Page 36 of Moments of Truth

Rising abruptly, she went to her writing desk.

Drawing open the second drawer, she took out a small sheaf of paper, a quill, and the waiting inkwell.

She sat, but her hand trembled as she poised the pen.

Could she face him? No—the wound was too fresh, the shame too sharp.

And yet, if he should leave for Derbyshire on the morrow, the chance might be lost forever.

At the very least, she could write. She might express the apology that pride had denied her to speak aloud; she might entreat him to believe her regrets sincere. It was not much—but it was all her conscience would permit her to offer.

Mr. Darcy,

I hope this letter finds you in health and tranquillity.

Should it not, I must fear that I am myself the unhappy cause, and the weight of that thought presses heavily upon me.

I have no excuse, nor can I contrive a justification for my conduct last evening.

I write, therefore, in the only manner left to me—with sincerity and humility—to beg your forgiveness for the outburst and the words which must have wounded where I had no right to strike.

Before I proceed further, allow me to state plainly what is most on my conscience: my behaviour towards you was neither just nor civil, and for that I am deeply ashamed.

I had but lately been told that you had advised Mr. Bingley against pursuing an attachment with my sister Jane.

The blow, to one so tenderly attached as I am to her happiness, overcame both my patience and my reason; and instead of seeking explanation from you, I gave vent to reproaches unbecoming in any lady, and doubly so in one who would wish to be thought rational.

When first I made your acquaintance, I confess I perceived nothing but pride and hauteur. That impression, once formed, I too readily cherished; and each subsequent circumstance I interpreted only to confirm my prejudice. This was grievous error, and I blush to own it.

Worse still, the representations of Mr. Wickham, so confidently asserted, misled me further.

His account of injustice received at your hands I accepted without question, and thus I allowed resentment to harden into conviction.

Of your side, I never sought the truth; I condemned without hearing, and in so doing acted unjustly towards you.

I do not write these lines with any intent to wound, nor to renew what must already be painful to recall. My only purpose is candour—to acknowledge that my conduct sprang from misconception and haste, and to entreat that you will not think me wilfully cruel, though I have been unpardonably rash.

Yet, since honesty compels me further, I must ask—though with diffidence—what moved you to dissuade Mr. Bingley from pursuing my sister?

If you believed her affections not deeply engaged, it might perhaps explain your interference, though it cannot console the grief that has followed.

Still, I ought to have sought your reasoning long ago, rather than venting anger without enquiry.

On the matter of Mr. Wickham also, I cannot rest easy while doubt remains.

His charges against you were grievous, and if false, I should shudder at the injustice of my credulity; if true, then I must resign myself to the painful knowledge that I erred in the other extreme.

Forgive my boldness in raising these questions; I am sensible that they touch upon matters you may prefer remain unspoken.

But since you honoured me once with a declaration of the most serious nature, I feel it only right that I should know the truth of the man who professes such regard.

Mr. Darcy, believe me when I say that I regret, most sincerely, the hasty words I uttered.

They were the fruit of passion, not of reason, and I lament them as an offence both against you and against myself.

If you can extend your forgiveness, you will lighten a burden of remorse which I can scarce support.

May this letter reach you in better spirits than those with which you quitted my presence. With it, I send my apology, my gratitude for your patience, and the hope that you will believe me, at least, incapable of wilful injustice.

I remain, with all due respect,

Elizabeth Bennet

She read over her letter once more, seeking assurance that it conveyed her remorse as well as her earnest wish for truth.

Yet, when Elizabeth came to the end, her hand faltered.

It did not seem fitting to dispatch such a letter, bold in its demands, and risk provoking him anew when she had already dealt so harsh a blow to his pride.

A man like Mr. Darcy—so reserved, so conscious of honour—would scarcely stoop to explanation after having been so firmly rejected.

She could not expect him to humble himself further, nor to offer words of apology where none were required by the world, though her own heart might yearn for them.

Thus, she resolved to hold it back and wait, though the resolution brought her no peace.

The thought of his imminent departure with Colonel Fitzwilliam to London pressed upon her mind like a sentence of finality.

If he quitted Rosings without another word, all chance of reconciliation would vanish with him.

Already she suspected he bore her resentment, if not open dislike; it was not improbable that he now despised her altogether.

As she considered this, her heart began to beat more quickly—not from dread alone, but from a strange nervousness new to her nature.

Never before had she been so agitated at the prospect of meeting a gentleman.

In all her past encounters, she had held herself secure, quick of wit and steady of mind.

Now, for the first time, she owned herself uncertain.

For she knew two truths, and both unsettled her: that Mr. Darcy had indeed loved her, and that her own feelings, though not yet confessed even to herself, were far from indifferent.

With a sigh, Elizabeth folded the letter carefully and set it upon the shelf.

Closing her eyes, she surrendered to imagination: scenes of what the morrow might bring passed swiftly before her—the possibility of reconciliation, the certainty of parting, the pain of being forever misunderstood.

Her countenance altered with each thought, softening with hope, then clouding with fear, betraying the tumult that reigned within.

She could not but acknowledge how improper her action had been.

For a young lady to write thus to a gentleman, without her father’s sanction or his request, was a breach of every rule of decorum.

Her words, bold and unrestrained, had transgressed against all that was deemed modest or delicate.

What folly had governed her pen when she began?

She pressed her brow, half-ashamed, half-resentful of her own impulse.

Perhaps she would learn wisdom by restraint, though at present she felt only the bitterness of disappointment.

And so the letter—filled with all her questions, her confessions, her secret hopes—was rendered useless.

She could neither send it, nor entrust it to his hand, nor summon courage to speak its contents aloud.

After rejecting, in such terms, an offer so profound and so sincere, how could she again meet his eyes without recalling the injury she had done him?

The thought of it alone was almost more than she could bear.