Chapter 58

by Jane Austen

　　Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend,as Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able tobring Darcy with him to Longbourn before many days had passedafter Lady Catherine's visit. The gentlemen arrived early;and, before Mrs. Bennet had time to tell him of their havingseen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in momentary dread,Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed their allwalking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in thehabit of walking; Mary could never spare time; but theremaining 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 ofhim to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a desperateresolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same.They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to callupon Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it ageneral concern, when Kitty left them she went boldly on withhim alone. Now was the moment for her resolution to beexecuted, and, while her courage was high, she immediatelysaid,"Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake ofgiving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may bewounding your's. I can no longer help thanking you for yourunexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I have knownit, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you howgratefully 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 ofsurprise and emotion, "that you have ever been informed of whatmay, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did notthink Mrs. Gardiner was so little to be trusted.""You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness firstbetrayed to me that you had been concerned in the matter; and,of course, I could not rest till I knew the particulars. Letme thank you again and again, in the name of all my family,for that generous compassion which induced you to take so muchtrouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the sake ofdiscovering them.""If you will thank me," he replied, "let it be for yourselfalone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might addforce to the other inducements which led me on, I shall notattempt to deny. But your family owe me nothing. Much asI respect them, I believe I thought only of you."Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After ashort pause, her companion added, "You are too generous totrifle with me. If your feelings are still what they werelast April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishesare unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on thissubject for ever."Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness andanxiety of his situation, now forced herself to speak; andimmediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understandthat her sentiments had undergone so material a change, sincethe period to which he alluded, as to make her receive withgratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The happinesswhich this reply produced, was such as he had probably neverfelt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion assensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can besupposed to do. Had Elizabeth been able to encounter hiseye, she might have seen how well the expression of heartfeltdelight, diffused over his face, became him; but, though shecould not look, she could listen, and he told her of feelings,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 wastoo much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention toany other objects. She soon learnt that they were indebtedfor their present good understanding to the efforts of hisaunt, who did call on him in her return through London,and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, andthe substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwellingemphatically on every expression of the latter which, in herladyship's apprehension, peculiarly denoted her perversenessand assurance; in the belief that such a relation must assisther endeavours to obtain that promise from her nephew whichshe 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 everallowed myself to hope before. I knew enough of yourdisposition to be certain that, had you been absolutely,irrevocably decided against me, you would have acknowledgedit to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly."Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, "Yes, you knowenough of my frankness to believe me capable of that.After abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have noscruple in abusing you to all your relations.""What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, thoughyour accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises,my behaviour to you at the time had merited the severestreproof. It was unpardonable. I cannot think of it withoutabhorrence.""We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed tothat evening," said Elizabeth. "The conduct of neither, ifstrictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then, wehave both, I hope, improved in civility.""I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollectionof what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressionsduring the whole of it, is now, and has been many months,inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, Ishall never forget: ``had you behaved in a more gentleman-likemanner.'' Those were your words. You know not, you canscarcely conceive, how they have tortured me; -- though it wassome time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allowtheir justice.""I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strongan impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being everfelt in such a way.""I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid ofevery proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of yourcountenance I shall never forget, as you said that I couldnot have addressed you in any possible way that would induceyou to accept me.""Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollectionswill not do at all. I assure you that I have long been mostheartily ashamed of it."Darcy mentioned his letter. "Did it," said he, "did it soonmake you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give anycredit to its contents?"She explained what its effect on her had been, and howgradually 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 Ishould dread your having the power of reading again. I canremember some expressions which might justly make you hate me.""The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe itessential to the preservation of my regard; but, though we haveboth reason to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, theyare not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that implies.""When I wrote that letter," replied Darcy, "I believed myselfperfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it waswritten in a dreadful bitterness of spirit.""The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not endso. The adieu is charity itself. But think no more of theletter. The feelings of the person who wrote, and the personwho received it, are now so widely different from what theywere then, that every unpleasant circumstance attending itought 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, thatthe contentment arising from them is not of philosophy, but,what is much better, of innocence. But with me, it is notso. Painful recollections will intrude which cannot, whichought not, to be repelled. I have been a selfish being all mylife, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I wastaught what was right, but I was not taught to correct mytemper. I was given good principles, but left to follow themin pride and conceit. Unfortunately an only son (for manyyears an only child), I was spoilt by my parents, who, thoughgood themselves (my father, particularly, all that wasbenevolent and amiable), allowed, encouraged, almost taught meto be selfish and overbearing; to care for none beyond my ownfamily circle; to think meanly of all the rest of the world; towish at least to think meanly of their sense and worthcompared with my own. Such I was, from eight to eight andtwenty; and such I might still have been but for you, dearest,loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You taught me alesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you,I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of myreception. 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 believedyou 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 spiritsmight often lead me wrong. How you must have hated me afterthat evening?""Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soonbegan to take a proper direction.""I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me, when wemet at Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?""No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise.""Your surprise could not be greater than mine in beingnoticed by you. My conscience told me that I deserved noextraordinary politeness, and I confess that I did not expectto receive more than my due.""My object then," replied Darcy, "was to shew you, by everycivility in my power, that I was not so mean as to resent thepast; and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen yourill opinion, by letting you see that your reproofs had beenattended to. How soon any other wishes introduced themselvesI can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an hour afterI had seen you."He then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance,and of her disappointment at its sudden interruption; whichnaturally leading to the cause of that interruption, she soonlearnt that his resolution of following her from Derbyshire inquest of her sister had been formed before he quitted the inn,and that his gravity and thoughtfulness there had arisen fromno other struggles than what such a purpose must comprehend.She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful asubject to each, to be dwelt on farther.After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busyto know any thing about it, they found at last, on examiningtheir watches, that it was time to be at home."What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!" was a wonderwhich introduced the discussion of their affairs. Darcywas delighted with their engagement; his friend had givenhim 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 soonhappen.""That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed asmuch." And though he exclaimed at the term, she found that ithad been pretty much the case."On the evening before my going to London," said he, "I made aconfession to him, which I believe I ought to have made longago. I told him of all that had occurred to make my formerinterference in his affairs absurd and impertinent. Hissurprise was great. He had never had the slightest suspicion.I told him, moreover, that I believed myself mistaken insupposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent tohim; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to herwas unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together."Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner ofdirecting his friend."Did you speak from your own observation," said she, "whenyou told him that my sister loved him, or merely from myinformation last spring?""From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the twovisits which I had lately made here; and I was convinced of heraffection.""And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediateconviction to him.""It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidencehad prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious acase, but his reliance on mine made every thing easy. I wasobliged to confess one thing, which for a time, and notunjustly, offended him. I could not allow myself to concealthat your sister had been in town three months last winter,that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He wasangry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer thanhe remained in any doubt of your sister's sentiments. He hasheartily forgiven me now."Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a mostdelightful friend; so easily guided that his worth wasinvaluable; but she checked herself. She remembered that hehad yet to learn to be laughed at, and it was rather too earlyto begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley, which ofcourse was to be inferior only to his own, he continued theconversation till they reached the house. In the hall theyparted.