me to accept it."
Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an expression of mingled
incredulity and mortification. She went on:
"From the very beginning—from the first moment, I may almost say—of my acquaintance with
you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and
your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of
disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike; and I had not
known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be
prevailed on to marry."
"You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only
to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time,
and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness."
And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him the next moment open
the front door and quit the house.
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The tumult of her mind, was now painfully great. She knew not how to support herself, and from
actual weakness sat down and cried for half-an-hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what
had passed, was increased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of marriage
from Mr. Darcy! That he should have been in love with her for so many months! So much in
love as to wish to marry her in spite of all the objections which had made him prevent his friend's
marrying her sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his own case—was almost
incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride,
his abominable pride—his shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane—his
unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not justify it, and the unfeeling
manner in which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not
attempted to deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration of his attachment had for a
moment excited. She continued in very agitated reflections till the sound of Lady Catherine's
carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter Charlotte's observation, and hurried her
away to her room.
Chapter 35
Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations which had at length
closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the surprise of what had happened; it was
impossible to think of anything else; and, totally indisposed for employment, she resolved, soon
after breakfast, to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding directly to her
favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy's sometimes coming there stopped her, and
instead of entering the park, she turned up the lane, which led farther from the turnpike-road. The
park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed one of the gates into the
ground.
After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was tempted, by the pleasantness
of the morning, to stop at the gates and look into the park. The five weeks which she had now
passed in Kent had made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the
verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk, when she caught a
glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which edged the park; he was moving that way;
and, fearful of its being Mr. Darcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced was
now near enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced her name. She
had turned away; but on hearing herself called, though in a voice which proved it to be Mr.
Darcy, she moved again towards the gate. He had by that time reached it also, and, holding out a
letter, which she instinctively took, said, with a look of haughty composure, "I have been
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walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of
reading that letter?" And then, with a slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon
out of sight.
With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter,
and, to her still increasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter-paper,
written quite through, in a very close hand. The envelope itself was likewise full. Pursuing her
way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated from Rosings, at eight o'clock in the morning,
and was as follows:—
"Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any
repetition of those sentiments or renewal of those offers which were last night so disgusting to
you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes
which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the
formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been spared, had not my
character required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which
I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of
your justice.
"Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you last night laid
to my charge. The first mentioned was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had
detached Mr. Bingley from your sister, and the other, that I had, in defiance of various claims, in
defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity and blasted the prospects of
Mr. Wickham. Wilfully and wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the
acknowledged favourite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other dependence than
on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect its exertion, would be a depravity, to
which the separation of two young persons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few
weeks, could bear no comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was last night so
liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in the future secured, when
the following account of my actions and their motives has been read. If, in the explanation of
them, which is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be
offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must be obeyed, and further
apology would be absurd.
"I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with others, that Bingley
preferred your elder sister to any other young woman in the country. But it was not till the
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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