Chapter 16

INSTEAD of receiving any such letter of excuse from his
friend, as Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was
able to bring Darcy with him to Longbourn before many days
had passed after Lady Catherine's visit.  The gentlemen
arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time to tell him
of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in
momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane,
proposed their all walking out.  It was agreed to.  Mrs. Bennet
was not in the habit of walking, Mary could never spare time,
but the remaining five set off together.  Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to outstrip them.  They lagged
behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy, were to entertain
each other.  Very little was said by either; Kitty was too much
afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a
desperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same.
 They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished
to call upon Maria; 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 the moment for her
resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was high,
she immediately said,
 "Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake
of giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may
be wounding your's.  I can no longer help thanking you for
your unexampled kindness to my poor sister.  Ever since I
have known it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to
you how gratefully I feel it.  Were it known to the rest of my
family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express."
"I am sorry, exceedingly sorry," replied Darcy, in a tone of
surprise and emotion, "that you have ever been informed of
what may, in a mistaken 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 to me that you had been concerned in the
matter; and, of course, I could not 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 induced you
to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for
the sake 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 other inducements which led me on, I shall not
attempt to deny.  But your family owe me nothing.  Much as
I respect them, I believe, I thought only 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 your feelings are still what they were last
April, tell me so at once.  My affections and wishes are 
unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever."
Elizabeth feeling all the more than common awkwardness
and anxiety of his situation, now forced herself to speak; and
immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand, 
that her sentiments had undergone so material a change,
since the period to which he alluded, as to make her receive
with gratitude and pleasure, his present assurances.  The
happiness which this reply produced, was such as he had
probably never felt before; and he expressed himself on the
occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love
can be supposed to do.  Had Elizabeth been able to encounter
his eye, she might have seen how well the expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him; but, though
she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of feelings,
which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made
his affection every moment more valuable.
They walked on, without knowing in what direction.  There
was too much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention
to any other objects.  She soon learnt that they were indebted
for their present good understanding to the efforts of his aunt,
who did call on him in her return through London, and there
relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the substance
of her conversation with Elizageth; dwelling emphatically on
every expression of the latter, which, in her ladyship's apprehension, peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance,
in the belief that such a relation must assist her endeavours to
obtain that promise from her nephew, which she had refused
to give.  But, unluckily for her ladyship, its effect had been
exactly contrariwise.
 "It taught me to hope," said he, "as I had scarcely ever
allowed myself to hope before.  I knew enough of your disposition 
to be certain, that, had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have acknowledged it to
Lady Catherine, frankly and openly."
Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, "Yes, you
know enough of my frankness to believe me capable of that.
After abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have
no scruple in abusing you to all your relations."
"What did you say of me, that I did not deserve?  For,
though your accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken
premises, my behaviour to you at the time, had merited the
severest reproof.  It was unpardonable.  I cannot think of it
without abhorrence."
 "We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed
to that evening," said Elizabeth.  "The conduct of neither, if
strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then, we
have both, I hope, improved in civility."
 "I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself.  The recollection
of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been many
months, inexpressibly painful to me.  Your reproof, so well
applied, I shall never forget: ""had you behaved in a more
gentleman-like manner."' Those were your words.  You know
not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me; --
though it was some time, I confess, before I was reasonable
enough to allow their justice."
 "I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so
strong an impression.  I had not the smallest idea of their
being ever felt in such a way."
"I can easily believe it.  You thought me then devoid of every
proper feeling, I am sure you did.  The turn of your countenance 
I shall never forget, as you said that I could not have
addressed you in any possible way, that would induce you to
accept me."
"Oh!  do not repeat what I then said.  These recollections
will not do at all.  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 you think better of me?  Did you, on reading it, give any
credit to its contents?"
She explained what its effect on her had been, and how
gradually all her former prejudices had been removed.
"I knew," said he, "that what I wrote must give you pain,
but it was necessary.  I hope you have destroyed the letter.
There was one part especially, the opening of it, which I
should dread your having the power of reading again.  I can
remember some expressions which might justly make you
hate me."
"The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential
to the preservation of my regard; but, though we have both
reason to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are
not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that implies."
"When I wrote that letter," replied Darcy, "I believed myself perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it
was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit."
"The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end
so.  The adieu is charity itself.  But think no more of the letter.
The feelings of the person who wrote, and the person who
received it, are now so widely different from what they were
then, that every unpleasant circumstance attending it, ought
to be forgotten.  You must learn some of my philosophy.  Think
only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure."
"I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind.
Your retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that
the contentment arising from them, is not of philosophy, but
what is much better, of innocence.  But with me, it is not so.
Painful recollections will intrude, which cannot, which ought
not to be repelled.  I have been a selfish being all my life, in
practice though not in principle.  As a child I was taught what
was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper.  I was
given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and
conceit.  Unfortunately an only son, (for many years an only
child) I was spoilt by my parents, who though good themselves, 
(my father particularly, all that was benevolent and
 amiable,) allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish
and overbearing, to care for none beyond my 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 with
my own.  Such I was, from eight to eight and twenty; and such
I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth!  What do I not owe you!  You taught me a lesson, hard
indeed at first, but most advantageous.  By you, I was properly
humbled.  I came to you without a doubt of my reception,
You shewed me how insufficient were all my pretensions 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 be wishing, 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 take a proper direction."
"I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me,
when we met at Pemberley.  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 I confess that I did not expect
to receive more than my due."
"My object then," replied Darcy, "was to shew you, by every
civility in my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the
past; and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness to lessen your
ill opinion, by letting you see that your reproofs had been
attended to.  How soon any other wishes introduced themselves 
I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an hour
after I had seen you."
He then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance,
and of her disappointment at its sudden interruption; which
naturally leading to the cause of that interruption, she soon
learnt that his resolution of following her from Derbyshire
in quest of her sister, had been formed before he quitted the
inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness there, had arisen
from no other struggles than what such a purpose must
comprehend.
She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful
a subject to each, to be dwelt on farther.
After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too
busy to know any thing about it, they found at last, on
examining their watches, that it was time to be at home.
"What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!" was a
wonder which introduced the discussion of their affairs.
Darcy was delighted with their engagement; his friend had
given him the earliest information of it.
"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."  And though he exclaimed at the term, she found
that it had been pretty much the case.
"On the evening before my going to London," said he "I
made a confession to him, which I believe I ought to have made
long ago.  I told him of all that had occurred to make my former
interference in his affairs, absurd and impertinent.  His surprise 
was great.  He had never had the slightest suspicion.  I
told him, moreover, that I believed myself mistaken in supposing, 
as I had done, that your sister was indifferent to him;
and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was
unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together."
Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of
directing his friend.
"Did you speak from your own observation," said she, "when
you told him that my sister loved him, or merely from my
information last spring?"
"From the former.  I had narrowly observed her during the
two visits which I had lately made here; and I was convinced
of her affection."
"And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate
conviction to him."
"It did.  Bingley is most unaffectedly modest.  His diffidence
had prevented his depending on his own judgment in so
anxious a case, but his reliance on mine, made every thing easy.
I was obliged to confess one thing, which for a time, and not
unjustly, offended him.  I could not allow myself to conceal
that your sister had been in town three months last winter,
that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him.  He was
angry.  But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than
he remained in any doubt of your sister's sentiments.  He has
heartily forgiven me now."
Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been
a most delightful friend; so easily guided that his worth was
invaluable; but she checked herself.  She remembered that he
had yet to learn to be laught at, and it was rather too early to
begin.  In anticipating the happiness of Bingley, which of
course was to be inferior only to his own, he continued the
conversation till they reached the house.  In the hall they
parted.