London. I believe he lived chiefly in London. But his study of the law was merely a pretence. Free from all restraint, he lived a life of idleness and excess. For about three years, I heard little of him. Then the clergyman holding the position intended for Wickham died. Wickham wrote again, asking me to appoint him to it. He assured me that his finances were in a terrible state, which I had no difficulty believing. He had found the study of law most unprofitable. Now he was absolutely determined to become a clergyman, provided I gave him the position. He trusted there could be little doubt of my agreement. He was certain I had no one else to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my respected father’s wishes. You will hardly blame me for refusing his request or for refusing every time he repeated it. His resentment matched the desperation of his circumstances. He was doubtless as bitter in speaking of me to others as he was in accusing me directly. After this, we dropped every appearance of acquaintance. I do not know how he lived. But last summer he forced himself painfully on my attention again. I must now describe an event I wish I could forget. Nothing less than my present obligation could make me reveal it to anyone. Having said so much, I have no doubt that you will keep it secret. My sister is more than ten years younger than I am. She was placed under the guardianship of my mother’s nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she left school, and a household was set up for her in London. Last summer she went to Ramsgate with the lady in charge of that household. Mr. Wickham went there too, undoubtedly on purpose. We discovered that he already knew Mrs. Younge, whose character we had most unfortunately misjudged. With Mrs. Younge’s secret cooperation and help, he won Georgiana’s affection. Her loving heart still held a strong memory of his kindness to her as a child. He persuaded her to believe herself in love and agree to run away with him. She was only fifteen, which must excuse her. Having described her foolishness, I am happy to add that she herself told me about it. I arrived unexpectedly a day or two before they planned to leave. Georgiana could not bear the thought of hurting and offending a brother she regarded almost as a father. So she confessed everything to me. You may imagine how I felt and what I did. Concern for my sister’s reputation and feelings prevented me from exposing the affair publicly. But I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left immediately. Mrs. Younge was, of course, dismissed from her position. Mr. Wickham’s main aim was unquestionably my sister’s fortune of thirty thousand pounds. But I cannot help thinking that the hope of revenge against me was also a powerful motive. His revenge would indeed have been complete. This, madam, is a truthful account of every event in which we have been involved together. Unless you reject the account entirely as false, I hope you will no longer accuse me of cruelty towards Mr. Wickham. I do not know how he deceived you or what lies he told. But perhaps his success is not surprising. You previously knew nothing about either of us. You had no means of discovering his deception and certainly no wish to suspect him. You may wonder why I did not tell you all this last night. But I was not calm enough then to know what I could or should reveal. Colonel Fitzwilliam, in particular, can confirm the truth of everything I have related. Our close family relationship and constant friendship have necessarily made him familiar with every detail of these dealings. His role as one of the executors of my father’s will has made that knowledge still more unavoidable. If your hatred of me makes my statements worthless, the same reason cannot stop you from trusting my cousin. So that you may have a chance to consult him, I will try to give you this letter during the morning. I will only add, God bless you.