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 anything 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 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 the 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 adding to the 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 offenses 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 the 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 yours, I can only say that I am sorry.

The necessity must be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd.

"I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with others, that

Bingley preferred your elder 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 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 desirous of believing her indifferent is certain--but I will venture

to say that my investigation 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 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 to 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 elder 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 that 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 judgement 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 godson, 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.