Page 29 of Moments of Truth
Scenes played again in her mind. The second occasion—Jane’s illness at Netherfield. Elizabeth had walked through mud and mire to attend her sister, only to encounter Darcy once more. She had found him there as she expected: cold, reserved, his countenance betraying no interest in the society about him. How strange it had always seemed to her that a man so stiff and joyless should be the intimate friend of Mr. Bingley, whose very nature was sunshine. Darcy’s stillness had not seemed dignity to her then, but disdain; she had imagined him regarding every laugh, every friendly effort, as the antics of puppets set to amuse his hauteur.
Even so, there had been moments—brief, almost imperceptible—when she had caught his gaze lingering, not with contempt, but with something she could not define. Yet she had brushed the notion aside, unwilling to surrender her opinion of him.
Then Wickham had entered her life, with his handsome face and candid air. Ah, how simple it had been to believe him! His manners bespoke honesty; his smiles invited trust; his tale, with all its artless detail, seemed too sorrowful to be feigned. She had pitied him, and admiration had followed naturally upon pity. For so amiable a gentleman to accuse Darcy with such vehemence, to paint him as a betrayer of trust—what choice had she but to believe? The villainy ascribed to Darcy tallied so neatly with her own impressions that she welcomed it as truth confirmed.
“Pride goes before a fall,” she whispered, recalling the old adage. “And I was content to see him fall, and to feel superior for it.”
But as the recollection deepened, so too did her unease. Had she not been too eager—too gratified—to accept Wickham’s accusations? Was it not convenient to her resentment to have them so powerfully supported?
Her steps slowed, her head bent in troubled thought.What if my judgment, so long my boast, has failed me here? What if I have wronged a man whose affection, however unwelcome, was at least sincere?
As her reflections deepened, the sharp edge of guilt that had earlier pierced Elizabeth’s conscience seemed to dull and recede. Perhaps, after all, she had judged rightly. Mr. Wickham’s tale had so coloured her understanding, so convinced her of the justice of her own suspicions, that she had almost ceased to pity Mr. Darcy’s retreat from Hunsford the day before. His departure, once imprinted upon her mind with painful vividness, now appeared less a wound she had inflicted, than a consequence he had deserved.
Yet even as she persuaded herself thus, Elizabeth found her thoughts restless, refusing the composure she strove to summon. With a sudden force, memory thrust before her that scene again—his voice, low and trembling with passion, his eyes fixed earnestly upon hers, the declaration so astonishing that her very heart had leapt in fright and wonder. There had been no artifice in that look, no dissembling in those words. In that instant, she had seen in him a truth too plain to be denied—the honesty of a heart that, however proud, was wholly given to her.
No!Elizabeth cried inwardly, shaking off the dangerous softness that threatened her guard. She could not allow her defences to fall. She had heard enough tales of women undone by misplaced affection, ensnared by men whose charm concealed a selfish nature. She would not join their number; herjudgment, once clear, must not falter now. Whatever spell Mr. Darcy had woven, she was determined to resist it.
Her steps, meanwhile, had brought her through one of the iron gates that led into the broader grounds. The crunch of gravel beneath her feet and the whisper of leaves above offered momentary refuge from the tumult of her mind. Here, in the open park with its tender green of spring, Elizabeth hoped that air and solitude might restore her composure. Kent’s fields, ripened into full verdure by five weeks of advancing season, seemed almost a balm to her weary spirit.
But as she neared the park’s entrance, her courage faltered. A tremor seized her at the thought of encountering him once more—an anticipation at once dreadful and strangely magnetic. The very idea made her hesitate, as if the mere possibility of his presence unsettled all her resolutions. Why should her heart betray her thus? Why must it throb with equal parts apprehension and expectancy at the sound of his name?
Her fears proved only too well-founded. Advancing along the grove, she discerned the tall, unmistakable figure of Mr. Darcy. At the sight, she turned at once, her first instinct to flee; yet his voice rang out, eager, commanding: “Miss Bennet!”
Twice he called, and twice her step faltered until, unable to persist in flight, she turned reluctantly to face him. Her heart clenched with the effort, for his sudden appearance seemed not accident but fate—an uncanny destiny intent on thwarting her every attempt at escape.
He came forward with deliberate step, shoulders squared, bearing himself not as a chance walker but as one resolved upon his purpose. Elizabeth could not mistake the intention in his approach. These were no idle crossings of path, no coincidencesborn of village chance. They were the acts of a man determined to be heard, to be understood, perhaps even absolved.
Under the shadow of ancient oaks, he halted a respectful distance from her. For a moment silence hung heavy between them, before he cleared his throat with visible effort. His words, when they came, were grave but courteous: “Good morning, Miss Bennet. I have been in the grove some time, in hope of meeting you.”
“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth replied evenly, though her mind reeled. She could not forget yesterday—his sudden visit as Charlotte and Maria departed—the words, the emotions, the shock. His appearance now could signify only one thing: he had come to explain, or to apologise. Perhaps both.
He advanced a step, produced a folded letter from within his coat, and, bowing slightly, said with studied formality: “Would you do me the honour of reading this, Miss Bennet?”
Elizabeth inclined her head and accepted the paper. Her voice was calm, though her fingers trembled as they touched his: “Of course.”
He lingered a moment longer, his eyes searching hers with an expression too fleeting to decipher. Then, with another bow, he turned and walked back into the grove. His tall form receded quickly among the trees until he vanished from sight, leaving her alone with the missive.
Elizabeth’s breath came fast. She stared at the elegant script upon the cover—“To Miss Elizabeth Bennet”—her name traced in a hand at once strong and refined. For several moments she did not move, only gazed at the neat superscription as though it carried more weight than any letter ever could.
What might these pages hold? Vindication? Excuse? Or—dare she hope—some confession that might reconcile head with heart?
At last, she broke the seal. Two large sheets unfolded in her hands, and as she beheld the even lines of his writing, her pulse quickened with irresistible anticipation. Whatever truths or revelations they contained, they were now hers to know, and her life could never be quite the same again.
Rosings
Friday, April 10, 1812
Miss Bennet,
I trust this letter will not be deemed a further intrusion upon your peace. I am conscious that, after the mortification of last night, it may seem presumptuous in me to address you at all; yet the events of that interview weigh too heavily on my mind to permit silence. You spoke with a candour that left me in no doubt of your sentiments, and your refusal—delivered with a disdain that I cannot soon forget—was, I acknowledge, a natural response to a proposal so ill-expressed. I ought never to have offered my addresses in such a manner, but I cannot repent the feelings which urged me to it.
Be assured, however, that I write not to renew professions of affection. Your rejection was too decisive to allow for that. My object is a different one. Two grave accusations were laid to my charge: the first, of having wilfully separated your sister from my friend Mr. Bingley; the second, of having injured, with wanton cruelty, the prospects of Mr. Wickham.These charges, pressed with such indignation, must leave behind them impressions most injurious to my character. You accused me, Miss Bennet, without hearing a word in my defence. I cannot rest while you believe me guilty of injustice and dishonour. For your sake, as well as for my own, I am compelled to state the truth.
I am at a loss with which subject to begin, both being of importance; yet let me first address my interference in the connexion between your sister and Mr. Bingley. I know I deserve your reproof. You will hardly believe that I acted from motives of friendship, not malice, but so it was. I have long observed in Bingley an openness of temper which exposes him to influence. His heart is warm, but his judgment is easily persuaded. He falls in love readily and with ardour, yet as readily relinquishes his pursuit when convinced he has been deceived. I had witnessed such instability more than once, and was determined, if possible, to guard him from a connexion that might bring him lasting regret.
At the ball where I first observed his attentions to your sister, I could not doubt his partiality, but I confess I doubted hers. She is amiable, gentle, and courteous; yet in her countenance, in her manner, I discerned no corresponding attachment. My anxiety for my friend, joined with the very decided disapprobation I could not but feel at certain improprieties in your family’s behaviour—pardon me, Miss Bennet, for speaking plainly—convinced me that Bingley’s happiness, as well as his honour, was at risk. With these impressions, I encouraged his removal from Netherfield to London, and, though I own it with shame, I concealed from himthe knowledge that your sister was also in town. I knew that, if they met, his resolution would waver.
In this concealment, I was wrong; of that I am sensible. But of the greater charge—that I acted from arrogance, from contempt of your sister’s situation—I solemnly acquit myself. I thought only of my friend. If I have given pain to your sister, it was most unintended, and for it I beg forgiveness.
