PRIDE & PREJUDICE: JANE AUSTEN: CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT

Before many days after the visit of Lady Catherine, Mr Bingley brought his friend Mr Darcy to Longbourn. The gentlemen arrived very early; and before Mrs Bennet had the time to announce the visit of Lady Catherine, Mr Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, suggested that they all go for a walk. 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, allowed the others to outstripp 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 resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same.

They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon Maria; and 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:

"Mr Darcy," said she, "I am a very selfish creature; for the sake of my own feelings, I can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister, excuse me if I wounded your feelings. Ever since I have known it, I have been anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should  have merely my own gratitude to express."

"I am sorry, exceedingly sorry," said 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 have 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 the 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 embarassed 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.

This reply gave him immense happiness. Elizabeth was not able to encounter his eyes, but she could listen, and he told her of his feelings towards her and she was convinced of it.

They walked on, without knowing in what direction. Ther 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 good understanding to the efforts of his aunt, who did call on him, in her return through London, and there related 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. But, unluckily for her ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrary.

"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 decided against me, you would have acknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly."

Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, "yes, you know enough of my frankness to know 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? Though your accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour to you at that 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, 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 gentlemanlike 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 did not expect them to make so strong an impression. I had not the smallest idea that you felt in such a way."

"I can easily believe it. You thought me 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 in any possible way that would induce you to accept me."

"Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recommendations 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 of me better? Did you, on reading it, give any credits to its contents?"

She explained what its effects 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 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 to it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past that gives you pleasure."

"I cannot give you credit for any philosophy. I have been selfish all my life. 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, being only son, and for many years only child, I was spoilt; selfish and overbearing, to care for no one beyond my family, to think meanly of all the rest of the world. Such was I from eight to eight and twenty, and such I might still have been, but for 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 do?"

"Indeed I had. What do you think of my vanity? I believe you to be expecting my addresses."

"My manners must have been in fault. But I never meant to deceive you. My spirits might have driven me to wrong. How you might have hated me after that evening?"

"Hate you! I was angry at first, but it soon began to take a proper direction."

"I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me, when we were at Pemberly. You blamed me for coming?"

"No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise."

"My surprise was more, 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."

"I wanted to show you," said Darcy, "that I was not 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."

He told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance, and of her disappointment at its sudden interruption.

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

Thus they walked on, and found from their watches that it was time to be at home.

Then they discussed about Mr Bingley and Jane. Darcy was delighted with their engagement.

"On the evening before going to London," said Darcy, "I made a confession to him, which I ought to have made long ago. I told him that I was mistaken in my opinion that Jane was indifferent to him."

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 already 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 modest. His diffidence prevented him to depend upon his own judgement. But, his reliance on mine made everything easy. I concealed from him, on purpose, the presence of Jane in the town. He was angry first, but 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. They continued the conversation till they reached the house, and they parted in the hall.

THE END OF CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT