Volume II, Chapter XIII

CHAPTER XIII

If Edward, when Mr. Darcy gave him the letter, did not expect it to contain a renewal of his affection, he had formed no expectation at all of its contents. But such as they were, it may well be supposed how eagerly he went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited. His feelings as he read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did he first understand that Mr. Darcy believed any apology to be in his power; and stedfastly was he persuaded that the gentleman could have no explanation to give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong prejudice against every thing he might say, he began the account of what had happened at Netherfield. He read, with an eagerness which hardly left him power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing what the next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of the one before his eyes. Mr. Darcy's belief of Jane's insensibility he instantly resolved to be false, and his account of the real, the worst objections to the match, made him too angry to have any wish of doing the gentleman justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied him; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and insolence.

But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham, when he read with somewhat clearer attention, a relation of events which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself, Edward's feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition. Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed him. He wished to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, 'This must be false! This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!'—and when he had gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing any thing of the last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that he would not regard it, that he would never look in it again.

In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing, he walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the letter was unfolded again, and collecting himself as well as he could, he again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and commanded himself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence. The account of his connection with the Pemberley family, was exactly what Wickham had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though Edward had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with Wickham's own words. So far each recital confirmed the other: but when he came to the will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living was fresh in his memory, and as he recalled the very words, it was impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the other; and, for a few moments, he flattered himself that his wishes did not err. But when he read, and re-read with the closest attention, the particulars immediately following of Wickham's resigning all pretensions to the living, of his receiving in lieu, so considerable a sum as three thousand pounds, again was he forced to hesitate. He put down the letter, weighed every circumstance with what he meant to be impartiality—deliberated on the probability of each statement—but with little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again he read on. But every line proved more clearly that the affair, which he had believed it impossible that any contrivance could so represent, as to render Mr. Darcy's conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole.

The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay at Mr. Wickham's charge, exceedingly shocked him; the more so, as he could bring no proof of its injustice. He had never heard of the gentleman before his entrance into the —shire Militia, in which he had engaged at the persuasion of the young man, who, on meeting him accidentally in town, had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life, nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As to his real character, had information been in Edward's power, he had never felt a wish of inquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner, had established him at once in the possession of every virtue. He tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those casual errors, under which he would endeavour to class, what Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many years continuance. But no such recollection befriended him. He could see Wickham instantly before him, in every charm of air and address; but he could remember no more substantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and the regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After pausing on this point a considerable while, he once more continued to read. But, alas! the story which followed of his designs on Miss Darcy, received some confirmation from what had been said by Colonel Fitzwilliam only the morning before; and at last he was referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam himself—from whom he had previously received the information of his near concern in all his cousin's affairs, and whose character he had no reason to question. At one time he had almost resolved on applying to him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and at length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his cousin's corroboration.

Edward perfectly remembered every thing that had passed in conversation between Wickham and himself, in their first evening at Mr. Philips's. Many of his expressions were still fresh in his memory. He was now struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped him before. He saw the indelicacy of Wickham's putting himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his conduct. He remembered that the gentleman had boasted of having no fear of seeing Mr. Darcy—that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that he should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball the very next week. He remembered also, that till the Netherfield family had quitted the country, Wickham had told his story to no one but himself; but that after their removal, it had been every where discussed; that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy's character, though he had assured Edward that respect for the father, would always prevent his exposing the son.

How differently did every thing now appear in which he was concerned! His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of Edward's fortune proved no longer the moderation of Wickham's wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at any thing. His behaviour to Edward could now have had no tolerable motive; he had either been deceived with regard to his fortune, or had been gratifying his vanity by encouraging the preference which Edward believed he had most incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in Wickham's favour grew fainter and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, he could not but allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago asserted his blamelessness in the affair; that proud and repulsive as were the gentleman's manners, Edward had never, in the whole course of their acquaintance, an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much together, and given him a sort of intimacy with Darcy's ways, seen any thing that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust—any thing that spoke him of irreligious habits, beyond their shared predilection. That among his own connections Mr. Darcy was esteemed and valued—that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a brother, and that he had often spoken so affectionately of his sister as to prove him capable of some amiable feeling. That had his actions been what Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of every thing right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and that friendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man as Mr. Bingley, was incomprehensible.

Edward grew absolutely ashamed of himself.—Of neither Darcy nor Wickham could he think, without feeling he had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd.

'How despicably have I acted!' he cried.—'I, who have prided myself on my discernment!—I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity, in useless or blameable mistrust!—How humiliating is this discovery!—Yet, how just a humiliation!—Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has been my folly.—Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were concerned. Till this moment, I never knew myself.'

From himself to Jane—from Jane to Bingley, his thoughts were in a line which soon brought to his recollection that Mr. Darcy's explanation there, had appeared very insufficient; and he read it again. Widely different was the effect of a second perusal.—How could he deny that credit to the gentleman's assertions, in one instance, which he had been obliged to give in the other?—Darcy declared himself to be totally unsuspicious of his sister's attachment;—and Edward could not help remembering what Charles's opinion had always been.—Neither could he deny the justice of Darcy's description of Jane.—Edward felt that Jane's feelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a constant complacency in her air and manner, not often united with great sensibility.

When he came to that part of the letter in which his family were mentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, his sense of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck him too forcibly for denial, and the circumstances to which Darcy particularly alluded as having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind than on Edward's.

The compliment to himself and his sister, was not unfelt. It soothed, but it could not console him for the contempt which had been thus self-attracted by the rest of his family;—and as he considered that Jane's disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt by such impropriety of conduct, he felt depressed beyond any thing he had ever known before.

After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every variety of thought; reconsidering events, determining probabilities, and reconciling himself as well as he could, to a change so sudden and so important, fatigue, and a recollection of his long absence, made him at length return home; and he entered the house with the wish of appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such reflections as must make him unfit for conversation.

He was immediately told, that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each called during his absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes to take leave, but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been with them at least an hour, walking in the gardens of the Parsonage with Maria, hoping for Edward's return, and almost resolving to walk after him till he could be found.—Edward could but just affect concern in missing him; he really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no longer an object. He could think only of his letter.