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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

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." .

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