Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
CHAPTER XVI.
Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, asElizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcywith him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine'svisit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time totell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat inmomentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposedtheir all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in thehabit of walking, Mary could never spare time, but the remaining fiveset off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others tooutstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy,were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty wastoo much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming adesperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same.
They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call uponMaria; 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 themoment for her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage washigh, she immediately said,
”Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of givingrelief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding your's. Ican no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poorsister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious toacknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the restof my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.”
”I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,” replied Darcy, in a tone of surpriseand emotion, ”that you have ever been informed of what may, in amistaken 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 tome that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I couldnot 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 inducedyou to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for thesake of discovering 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 otherinducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your_family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe, I thoughtonly 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 yourfeelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. _My_affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silenceme on this subject for ever.”
Elizabeth feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety ofhis situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though notvery fluently, gave him to understand, that her sentiments had undergoneso material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to makeher receive with gratitude and pleasure, his present assurances. Thehappiness which this reply produced, was such as he had probably neverfelt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and aswarmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabethbeen able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well theexpression of heart-felt delight, diffused over his face, became him;but, though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her offeelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made hisaffection every moment more valuable.
They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much tobe thought; and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. Shesoon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understandingto the efforts of his aunt, who _did_ call on him in her return throughLondon, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and thesubstance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically onevery expression of the latter, which, in her ladyship's apprehension,peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance, in the belief thatsuch a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise fromher nephew, which _she_ had refused to give. But, unluckily for herladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.
”It taught me to hope,” said he, ”as I had scarcely ever allowed myselfto hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain, that,had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would haveacknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly.”
Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, ”Yes, you know enough ofmy _frankness_ to believe me capable of _that_. After abusing you soabominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to allyour relations.”
”What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though youraccusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviourto you at the time, had merited the severest reproof. It wasunpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.”
”We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to thatevening,” said Elizabeth. ”The conduct of neither, if strictly examined,will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improvedin civility.”
”I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what Ithen said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole ofit, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Yourreproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: 'had you behaved in amore gentleman-like manner.' Those were your words. You know not, youcan scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;--though it was sometime, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.”
”I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong animpression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in sucha way.”
”I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every properfeeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall neverforget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possibleway, that would induce you to accept me.”
”Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do atall. 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 youthink better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to itscontents?”
She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all herformer prejudices had been removed.
”I knew,” said he, ”that what I wrote must give you pain, but it wasnecessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one partespecially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having thepower of reading again. I can remember some expressions which mightjustly make you hate me.”
”The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to thepreservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think myopinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easilychanged as that implies.”
”When I wrote that letter,” replied Darcy, ”I believed myself perfectlycalm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in adreadful bitterness of spirit.”
”The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. Theadieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelingsof the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now sowidely different from what they were then, that every unpleasantcircumstance attending it, ought to be forgotten. You must learn someof my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives youpleasure.”
”I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. _Your_retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentmentarising from them, is not of philosophy, but what is much better, ofignorance. But with _me_, it is not so. Painful recollections willintrude, which cannot, which ought not to be repelled. I have been aselfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As achild I was taught what was _right_, but I was not taught to correct mytemper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in prideand conceit. Unfortunately an only son, (for many years an only _child_)I was spoilt by my parents, who though good themselves, (my fatherparticularly, all that was benevolent and amiable,) allowed, encouraged,almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyondmy 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 withmy own. Such I was, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I mightstill have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I notowe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but mostadvantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without adoubt of my reception. You shewed me how insufficient were all mypretensions 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 bewishing, 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 takea proper direction.”
”I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me; when we met atPemberley. 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 Iconfess that I did not expect to receive _more_ than my due.”
”My object _then_,” replied Darcy, ”was to shew you, by every civilityin my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hopedto obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting yousee that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishesintroduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half anhour after I had seen you.”
He then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance, and of herdisappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally leading tothe cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution offollowing her from Derbyshire in quest of her sister, had been formedbefore he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulnessthere, had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose mustcomprehend.
She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject toeach, to be dwelt on farther.
After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to knowany thing about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, thatit was time to be at home.
”What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!” was a wonder whichintroduced the discussion of _their_ affairs. Darcy was delighted withtheir engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information ofit.
”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.” Andthough he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty muchthe case.
”On the evening before my going to London,” said he ”I made a confessionto him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I told him ofall that had occurred to make my former interference in his affairs,absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had theslightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myselfmistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferentto him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her wasunabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together.”
Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing hisfriend.
”Did you speak from your own observation,” said she, ”when you told himthat my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?”
”From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visitswhich I had lately made her here; and I was convinced of her affection.”
”And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction tohim.”
”It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence hadprevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, buthis reliance on mine, made every thing easy. I was obliged to confessone thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could notallow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three monthslast winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He wasangry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remainedin any doubt of your sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven menow.”
Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightfulfriend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but she checkedherself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laught at, and itwas rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley,which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he continued theconversation till they reached the house. In the hall they parted.
Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, asElizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcywith him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine'svisit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time totell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat inmomentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposedtheir all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in thehabit of walking, Mary could never spare time, but the remaining fiveset off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others tooutstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy,were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty wastoo much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming adesperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same.
They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call uponMaria; 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 themoment for her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage washigh, she immediately said,
”Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of givingrelief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding your's. Ican no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poorsister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious toacknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the restof my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.”
”I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,” replied Darcy, in a tone of surpriseand emotion, ”that you have ever been informed of what may, in amistaken 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 tome that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I couldnot 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 inducedyou to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for thesake of discovering 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 otherinducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your_family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe, I thoughtonly 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 yourfeelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. _My_affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silenceme on this subject for ever.”
Elizabeth feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety ofhis situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though notvery fluently, gave him to understand, that her sentiments had undergoneso material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to makeher receive with gratitude and pleasure, his present assurances. Thehappiness which this reply produced, was such as he had probably neverfelt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and aswarmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabethbeen able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well theexpression of heart-felt delight, diffused over his face, became him;but, though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her offeelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made hisaffection every moment more valuable.
They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much tobe thought; and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. Shesoon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understandingto the efforts of his aunt, who _did_ call on him in her return throughLondon, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and thesubstance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically onevery expression of the latter, which, in her ladyship's apprehension,peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance, in the belief thatsuch a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise fromher nephew, which _she_ had refused to give. But, unluckily for herladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.
”It taught me to hope,” said he, ”as I had scarcely ever allowed myselfto hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain, that,had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would haveacknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly.”
Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, ”Yes, you know enough ofmy _frankness_ to believe me capable of _that_. After abusing you soabominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to allyour relations.”
”What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though youraccusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviourto you at the time, had merited the severest reproof. It wasunpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.”
”We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to thatevening,” said Elizabeth. ”The conduct of neither, if strictly examined,will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improvedin civility.”
”I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what Ithen said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole ofit, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Yourreproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: 'had you behaved in amore gentleman-like manner.' Those were your words. You know not, youcan scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;--though it was sometime, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.”
”I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong animpression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in sucha way.”
”I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every properfeeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall neverforget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possibleway, that would induce you to accept me.”
”Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do atall. 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 youthink better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to itscontents?”
She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all herformer prejudices had been removed.
”I knew,” said he, ”that what I wrote must give you pain, but it wasnecessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one partespecially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having thepower of reading again. I can remember some expressions which mightjustly make you hate me.”
”The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to thepreservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think myopinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easilychanged as that implies.”
”When I wrote that letter,” replied Darcy, ”I believed myself perfectlycalm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in adreadful bitterness of spirit.”
”The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. Theadieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelingsof the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now sowidely different from what they were then, that every unpleasantcircumstance attending it, ought to be forgotten. You must learn someof my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives youpleasure.”
”I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. _Your_retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentmentarising from them, is not of philosophy, but what is much better, ofignorance. But with _me_, it is not so. Painful recollections willintrude, which cannot, which ought not to be repelled. I have been aselfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As achild I was taught what was _right_, but I was not taught to correct mytemper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in prideand conceit. Unfortunately an only son, (for many years an only _child_)I was spoilt by my parents, who though good themselves, (my fatherparticularly, all that was benevolent and amiable,) allowed, encouraged,almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyondmy 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 withmy own. Such I was, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I mightstill have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I notowe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but mostadvantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without adoubt of my reception. You shewed me how insufficient were all mypretensions 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 bewishing, 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 takea proper direction.”
”I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me; when we met atPemberley. 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 Iconfess that I did not expect to receive _more_ than my due.”
”My object _then_,” replied Darcy, ”was to shew you, by every civilityin my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hopedto obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting yousee that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishesintroduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half anhour after I had seen you.”
He then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance, and of herdisappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally leading tothe cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution offollowing her from Derbyshire in quest of her sister, had been formedbefore he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulnessthere, had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose mustcomprehend.
She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject toeach, to be dwelt on farther.
After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to knowany thing about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, thatit was time to be at home.
”What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!” was a wonder whichintroduced the discussion of _their_ affairs. Darcy was delighted withtheir engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information ofit.
”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.” Andthough he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty muchthe case.
”On the evening before my going to London,” said he ”I made a confessionto him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I told him ofall that had occurred to make my former interference in his affairs,absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had theslightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myselfmistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferentto him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her wasunabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together.”
Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing hisfriend.
”Did you speak from your own observation,” said she, ”when you told himthat my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?”
”From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visitswhich I had lately made her here; and I was convinced of her affection.”
”And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction tohim.”
”It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence hadprevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, buthis reliance on mine, made every thing easy. I was obliged to confessone thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could notallow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three monthslast winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He wasangry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remainedin any doubt of your sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven menow.”
Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightfulfriend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but she checkedherself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laught at, and itwas rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley,which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he continued theconversation till they reached the house. In the hall they parted.