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 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 investigation
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 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 to 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 elder 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.
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"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 that 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 judgement 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 godson, 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 manner 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.
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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 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 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