Hunsford in spring morning

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 any thing 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 her 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.

Looking through the gate

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.

A figure in the grove

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.

Her name called

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.

He is gone

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.

Opening the letter

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:—

Written quite through

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:—

Walking and reading

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:—

Demanded of her justice

"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.

An error admitted

"Two offences 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
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 your's, I can only say that I am sorry.—The
necessity must be obeyed—and farther apology would be absurd.—I
had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
others, that Bingley preferred your eldest 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 an 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 investigations 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 required 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 of 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 eldest 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 which 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 judgment
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 god-son, 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.
As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think
of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities—the
want of principle which he was careful to guard from the knowledge
of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man
of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of
seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have.
Here again I shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell.
But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a
suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his
real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father
died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to
the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it
to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his
profession might allow, and if he took orders, desired that a
valuable family living might be his as soon as soon as it became
vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own
father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these
events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally
resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it
unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary
advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be
benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law,
and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would
be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than
believed him to be sincere; but at any rate, was perfectly ready to
accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a
clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all
claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could
ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three
thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I
thought too ill of him, to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his
society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his
studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all
restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For
about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the
incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied
to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he
assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were
exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study,
and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would
present him to the living in question—of which he trusted there
could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other
person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered
father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to
comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it.
His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his
circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me
to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every
appearance of acquaintance was dropt. How he lived I know not. But
last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I
must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget
myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce
me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no
doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my
junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel
Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from
school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last
summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate;
and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there
proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs.
Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by
her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,
whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his
kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe
herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but
fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her
imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to
herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the
intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea
of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as
a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt
and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings
prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left
the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from
her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my
sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot
help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me, was a
strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.
This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we
have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject
it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty
towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of
falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to
be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of every thing
concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and
suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly
wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then
master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed.
For the truth of every thing here related, I can appeal more
particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our
near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of
the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted
with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of
me should make my assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented
by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may
be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find
some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course
of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.

Her family named

"Two offences 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
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 your's, I can only say that I am sorry.—The
necessity must be obeyed—and farther apology would be absurd.—I
had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
others, that Bingley preferred your eldest 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 an 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 investigations 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 required 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 of 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 eldest 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 which 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 judgment
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 god-son, 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.
As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think
of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities—the
want of principle which he was careful to guard from the knowledge
of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man
of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of
seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have.
Here again I shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell.
But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a
suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his
real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father
died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to
the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it
to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his
profession might allow, and if he took orders, desired that a
valuable family living might be his as soon as soon as it became
vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own
father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these
events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally
resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it
unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary
advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be
benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law,
and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would
be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than
believed him to be sincere; but at any rate, was perfectly ready to
accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a
clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all
claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could
ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three
thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I
thought too ill of him, to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his
society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his
studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all
restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For
about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the
incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied
to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he
assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were
exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study,
and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would
present him to the living in question—of which he trusted there
could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other
person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered
father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to
comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it.
His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his
circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me
to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every
appearance of acquaintance was dropt. How he lived I know not. But
last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I
must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget
myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce
me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no
doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my
junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel
Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from
school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last
summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate;
and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there
proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs.
Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by
her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,
whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his
kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe
herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but
fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her
imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to
herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the
intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea
of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as
a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt
and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings
prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left
the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from
her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my
sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot
help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me, was a
strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.
This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we
have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject
it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty
towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of
falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to
be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of every thing
concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and
suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly
wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then
master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed.
For the truth of every thing here related, I can appeal more
particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our
near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of
the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted
with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of
me should make my assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented
by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may
be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find
some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course
of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.

The concealment line

"Two offences 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
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 your's, I can only say that I am sorry.—The
necessity must be obeyed—and farther apology would be absurd.—I
had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
others, that Bingley preferred your eldest 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 an 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 investigations 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 required 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 of 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 eldest 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 which 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 judgment
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 god-son, 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.
As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think
of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities—the
want of principle which he was careful to guard from the knowledge
of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man
of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of
seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have.
Here again I shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell.
But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a
suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his
real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father
died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to
the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it
to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his
profession might allow, and if he took orders, desired that a
valuable family living might be his as soon as soon as it became
vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own
father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these
events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally
resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it
unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary
advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be
benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law,
and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would
be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than
believed him to be sincere; but at any rate, was perfectly ready to
accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a
clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all
claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could
ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three
thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I
thought too ill of him, to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his
society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his
studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all
restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For
about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the
incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied
to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he
assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were
exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study,
and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would
present him to the living in question—of which he trusted there
could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other
person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered
father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to
comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it.
His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his
circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me
to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every
appearance of acquaintance was dropt. How he lived I know not. But
last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I
must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget
myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce
me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no
doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my
junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel
Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from
school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last
summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate;
and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there
proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs.
Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by
her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,
whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his
kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe
herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but
fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her
imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to
herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the
intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea
of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as
a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt
and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings
prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left
the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from
her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my
sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot
help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me, was a
strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.
This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we
have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject
it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty
towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of
falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to
be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of every thing
concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and
suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly
wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then
master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed.
For the truth of every thing here related, I can appeal more
particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our
near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of
the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted
with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of
me should make my assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented
by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may
be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find
some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course
of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.

Turning to Wickham

"Two offences 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
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 your's, I can only say that I am sorry.—The
necessity must be obeyed—and farther apology would be absurd.—I
had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
others, that Bingley preferred your eldest 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 an 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 investigations 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 required 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 of 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 eldest 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 which 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 judgment
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 god-son, 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.
As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think
of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities—the
want of principle which he was careful to guard from the knowledge
of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man
of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of
seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have.
Here again I shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell.
But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a
suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his
real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father
died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to
the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it
to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his
profession might allow, and if he took orders, desired that a
valuable family living might be his as soon as soon as it became
vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own
father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these
events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally
resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it
unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary
advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be
benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law,
and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would
be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than
believed him to be sincere; but at any rate, was perfectly ready to
accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a
clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all
claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could
ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three
thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I
thought too ill of him, to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his
society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his
studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all
restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For
about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the
incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied
to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he
assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were
exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study,
and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would
present him to the living in question—of which he trusted there
could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other
person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered
father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to
comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it.
His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his
circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me
to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every
appearance of acquaintance was dropt. How he lived I know not. But
last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I
must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget
myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce
me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no
doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my
junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel
Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from
school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last
summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate;
and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there
proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs.
Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by
her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,
whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his
kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe
herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but
fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her
imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to
herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the
intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea
of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as
a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt
and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings
prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left
the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from
her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my
sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot
help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me, was a
strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.
This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we
have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject
it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty
towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of
falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to
be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of every thing
concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and
suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly
wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then
master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed.
For the truth of every thing here related, I can appeal more
particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our
near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of
the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted
with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of
me should make my assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented
by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may
be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find
some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course
of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.

Remembered Pemberley boyhood

"Two offences 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
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 your's, I can only say that I am sorry.—The
necessity must be obeyed—and farther apology would be absurd.—I
had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
others, that Bingley preferred your eldest 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 an 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 investigations 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 required 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 of 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 eldest 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 which 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 judgment
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 god-son, 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.
As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think
of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities—the
want of principle which he was careful to guard from the knowledge
of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man
of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of
seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have.
Here again I shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell.
But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a
suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his
real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father
died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to
the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it
to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his
profession might allow, and if he took orders, desired that a
valuable family living might be his as soon as soon as it became
vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own
father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these
events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally
resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it
unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary
advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be
benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law,
and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would
be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than
believed him to be sincere; but at any rate, was perfectly ready to
accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a
clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all
claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could
ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three
thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I
thought too ill of him, to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his
society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his
studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all
restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For
about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the
incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied
to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he
assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were
exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study,
and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would
present him to the living in question—of which he trusted there
could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other
person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered
father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to
comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it.
His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his
circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me
to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every
appearance of acquaintance was dropt. How he lived I know not. But
last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I
must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget
myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce
me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no
doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my
junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel
Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from
school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last
summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate;
and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there
proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs.
Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by
her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,
whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his
kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe
herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but
fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her
imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to
herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the
intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea
of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as
a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt
and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings
prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left
the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from
her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my
sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot
help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me, was a
strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.
This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we
have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject
it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty
towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of
falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to
be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of every thing
concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and
suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly
wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then
master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed.
For the truth of every thing here related, I can appeal more
particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our
near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of
the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted
with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of
me should make my assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented
by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may
be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find
some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course
of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.

Not fit for orders

"Two offences 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
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 your's, I can only say that I am sorry.—The
necessity must be obeyed—and farther apology would be absurd.—I
had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
others, that Bingley preferred your eldest 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 an 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 investigations 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 required 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 of 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 eldest 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 which 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 judgment
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 god-son, 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.
As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think
of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities—the
want of principle which he was careful to guard from the knowledge
of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man
of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of
seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have.
Here again I shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell.
But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a
suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his
real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father
died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to
the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it
to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his
profession might allow, and if he took orders, desired that a
valuable family living might be his as soon as soon as it became
vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own
father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these
events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally
resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it
unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary
advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be
benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law,
and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would
be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than
believed him to be sincere; but at any rate, was perfectly ready to
accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a
clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all
claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could
ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three
thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I
thought too ill of him, to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his
society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his
studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all
restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For
about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the
incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied
to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he
assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were
exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study,
and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would
present him to the living in question—of which he trusted there
could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other
person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered
father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to
comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it.
His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his
circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me
to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every
appearance of acquaintance was dropt. How he lived I know not. But
last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I
must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget
myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce
me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no
doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my
junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel
Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from
school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last
summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate;
and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there
proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs.
Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by
her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,
whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his
kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe
herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but
fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her
imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to
herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the
intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea
of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as
a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt
and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings
prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left
the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from
her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my
sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot
help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me, was a
strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.
This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we
have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject
it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty
towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of
falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to
be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of every thing
concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and
suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly
wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then
master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed.
For the truth of every thing here related, I can appeal more
particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our
near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of
the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted
with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of
me should make my assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented
by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may
be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find
some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course
of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.

Three thousand pounds

"Two offences 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
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 your's, I can only say that I am sorry.—The
necessity must be obeyed—and farther apology would be absurd.—I
had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
others, that Bingley preferred your eldest 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 an 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 investigations 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 required 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 of 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 eldest 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 which 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 judgment
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 god-son, 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.
As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think
of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities—the
want of principle which he was careful to guard from the knowledge
of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man
of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of
seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have.
Here again I shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell.
But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a
suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his
real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father
died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to
the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it
to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his
profession might allow, and if he took orders, desired that a
valuable family living might be his as soon as soon as it became
vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own
father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these
events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally
resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it
unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary
advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be
benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law,
and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would
be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than
believed him to be sincere; but at any rate, was perfectly ready to
accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a
clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all
claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could
ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three
thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I
thought too ill of him, to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his
society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his
studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all
restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For
about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the
incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied
to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he
assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were
exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study,
and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would
present him to the living in question—of which he trusted there
could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other
person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered
father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to
comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it.
His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his
circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me
to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every
appearance of acquaintance was dropt. How he lived I know not. But
last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I
must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget
myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce
me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no
doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my
junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel
Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from
school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last
summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate;
and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there
proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs.
Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by
her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,
whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his
kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe
herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but
fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her
imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to
herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the
intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea
of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as
a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt
and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings
prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left
the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from
her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my
sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot
help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me, was a
strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.
This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we
have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject
it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty
towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of
falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to
be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of every thing
concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and
suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly
wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then
master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed.
For the truth of every thing here related, I can appeal more
particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our
near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of
the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted
with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of
me should make my assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented
by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may
be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find
some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course
of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.

The second sheet

"Two offences 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
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 your's, I can only say that I am sorry.—The
necessity must be obeyed—and farther apology would be absurd.—I
had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
others, that Bingley preferred your eldest 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 an 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 investigations 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 required 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 of 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 eldest 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 which 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 judgment
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 god-son, 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.
As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think
of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities—the
want of principle which he was careful to guard from the knowledge
of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man
of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of
seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have.
Here again I shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell.
But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a
suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his
real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father
died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to
the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it
to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his
profession might allow, and if he took orders, desired that a
valuable family living might be his as soon as soon as it became
vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own
father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these
events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally
resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it
unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary
advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be
benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law,
and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would
be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than
believed him to be sincere; but at any rate, was perfectly ready to
accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a
clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all
claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could
ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three
thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I
thought too ill of him, to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his
society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his
studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all
restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For
about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the
incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied
to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he
assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were
exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study,
and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would
present him to the living in question—of which he trusted there
could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other
person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered
father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to
comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it.
His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his
circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me
to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every
appearance of acquaintance was dropt. How he lived I know not. But
last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I
must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget
myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce
me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no
doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my
junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel
Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from
school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last
summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate;
and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there
proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs.
Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by
her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,
whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his
kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe
herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but
fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her
imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to
herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the
intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea
of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as
a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt
and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings
prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left
the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from
her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my
sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot
help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me, was a
strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.
This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we
have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject
it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty
towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of
falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to
be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of every thing
concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and
suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly
wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then
master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed.
For the truth of every thing here related, I can appeal more
particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our
near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of
the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted
with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of
me should make my assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented
by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may
be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find
some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course
of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.

Remembered Ramsgate sands

"Two offences 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
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 your's, I can only say that I am sorry.—The
necessity must be obeyed—and farther apology would be absurd.—I
had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
others, that Bingley preferred your eldest 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 an 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 investigations 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 required 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 of 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 eldest 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 which 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 judgment
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 god-son, 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.
As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think
of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities—the
want of principle which he was careful to guard from the knowledge
of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man
of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of
seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have.
Here again I shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell.
But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a
suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his
real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father
died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to
the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it
to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his
profession might allow, and if he took orders, desired that a
valuable family living might be his as soon as soon as it became
vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own
father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these
events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally
resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it
unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary
advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be
benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law,
and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would
be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than
believed him to be sincere; but at any rate, was perfectly ready to
accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a
clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all
claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could
ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three
thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I
thought too ill of him, to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his
society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his
studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all
restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For
about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the
incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied
to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he
assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were
exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study,
and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would
present him to the living in question—of which he trusted there
could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other
person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered
father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to
comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it.
His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his
circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me
to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every
appearance of acquaintance was dropt. How he lived I know not. But
last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I
must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget
myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce
me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no
doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my
junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel
Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from
school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last
summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate;
and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there
proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs.
Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by
her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,
whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his
kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe
herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but
fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her
imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to
herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the
intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea
of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as
a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt
and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings
prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left
the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from
her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my
sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot
help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me, was a
strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.
This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we
have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject
it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty
towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of
falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to
be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of every thing
concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and
suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly
wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then
master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed.
For the truth of every thing here related, I can appeal more
particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our
near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of
the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted
with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of
me should make my assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented
by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may
be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find
some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course
of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.

Only fifteen

"Two offences 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
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 your's, I can only say that I am sorry.—The
necessity must be obeyed—and farther apology would be absurd.—I
had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
others, that Bingley preferred your eldest 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 an 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 investigations 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 required 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 of 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 eldest 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 which 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 judgment
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 god-son, 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.
As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think
of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities—the
want of principle which he was careful to guard from the knowledge
of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man
of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of
seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have.
Here again I shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell.
But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a
suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his
real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father
died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to
the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it
to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his
profession might allow, and if he took orders, desired that a
valuable family living might be his as soon as soon as it became
vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own
father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these
events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally
resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it
unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary
advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be
benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law,
and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would
be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than
believed him to be sincere; but at any rate, was perfectly ready to
accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a
clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all
claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could
ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three
thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I
thought too ill of him, to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his
society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his
studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all
restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For
about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the
incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied
to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he
assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were
exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study,
and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would
present him to the living in question—of which he trusted there
could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other
person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered
father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to
comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it.
His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his
circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me
to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every
appearance of acquaintance was dropt. How he lived I know not. But
last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I
must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget
myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce
me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no
doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my
junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel
Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from
school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last
summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate;
and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there
proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs.
Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by
her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,
whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his
kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe
herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but
fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her
imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to
herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the
intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea
of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as
a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt
and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings
prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left
the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from
her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my
sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot
help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me, was a
strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.
This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we
have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject
it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty
towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of
falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to
be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of every thing
concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and
suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly
wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then
master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed.
For the truth of every thing here related, I can appeal more
particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our
near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of
the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted
with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of
me should make my assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented
by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may
be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find
some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course
of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.

Complete indeed

"Two offences 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
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 your's, I can only say that I am sorry.—The
necessity must be obeyed—and farther apology would be absurd.—I
had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
others, that Bingley preferred your eldest 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 an 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 investigations 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 required 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 of 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 eldest 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 which 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 judgment
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 god-son, 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.
As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think
of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities—the
want of principle which he was careful to guard from the knowledge
of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man
of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of
seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have.
Here again I shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell.
But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a
suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his
real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father
died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to
the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it
to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his
profession might allow, and if he took orders, desired that a
valuable family living might be his as soon as soon as it became
vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own
father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these
events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally
resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it
unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary
advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be
benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law,
and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would
be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than
believed him to be sincere; but at any rate, was perfectly ready to
accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a
clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all
claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could
ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three
thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I
thought too ill of him, to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his
society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his
studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all
restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For
about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the
incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied
to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he
assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were
exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study,
and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would
present him to the living in question—of which he trusted there
could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other
person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered
father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to
comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it.
His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his
circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me
to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every
appearance of acquaintance was dropt. How he lived I know not. But
last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I
must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget
myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce
me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no
doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my
junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel
Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from
school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last
summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate;
and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there
proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs.
Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by
her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,
whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his
kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe
herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but
fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her
imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to
herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the
intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea
of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as
a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt
and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings
prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left
the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from
her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my
sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot
help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me, was a
strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.
This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we
have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject
it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty
towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of
falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to
be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of every thing
concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and
suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly
wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then
master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed.
For the truth of every thing here related, I can appeal more
particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our
near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of
the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted
with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of
me should make my assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented
by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may
be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find
some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course
of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.

Toward Rosings

"Two offences 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
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 your's, I can only say that I am sorry.—The
necessity must be obeyed—and farther apology would be absurd.—I
had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
others, that Bingley preferred your eldest 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 an 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 investigations 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 required 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 of 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 eldest 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 which 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 judgment
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 god-son, 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.
As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think
of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities—the
want of principle which he was careful to guard from the knowledge
of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man
of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of
seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have.
Here again I shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell.
But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a
suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his
real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father
died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to
the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it
to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his
profession might allow, and if he took orders, desired that a
valuable family living might be his as soon as soon as it became
vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own
father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these
events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally
resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it
unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary
advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be
benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law,
and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would
be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than
believed him to be sincere; but at any rate, was perfectly ready to
accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a
clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all
claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could
ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three
thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I
thought too ill of him, to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his
society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his
studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all
restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For
about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the
incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied
to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he
assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were
exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study,
and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would
present him to the living in question—of which he trusted there
could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other
person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered
father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to
comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it.
His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his
circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me
to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every
appearance of acquaintance was dropt. How he lived I know not. But
last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I
must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget
myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce
me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no
doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my
junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel
Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from
school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last
summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate;
and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there
proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs.
Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by
her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,
whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his
kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe
herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but
fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her
imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to
herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the
intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea
of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as
a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt
and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings
prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left
the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from
her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my
sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot
help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me, was a
strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.
This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we
have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject
it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty
towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of
falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to
be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of every thing
concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and
suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly
wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then
master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed.
For the truth of every thing here related, I can appeal more
particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our
near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of
the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted
with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of
me should make my assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented
by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may
be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find
some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course
of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.

The signature

"FITZWILLIAM DARCY."

The empty gate

"FITZWILLIAM DARCY."