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
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 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,


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