No description can describe her. She must tell you herself what she is – yet not by word, for never was there a human creature who would so desig- nedly suppress her own merit. – Since I began this letter, which will be longer than I foresaw, I have heard from her. – She gives a good account of her own health; but as she never complains, I dare not depend. I want to have your opinion of her looks. I know you will soon call on her; she is living in dread of the visit. Perhaps it is paid already. Let me hear from you without delay; I am impatient for a thousand particulars. Remember how few minutes I was at Randalls, and in how bewildered, how mad a state: and I am not much better yet; still insane either from happiness or misery. When I think of the kindness and favour I have met with, of her excellence and patience, and my uncle’s generosity, I am mad with joy: but when I recollect all the uneasiness I occasioned her, and how little I deserve to be forgiven, I am mad with anger. If I could but see her again! – But I must not propose it yet. My uncle has been too good for me to en- croach. – I must still add to this long letter. You have not heard all that you ought to hear. I could not give any connected detail yesterday; but the suddenness, and, in one light, the unseasonableness with which the affair burst out, needs explanation; for though the event of the 26th ult., as you will conclude, immediately opened to me the happiest prospects, I should not have presumed on such early measures, but from the very particular circumstances, which left me not an hour to lose. I should myself have shrunk from any thing so hasty, and she would have felt every scruple of mine with multiplied strength and refinement. – But I had no choice. The hasty engagement she had entered into with that woman – Here, my dear madam, I was obliged to leave off abruptly, to recollect and compose my- self. – I have been walking over the country, and am now, I hope, rational enough to make the rest of my letter what it ought to be. – It is, in fact, a most mortifying retrospect for me. I behaved shamefully. And here I can admit, that my manners to Miss W., in being unpleasant to Miss F., were highly blameable. She disapproved them, which ought to have been enough. – My plea of concealing the truth she did not think sufficient. – She was displeased; I thought unreasonably so: I thought her, on a thou- sand occasions, unnecessarily scrupulous and cautious: I thought her even cold. But she was always right. If I had followed her judgment, and sub- dued my spirits to the level of what she deemed proper, I should have es- caped the greatest unhappiness I have ever known. – We quarrelled. – Do
you remember the morning spent at Donwell? – There every little dissa- tisfaction that had occurred before came to a crisis. I was late; I met her walking home by herself, and wanted to walk with her, but she would not suffer it. She absolutely refused to allow me, which I then thought most unreasonable. Now, however, I see nothing in it but a very natural and consistent degree of discretion. While I, to blind the world to our engage- ment, was behaving one hour with objectionable particularity to another woman, was she to be consenting the next to a proposal which might have made every previous caution useless? – Had we been met walking togeth- er between Donwell and Highbury, the truth must have been suspected. – I was mad enough, however, to resent. – I doubted her affection. I doubted it more the next day on Box Hill; when, provoked by such conduct on my side, such shameful, insolent neglect of her, and such apparent devotion to Miss W., as it would have been impossible for any woman of sense to en- dure, she spoke her resentment in a form of words perfectly intelligible to me. – In short, my dear madam, it was a quarrel blameless on her side, abominable on mine; and I returned the same evening to Richmond, though I might have stayed with you till the next morning, merely because I would be as angry with her as possible. Even then, I was not such a fool as not to mean to be reconciled in time; but I was the injured person, in- jured by her coldness, and I went away determined that she should make the first advances. – I shall always congratulate myself that you were not of the Box Hill party. Had you witnessed my behaviour there, I can hardly suppose you would ever have thought well of me again. Its effect upon her appears in the immediate resolution it produced: as soon as she found I was really gone from Randalls, she closed with the offer of that officious Mrs. Elton; the whole system of whose treatment of her, by the by, has ev- er filled me with indignation and hatred. I must not quarrel with a spirit of forbearance which has been so richly extended towards myself; but, oth- erwise, I should loudly protest against the share of it which that woman has known. – ‘Jane,’ indeed! – You will observe that I have not yet in- dulged myself in calling her by that name, even to you. Think, then, what I must have endured in hearing it bandied between the Eltons with all the vulgarity of needless repetition, and all the insolence of imaginary supe- riority. Have patience with me, I shall soon have done. – She closed with this offer, resolving to break with me entirely, and wrote the next day to tell me that we never were to meet again. – She felt the engagement to be a