Page 29 of Moments of Truth
“If you have something upon your mind, Mr. Darcy, I suggest you speak it plainly.” Elizabeth’s hands clenched at her sides; she could feel her patience fraying with every heartbeat, and her voice, though steady, was sharpened with the edge of near-exasperation.
“For a while, I have fought against this feeling, but the more I resist, the stronger it becomes. I cannot act indifferent to you any longer.”
To her eyes, his words faltered on his lips, as though dragged forth against his own judgment. He shifted, restless, his gaze unsteady, betraying the effort of a man torn between pride and desire. A look of confusion appeared on Elizabeth’s face. What is he talking about? she thought.
“Against my will, against my reason—I am overcome. Tell me, what enchantment holds me thus, that it is impossible not to think of you, to long for your company? ” Elizabeth could hardly credit what she heard.
The mention of enchantment, the tremor of his confession—it seemed absurd, almost laughable, and yet the earnestness in his tone unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
“An enchantment, Mr. Darcy? Surely you do not mean to suggest I practise sorcery?” At that moment she might well have shown him the door, yet curiosity prevailed. She wished to see how far he was prepared to go with that nonsense. “I had not thought you so superstitious.”
“If it be witchcraft, Miss Bennet, it is one that enslaves me willingly.” He smiled. He dared smile when he said that.
Her eyes narrowed, and in that instant, she could almost have thrust him out the nearest window. “What do you mean, sir?” she demanded, her voice low and menacing.
“I do not know when it began, nor how, but I am drawn to you irresistibly. Your words echo in my mind long after you depart, your presence unsettles and yet completes me. If such longing be love—then yes, Miss Bennet, I am in love with you. I ardently love you, and I can no longer conceal it.”
It seemed that time stopped. Elizabeth could not believe her ears. Never would she have thought that Mr. Darcy’s indifference to her had been to mask his feelings for her. She stood there dazed.
“Say something—it would be… an opportunity for you, Miss Bennet.” Mr. Darcy’s voice interrupted her thoughts with the worst he could say at that very moment.
It was the moment when everything that could go wrong went wrong.
He was sarcastic. By Jove, he was sarcastic.
Elizabeth was shocked and silent, but remembering what the man in front of her had done to her sister, what should have come as a pleasant surprise to her had instead infuriated her.
She was still upset about his dismissive and arrogant comment at the Meryton ball, where he had deemed her merely “tolerable” and not worth dancing with.
Also, Wickham’s story of how Darcy had wronged him further fuelled her belief that Darcy was unjust and egoistic.
But Elizabeth resented him most for his role in separating her sister Jane from Mr. Bingley, seeing it as an act of pride and utter interference.
These feelings combined created a strong dislike and mistrust toward him.
Elizabeth had never felt that much anger before in her life.
All she remembered summoned her a plethora of hurtful words that, no matter how much she tried to rein herself in, she just could not.
Elizabeth was like a dam that had burst open.
Her chest heaved with the intensity of her emotions, her usually calm demeanour shattered by the sheer force of her anger.
Her trembling yet resolute voice filled the space between them, cutting through the air like a sharp blade.
“Mr. Darcy.” The urge to escape was strong, yet she curbed it, compelled by civility to remain. “Do you truly expect me to be flattered by such a declaration? You speak as if affection for me were a calamity you must endure, and yet you would have me grateful for the honour.”
His restraint gave way; he leaned forward, eager to frame an explanation. “You mistake me. I would not insult you—”
“Insult me?” she began, her eyes blazing with fury. “Indeed, sir, you could not have contrived a surer way to insult me, had you studied for it. To tell me that you love me, while at the same breath dwelling on how unsuitable I am—do you call that gallantry? Do you call that tenderness?”
The silence that followed was excruciating. He opened his mouth once, then closed it, as though every justification had deserted him. To Elizabeth, his stillness was no less an admission than speech: he had wounded her, and he knew it.
“And even had you spoken differently, do you think I could forget what you have done? You—yes, you—were the cause of my sister’s misery. You severed her happiness with Mr. Bingley because our family did not meet your standards. What arrogance gives you the right to trifle with her heart?”
Mr. Darcy looked at her in shock, barely understanding her storm of words and her grudge against him.
Elizabeth took a step closer, her voice rising with each word.
“And what of Mr. Wickham? Do not think I am ignorant of his story! You denied him justice, cast him aside, and left him to languish while you prospered. And yet you dare to speak of love, as though wealth and power could excuse every act of selfishness?”
He recoiled as if struck, colour draining from his face, his composure shattered. For the first time she saw not the proud master of Pemberley, but a man utterly at a loss, his defences crumbling beneath the weight of her words.
“You have shown no true regard for others—only vanity, only selfish disdain. You believe yourself superior to all around you, but in truth, Mr. Darcy, you are the cause of pain wherever you tread! ” Seeing Mr. Darcy’s blank look, Elizabeth immediately regretted her impetuous reply, which was full of reproaches, but just, she thought.
Anyway, Elizabeth was too angry to apologize or soften her accusations.
Darcy’s face had gone white. “So this is the answer I must accept. I would at least have known why I am rejected with such violence.”
Elizabeth drew herself up, trembling but resolute. “Because I cannot accept the hand of a man who believes he lowers himself by offering it. You wished for honesty, sir—you shall have it. I could never thank you for a proposal that offends while it professes to flatter. That is your answer.”
For a heartbeat, he stood motionless. All the eloquence he had gathered, all the tenderness he had meant to unfold, now lay in ruins.
Mr. Darcy visibly struggled to command his composure, his face pale, his mind in evident turmoil.
He could scarcely comprehend the vehemence of her reproaches, and yet, in her every word, he discerned a truth unfavourable to himself.
At last, bowing with grave stiffness, he said only, “Then I have been mistaken. I beg your pardon. Goodbye, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth remained rooted to the spot, watching as he withdrew with hurried steps, his figure soon lost beyond the door.
Her chest heaved with indignation, mingled with a shock she could not wholly suppress.
She had spoken with a violence of feeling she had never before experienced, and though every charge seemed just to her understanding, the sight of his silent departure left her strangely unsettled.
It was not the behaviour she had expected from the man she thought she knew.
Where was the haughty arrogance, the disdainful retort?
This was the same Mr. Darcy in form, in stature, in countenance—yet in his manner of retreat, there had been something different, something she could not immediately define.
As she stood alone in the silence he left behind, a faint unease crept upon her anger. Had she been mistaken in part? Had her words exceeded justice? She could not answer; she could only feel the tumult of her spirit, which would not be quieted.