Jane Austin - Pride and Prejudice

happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or

frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as

he chooses to be seen.”

“I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an

ill-tempered man.” Wickham only shook his head.

“I wonder,” said he, at the next opportunity of speaking,

“whether he is likely to be in this country much longer.”

“I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away

when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the

——shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.”

“Oh! no—it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If

_he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on

friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I

have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim

before all the world, a sense of very great ill-usage, and most

painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet,

the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed,

and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company

with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a

thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been

scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and

everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and

disgracing the memory of his father.”

Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and

listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented

further enquiry.

Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the

neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all

that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter with gentle but

very intelligible gallantry.

“It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,” he

added, “which was my chief inducement to enter the ——shire. I

knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend

Denny tempted me further by his account of their present

quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent

acquaintances Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is

necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits

will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society. A

military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances

have now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my

profession—I was brought up for the church, and I should at this

time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it

pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes—the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of

the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively

attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to

provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the

living fell, it was given elsewhere.”

“Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth; “but how could _that_ be? How

could his will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal

redress?”

“There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest

as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have

doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it—or to

treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert

that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance,

imprudence—in short anything or nothing. Certain it is, that the

living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to

hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less

certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done

anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper,

and I may have spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too

freely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are

very different sort of men, and that he hates me.”

“This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.”

“Some time or other he _will_ be—but it shall not be by _me_.

Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_.”

Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him

handsomer than ever as he expressed them.

“But what,” said she, after a pause, “can have been his motive?

What can have induced him to behave so cruelly?”

“A thorough, determined dislike of me—a dislike which I cannot

but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy

liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his

father’s uncommon attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very

early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of

competition in which we stood—the sort of preference which was

often given me.”

“I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this—though I have never

liked him. I had not thought so very ill of him. I had supposed

him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not

suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such

injustice, such inhumanity as this.”

After a few minutes’ reflection, however, she continued, “I _do_

remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the

implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving

temper. His disposition must be dreadful.”

“I will not trust myself on the subject,” replied Wickham; “_I_

can hardly be just to him.”

Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed,

“To treat in such a manner the godson, the friend, the favourite

of his father!” She could have added, “A young man, too, like

_you_, whose very countenance may vouch for your being

amiable”—but she contented herself with, “and one, too, who had

probably been his companion from childhood, connected together,

as I think you said, in the closest manner!”

“We were born in the same parish, within the same park; the

greatest part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the

same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same

parental care. _My_ father began life in the profession which

your uncle, Mr. Phillips, appears to do so much credit to—but he

gave up everything to be of use to the late Mr. Darcy and devoted

all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most

highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential

friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the

greatest obligations to my father’s active superintendence, and

when, immediately before my father’s death, Mr. Darcy gave him a

voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he

felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_, as of his

affection to myself.”

“How strange!” cried Elizabeth. “How abominable! I wonder that

the very pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you! If

from no better motive, that he should not have been too proud to

be dishonest—for dishonesty I must call it.”

“It _is_ wonderful,” replied Wickham, “for almost all his actions

may be traced to pride; and pride had often been his best friend.

It has connected him nearer with virtue than with any other

feeling. But we are none of us consistent, and in his behaviour

to me there were stronger impulses even than pride.”

“Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?”

“Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give

his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants,