after Lady Catherine's visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time to
tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in momentary dread, Bingley,
who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet
was not in the habit of walking; Mary could never spare time; but the remaining five set off
together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to outstrip them. They lagged
behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy were to entertain each other. Very little was said by
either; Kitty was too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a desperate
resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same.
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They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon Maria; and as Elizabeth
saw no occasion for making it a general concern, when Kitty left them she went boldly on with
him alone. Now was the moment for her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was
high, she immediately said:
"Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving relief to my own feelings,
care not how much I may be wounding your's. I can no longer help thanking you for your
unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to
acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not
have merely my own gratitude to express."
"I am sorry, exceedingly sorry," replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise and emotion, "that you have
ever been informed of what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think
Mrs. Gardiner was so little to be trusted."
"You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to me that you had been
concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank
you again and again, in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced
you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of discovering them."
"If you WILL thank me," he replied, "let it be for yourself alone. That the wish of giving
happiness to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt
to deny. But your FAMILY owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of
YOU."
Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause, her companion added,
"You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell
me so at once. MY affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me
on this subject for ever."
Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of his situation, now
forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand that
her sentiments had undergone so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to
make her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The happiness which this
reply produced, was such as he had probably never felt before; and he expressed himself on the
occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had
Elizabeth been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the expression of
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heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him; but, though she could not look, she could
listen, and he told her of feelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made
his affection every moment more valuable.
They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to be thought, and felt,
and said, for attention to any other objects. She soon learnt that they were indebted for their
present good understanding to the efforts of his aunt, who did call on him in her return through
London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the substance of her
conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on every expression of the latter which, in
her ladyship's apprehension, peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance; in the belief that
such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise from her nephew which she had
refused to give. But, unluckily for her ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.
"It taught me to hope," said he, "as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before. I knew
enough of your disposition to be certain that, had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided
against me, you would have acknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly."
Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, "Yes, you know enough of my frankness to
believe me capable of THAT. After abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have no
scruple in abusing you to all your relations."
"What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your accusations were ill-founded,
formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour to you at the time had merited the severest reproof.
It was unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence."
"We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that evening," said Elizabeth.
"The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then, we have
both, I hope, improved in civility."
"I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I then said, of my conduct,
my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been many months,
inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: 'had you behaved
in a more gentlemanlike manner.' Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely
conceive, how they have tortured me;—though it was some time, I confess, before I was
reasonable enough to allow their justice."
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"I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an impression. I had not the
smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a way."
"I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper feeling, I am sure you did.
The turn of your countenance I shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed
you in any possible way that would induce you to accept me."
"Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at all. I assure you that I have
long been most heartily ashamed of it."
Darcy mentioned his letter. "Did it," said he, "did it soon make you think better of me? Did you,
on reading it, give any credit to its contents?"
She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her former prejudices had
been removed.
"I knew," said he, "that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary. I hope you have
destroyed the letter. There was one part especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your
having the power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly make