CHAPTER LVIII.

1INSTEAD 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. 2The 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. 3It was agreed to. 4Mrs. Bennet was not in the habit of walking, Mary could never spare time, but the remaining five set off together. 5Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to outstrip them. 6They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy were to entertain each other. 7Very 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.

8They 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. 9Now was the moment for her resolution to be executed; and while her courage was high, she immediately said,—

10“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 yours. 11I can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister. 12Ever since I have known it I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. 13Were it known to the rest of my family I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.”

14“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. 15I did not think Mrs. Gardiner was so little to be trusted.”

16“You must not blame my aunt. 17Lydia’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. 18Let 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.”

19“If you will thank me,” he replied, “let it be for yourself alone. 20That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. 21But your family owe me nothing. 22Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of you.”

23Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. 24After a short pause, her companion added, “You are too generous to trifle with me. 25If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. 26My affections and wishes are unchanged; but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.”

27Elizabeth, 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. 28The 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. 29Had Elizabeth been able to encounter his eyes, 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.

30They walked on without knowing in what direction. 31There was too much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. 32She 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 Elizabeth; 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. 33But, unluckily for her Ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.

34“It taught me to hope,” said he, “as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before. 35I 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.”

36Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, “Yes, you know enough of my frankness to believe me capable of that. 37After abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all your relations.”

38“What did you say of me that I did not deserve? 39For though your accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. 40It was unpardonable. 41I cannot think of it without abhorrence.”

42“We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that evening,” said Elizabeth. 43“The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then we have both, I hope, improved in civility.”

44“I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. 45The 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. 46Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: ‘Had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.’ 47Those were your words. 48You 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.”

49“I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an impression. 50I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a way.”

51“I can easily believe it. 52You thought me then devoid of every proper feeling, I am sure you did. 53The 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.”

54“Oh, do not repeat what I then said. 55These recollections will not do at all. 56I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it.”

57Darcy mentioned his letter. 58“Did it,” said he,—“did it soon make you think better of me? 59Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?”

60She explained what its effects on her had been, and how gradually all her former prejudices had been removed.

61“I knew,” said he, “that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary. 62I hope you have destroyed the letter. 63There was one part, especially the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power of reading again. 64I can remember some expressions which might justly make you hate me.”

65“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.”

66“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.”

67“The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. 68The adieu is charity itself. 69But think no more of the letter. 70The 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. 71You must learn some of my philosophy. 72Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure.”

73“I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. 74Your retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment arising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is much better, of ignorance. 75But with me, it is not so. 76Painful recollections will intrude, which cannot, which ought not to be repelled. 77I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. 78As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. 79I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. 80Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only child), I was spoiled 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. 81Such I was, from eight to eight-and-twenty; and such I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! 82What do I not owe you! 83You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. 84By you, I was properly humbled. 85I came to you without a doubt of my reception. 86You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.”

87“Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?”

88“Indeed I had. 89What will you think of my vanity? 90I believed you to be wishing, expecting my addresses.”

91“My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally, I assure you. 92I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead me wrong. 93How you must have hated me after that evening!”

94“Hate you! 95I was angry, perhaps, at first, but my anger soon began to take a proper direction.”

96“I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me when we met at Pemberley. 97You blamed me for coming?”

98“No, indeed, I felt nothing but surprise.”

99“Your surprise could not be greater than mine in being noticed by you. 100My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I confess that I did not expect to receive more than my due.”

101“My object then,” replied Darcy, “was to show 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. 102How soon any other wishes introduced themselves, I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an hour after I had seen you.”

103He 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.

104She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject to each to be dwelt on farther.

105After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know anything about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that it was time to be at home.

106“What could have become of Mr. Bingley and Jane?” was a wonder which introduced the discussion of their affairs. 107Darcy was delighted with their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information of it.

108“I must ask whether you were surprised?” said Elizabeth.

109“Not at all. 110When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.”

111“That is to say, you had given your permission. 112I guessed as much.” 113And though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much the case.

114“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. 115I told him of all that had occurred to make my former interference in his affairs absurd and impertinent. 116His surprise was great. 117He had never had the slightest suspicion. 118I 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.”

119Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his friend.

120“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?”

121“From the former. 122I had narrowly observed her, during the two visits which I had lately made her here; and I was convinced of her affection.”

123“And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to him.”

124“It did. 125Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. 126His diffidence had prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but his reliance on mine made everything easy. 127I was obliged to confess one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. 128I 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. 129He was angry. 130But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained in any doubt of your sister’s sentiments. 131He has heartily forgiven me now.”

132Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful friend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but she checked herself. 133She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laughed at, and it was rather too early to begin. 134In 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. 135In the hall they parted.