If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it
to contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all
of its contents. But such as they were, it may well be supposed how
eagerly she went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they
excited. Her feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With
amazement did she first understand that he believed any apology to be in
his power; and steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could have no
explanation to give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With
a strong prejudice against everything he might say, she began his
account of what had happened at Netherfield. She read with an eagerness
which hardly left her power of comprehension, and from impatience of
knowing what the next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending
to the sense of the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister's
insensibility she instantly resolved to be false; and his account of the
real, the worst objections to the match, made her too angry to have any
wish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done
which satisfied her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all
pride and insolence.
But when this subject was succeeded by his
account of Mr. Wickham--when she read with somewhat clearer attention a
relation of events which, if true, must overthrow every cherished
opinion of his worth, and which bore so alarming an affinity to his own
history of himself--her feelings were yet more acutely painful and more
difficult of definition. Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror,
oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely, repeatedly
exclaiming, "This must be false! This cannot be! This must be the
grossest falsehood!"--and when she had gone through the whole letter,
though scarcely knowing anything of the last page or two, put it hastily
away, protesting that she would not regard it, that she would never
look in it again.
In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts
that could rest on nothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a
minute the letter was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as
she could, she again began the mortifying perusal of all that related
to Wickham, and commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of
every sentence. The account of his connection with the Pemberley family
was exactly what he had related himself; and the kindness of the late
Mr. Darcy, though she had not before known its extent, agreed equally
well with his own words. So far each recital confirmed the other; but
when she came to the will, the difference was great. What Wickham had
said of the living was fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very
words, it was impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on
one side or the other; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself
that her wishes did not err. But when she read and re-read with the
closest attention, the particulars immediately following of Wickham's
resigning all pretensions to the living, of his receiving in lieu so
considerable a sum as three thousand pounds, again was she forced to
hesitate. She put down the letter, weighed every circumstance with what
she meant to be impartiality--deliberated on the probability of each
statement--but with little success. On both sides it was only assertion.
Again she read on; but every line proved more clearly that the affair,
which she had believed it impossible that any contrivance could so
represent as to render Mr. Darcy's conduct in it less than infamous, was
capable of a turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the
whole.
The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled
not to lay at Mr. Wickham's charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more
so, as she could bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of
him before his entrance into the ----shire Militia, in which he had
engaged at the persuasion of the young man who, on meeting him
accidentally in town, had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his
former way of life nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he
told himself. As to his real character, had information been in her
power, she had never felt a wish of inquiring. His countenance, voice,
and manner had established him at once in the possession of every
virtue. She tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some
distinguished trait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him
from the attacks of Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of
virtue, atone for those casual errors under which she would endeavour to
class what Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many
years' continuance. But no such recollection befriended her. She could
see him instantly before her, in every charm of air and address; but she
could remember no more substantial good than the general approbation of
the neighbourhood, and the regard which his social powers had gained
him in the mess. After pausing on this point a considerable while, she
once more continued to read. But, alas! the story which followed, of his
designs on Miss Darcy, received some confirmation from what had passed
between Colonel Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at
last she was referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel
Fitzwilliam himself--from whom she had previously received the
information of his near concern in all his cousin's affairs, and whose
character she had no reason to question. At one time she had almost
resolved on applying to him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness
of the application, and at length wholly banished by the conviction
that Mr. Darcy would never have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not
been well assured of his cousin's corroboration.
She perfectly
remembered everything that had passed in conversation between Wickham
and herself, in their first evening at Mr. Phillips's. Many of his
expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was _now_ struck with
the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered it
had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself
forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with
his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear of
seeing Mr. Darcy--that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that _he_
should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball the
very next week. She remembered also that, till the Netherfield family
had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but herself;
but that after their removal it had been everywhere discussed; that he
had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy's character,
though he had assured her that respect for the father would always
prevent his exposing the son.
How differently did everything now
appear in which he was concerned! His attentions to Miss King were now
the consequence of views solely and hatefully mercenary; and the
mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer the moderation of his wishes,
but his eagerness to grasp at anything. His behaviour to herself could
now have had no tolerable motive; he had either been deceived with
regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his vanity by encouraging
the preference which she believed she had most incautiously shown. Every
lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter and fainter; and in
farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not but allow Mr. Bingley,
when questioned by Jane, had long ago asserted his blamelessness in the
affair; that proud and repulsive as were his manners, she had never, in
the whole course of their acquaintance--an acquaintance which had
latterly brought them much together, and given her a sort of intimacy
with his ways--seen anything that betrayed him to be unprincipled or
unjust--anything that spoke him of irreligious or immoral habits; that
among his own connections he was esteemed and valued--that even Wickham
had allowed him merit as a brother, and that she had often heard him
speak so affectionately of his sister as to prove him capable of _some_
amiable feeling; that had his actions been what Mr. Wickham represented
them, so gross a violation of everything right could hardly have been
concealed from the world; and that friendship between a person capable
of it, and such an amiable man as Mr. Bingley, was incomprehensible.
She
grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham could
she think without feeling she had been blind, partial, prejudiced,
absurd.
"How despicably I have acted!" she cried; "I, who have
prided myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my
abilities! who have often disdained the generous candour of my sister,
and gratified my vanity in useless or blameable mistrust! How
humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been
in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind! But vanity, not
love, has been my folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and
offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our
acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven
reason away, where either were concerned. Till this moment I never knew
myself."
From herself to Jane--from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts
were in a line which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy's
explanation _there_ had appeared very insufficient, and she read it
again. Widely different was the effect of a second perusal. How could
she deny that credit to his assertions in one instance, which she had
been obliged to give in the other? He declared himself to be totally
unsuspicious of her sister's attachment; and she could not help
remembering what Charlotte's opinion had always been. Neither could she
deny the justice of his description of Jane. She felt that Jane's
feelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a
constant complacency in her air and manner not often united with great
sensibility.
When she came to that part of the letter in which her
family were mentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited
reproach, her sense of shame was severe. The justice of the charge
struck her too forcibly for denial, and the circumstances to which he
particularly alluded as having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as
confirming all his first disapprobation, could not have made a stronger
impression on his mind than on hers.
The compliment to herself and
her sister was not unfelt. It soothed, but it could not console her for
the contempt which had thus been self-attracted by the rest of her
family; and as she considered that Jane's disappointment had in fact
been the work of her nearest relations, and reflected how materially the
credit of both must be hurt by such impropriety of conduct, she felt
depressed beyond anything she had ever known before.
After
wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every variety of
thought--re-considering events, determining probabilities, and
reconciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and so
important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made her at
length return home; and she entered the house with the wish of appearing
cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such reflections as
must make her unfit for conversation.
She was immediately told
that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each called during her absence;
Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes, to take leave--but that Colonel
Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for her
return, and almost resolving to walk after her till she could be found.
Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern in missing him; she really
rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no longer an object; she could
think only of her letter. _