The obvious blessings of such a wife—intelligent, active, determined, devoted to her husband—had the not very wonderful effect on the Colonel, who, for the first time, powerfully felt and understood the value of such a companion. In the midst of these melancholy reflections, Colonel Fitzwilliam kept returning to an image in his mind—an image of capability and comfort—but of whom? It was certainly not Mary Crawford—whose image was now one of disgrace and repugnance. He struggled in vain to recollect the countenance of just such another of his acquaintance, but his memory would yield neither the who, nor the where. In the lassitude and despondency of the hours attending his father, Fitzwilliam returned to Georgiana’s letters as a means of simple employment and escape from the distress everywhere around him, written through the course of the Darcys’ journey. In this more leisurely reperusal, he was at once struck forcibly by a new understanding of the words which spoke of the open simplicity of her heart; he now saw—in every line—her joy in the expectation of his arrival, her dependence upon his approbation, her ready compliance with all his opinions—in short, he saw with unmistakable clarity that Georgiana must be in love with himself!

Another equally satisfying image quickly succeeded the first very flattering conclusion—so foreign to a man of Fitzwilliam’s modesty: it was, in fact, Georgiana Darcy who reminded him of Lady Hallendale. Georgiana’s nature and accomplishments, strength of mind, and integrity of character were such as would support the blessings of a marriage equal that of which he was now daily a witness. She had further claims on his esteem: her steady friendship of many years, and the generous and loving nature behind that friendship; the artlessness of her speech, and the kindness in her actions; her quiet attention to those she loved, and the reciprocal care of the love given to her in return—in short, she was everything he could wish for in a wife, and she was—at least had been—in love with himself! He had wasted that love on someone wholly unworthy of either love or esteem. How heartily did Colonel Fitzwilliam regret his replies to those precious letters! How ardently he wished unwritten those pages full of contemptible praise for another!

In this second reading, he saw with shame and horror the pain written between the lines of her replies to his letters, which had been full of little else than the virtues of Mary Crawford. How blind he had been! Equally blind to deception and to merit! The lucidity with which Colonel Fitzwilliam now realised the frailties of his own judgement would have overwhelmed a less modest man. The small blessing it was, the Colonel was not obliged to add the mortification of self-delusion to his present unhappiness.