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 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 to 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 dropped.
How he lived I know not. But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.
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"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 had
imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously
were of everything 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 everything 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
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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,
"FITZWILLIAM DARCY"
Chapter 36
If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to contain a renewal of his
offers, she had formed no expectation at all of its contents. But such as they were, it may well be
supposed how eagerly she went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited.
Her feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did she first understand
that he believed any apology to be in his power; and steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could
have no explanation to give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong
prejudice against everything he might say, she began his account of what had happened at
Netherfield. She read with an eagerness which hardly left her power of comprehension, and from
impatience of knowing what the next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the
sense of the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister's insensibility she instantly resolved to
be false; and his account of the real, the worst objections to the match, made her too angry to
have any wish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied
her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and insolence.
But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham—when she read with
somewhat clearer attention a relation of events which, if true, must overthrow every cherished
opinion of his worth, and which bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself—her
feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition. Astonishment,
apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely, repeatedly
exclaiming, "This must be false! This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!"—and
when she had gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the last page
or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not regard it, that she would never look in it