Chapter 12

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 tte 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 addy inhe 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 delirious 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  Her ng 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."