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- pride-and-prejudice
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- scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These
bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater
policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my
being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by
reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.
Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just.
Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your
connections?--to congratulate myself on the hope of relations whose
condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?”
Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to
the utmost to speak with composure when she said,--
“You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your
declaration affected me in any other way than as it spared me the
concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a
more gentlemanlike manner.”
She saw him start at this; but he said nothing, and she continued,--
“You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way
that would have tempted me to accept it.”
Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an
expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on,--
“From the very beginning, from the first moment, I may almost say, of my
acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest
belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the
feelings of others, were such as to form that groundwork of
disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immovable a
dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the
last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”
“You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your
feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been.
Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best
wishes for your health and happiness.”
And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him
the next moment open the front door and quit the house. The tumult of
her mind was now painfully great. She knew not how to support herself,
and, from actual weakness, sat down and cried for half an hour. Her
astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was increased by
every review of it. That she should receive an offer of marriage from
Mr. Darcy! that he should have been in love with her for so many months!
so much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all the objections
which had made him prevent his friend’s marrying her sister, and which
must appear at least with equal force in his own case, was almost
incredible! it was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so strong
an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride, his shameless avowal
of what he had done with respect to Jane, his unpardonable assurance in
acknowledging, though he could not justify it, and the unfeeling manner
which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not
attempted to deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration of his
attachment had for a moment excited.
She continued in very agitating reflections till the sound of Lady
Catherine’s carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter
Charlotte’s observation, and hurried her away to her room.
[Illustration:
“Hearing herself called”
]
CHAPTER XXXV.
[Illustration]
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.
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 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.