Pride and Prejudice
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
ignorance. 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 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. 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 showed 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 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. 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
anything about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that
it was time to be at home.
“What could have 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 her 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 everything 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 laughed 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.
CHAPTER LIX.
“My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?” was a question
which Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she entered the room, and
from all the others when they sat down to table. She had only to say in
reply, that they had wandered about till she was beyond her own
knowledge. She coloured as she spoke; but neither that, nor anything
else, awakened a suspicion of the truth.
The evening passed quietly, unmarked by anything extraordinary. The
acknowledged lovers talked and laughed; the unacknowledged were silent.
Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth;
and Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather _knew_ that she was happy
than _felt_ herself to be so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment,
there were other evils before her. She anticipated what would be felt in
the family when her situation became known: she was aware that no one
liked him but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a
_dislike_ which not all his fortune and consequence might do away.
At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far
from Miss Bennet’s general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here.
“You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be! Engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no,
you shall not deceive me: I know it to be impossible.”
“This is a wretched beginning, indeed! My sole dependence was on you;
and I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I
am in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we
are engaged.”
Jane looked at her doubtingly. “Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much
you dislike him.”
“You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot. Perhaps I
did not always love him so well as I do now; but in such cases as these
a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever
remember it myself.”
Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more
seriously, assured her of its truth.
“Good heaven! can it be really so? Yet now I must believe you,” cried
Jane. “My dear, dear Lizzy, I would, I do congratulate you; but are you
certain--forgive the question--are you quite certain that you can be
happy with him?”
“There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already that we
are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased, Jane?
Shall you like to have such a brother?”
“Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more
delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you
really love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do anything rather than
marry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought
to do?”
“Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do when I
tell you all.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am
afraid you will be angry.”
“My dearest sister, now be, _be_ serious. I want to talk very seriously.
Let me know everything that I am to know without delay. Will you tell me
how long you have loved him?”
“It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began;
but I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds
at Pemberley.”
Another entreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the
desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances of
attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Bennet had nothing
further to wish.
“Now I am quite happy,” said she, “for you will be as happy as myself. I
always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you, I
must always have esteemed him; but now, as Bingley’s friend and your
husband, there can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But,
Lizzy, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you
tell me of what passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know
of it to another, not to you.”
Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling to
mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made
her equally avoid the name of his friend: but now she would no longer
conceal from her his share in Lydia’s marriage. All was acknowledged,
and half the night spent in conversation.
“Good gracious!” cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the next
morning, “if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here again with
our dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always
coming here? I had no notion but he would go a-shooting, or something or
other, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him?
Lizzy, you must walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley’s
way.”
Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal; yet
was really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an
epithet.
As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively, and
shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information;
and he soon afterwards said aloud, “Mrs. Bennet, have you no more lanes
hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?”
“I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty,” said Mrs. Bennet, “to walk