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1They walked towards the Lucases', because Kitty wished to call upon Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making
2it a general concern, when Kitty left them she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the moment for her resolution to
3be executed; and while her courage was high, she immediately said,-- "Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature, and for
4the sake of giving relief to my own feelings care not how much I may be wounding yours. I can no longer help thanking
5you for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I have known it I have been most anxious to acknowledge
6to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family I should not have merely my own gratitude to
7express." "I am sorry, exceedingly sorry," replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise and emotion, "that you have ever been
8informed of what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardiner was so little to be
9trusted." "You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to me that you had been concerned in the
10matter; and, of course, I could not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again, in the name of
11all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications,
12for the sake of discovering them." "If you will thank me," he replied, "let it be for yourself alone. That the wish of
13giving happiness to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your
14family owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of you." Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to
15say a word. After a short pause, her companion added, "You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are
16still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged; but one word from you will
17silence me on this subject for ever." Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of his
18situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand that her
19sentiments had undergone so material a change since the period to which he alluded, as to make her receive with
20gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The happiness which this reply produced was such as he had probably never
21felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can be
22supposed to do. Had Elizabeth been able to encounter his eyes, she might have seen how well the expression of heartfelt
23delight diffused over his face became him: but though she could not look she could listen; and he told her of feelings
24which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his affection every moment more valuable. They walked on
25without knowing in what direction. There was too much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other
26objects. She soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding to the efforts of his aunt, who
27did call on him in her return through London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the substance
28of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on every expression of the latter, which, in her Ladyship's
29apprehension, peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance, in the belief that such a relation must assist her
30endeavours to obtain that promise from her nephew which she had refused to give. But, unluckily for her Ladyship, its
31effect had been exactly contrariwise. "It taught me to hope," said he, "as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope
32before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain, that had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me,
33you would have acknowledged it to Lady Catherine frankly and openly." Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied,
34"Yes, you know enough of my frankness to believe me capable of that. After abusing you so abominably to your face, I
35could have no scruple in abusing you to all your relations." "What did you say of me that I did not deserve? For though
36your accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour to you at the time had merited the severest
37reproof. It was unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence." "We will not quarrel for the greater share of
38blame annexed to that evening," said Elizabeth. "The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable;
39but since then we have both, I hope, improved in civility." "I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The
40recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been
41many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: 'Had you behaved in a
42more gentlemanlike manner.' Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;
43though it was some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice." "I was certainly very far
44from expecting them to make so strong an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a
45way." "I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your
46countenance I shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible way that would induce
47you to accept me." "Oh, do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at all. I assure you that I have
48long been most heartily ashamed of it." Darcy mentioned his letter. "Did it," said he,--"did it soon make you think
49better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?" She explained what its effects on her had been,
50and how gradually all her former prejudices had been removed. "I knew," said he, "that what I wrote must give you pain,
51but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part, especially the opening of it, which I
52should dread your having the power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly make you hate
53me." "The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the preservation of my regard; but, though we
54have both reason to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that
55implies." "When I wrote that letter," replied Darcy, "I believed myself perfectly calm and cool; but I am since
56convinced that it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit." "The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did
57not end so. The adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings of the person who wrote and the
58person who received it are now so widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance
59attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance
60gives you pleasure." "I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. Your retrospections must be so totally
61void of reproach, that the contentment arising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is much better, of ignorance.
62But with me, it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude, which cannot, which ought not to be repelled. I have been
63a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not
64taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. Unfortunately an
65only son (for many years an only child), I was spoiled by my parents, who, though good themselves, (my father
66particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable,) allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing,
67to care for none beyond my own family circle, to think meanly of all the rest of the world, to wish at least to think
68meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I was, from eight to eight-and-twenty; and such I might still
69have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at
70first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed
71me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased." "Had you then persuaded yourself
72that I should?"
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