Page 37 of Moments of Truth
Elizabeth descended the stairs with measured caution, her hand gliding along the banister as though even its familiar grain might steady her uncertain steps.
The parsonage, quiet at this hour, seemed to amplify every creak of the wood beneath her slippers.
She paused once on the final step, listening—half-fearful that Mr. Collins’s voice might spring from a doorway to entangle her in another tedious monologue about Lady Catherine’s unassailable virtues.
Fortunate escape! No sound emerged but the tick of the clock in the small parlour.
With relief, she slipped out the door and closed it gently behind her.
The morning air rushed upon her face with a freshness that both soothed and unsettled.
Overhead, the sky stretched in unbroken blue, a serene canopy that mocked the turbulence of her mind.
The gravel path beneath her feet glittered faintly in the sun, as though every stone were alive with some secret she could not unravel.
She stood a moment at the threshold, drawing a long breath, then turned her gaze toward Rosings.
Its stately chimneys and tall windows rose above the trees in solemn grandeur, a reminder of power and consequence against which her small, troubled figure seemed but a shadow.
From an upper window, Charlotte watched her friend with silent curiosity.
Elizabeth’s hasty departure without word or explanation had first puzzled her, but amusement soon softened her features.
She could guess, perhaps, more than Elizabeth suspected of her own heart, and her gentle smile was tinged with that peculiar mixture of pity and fondness a wife may feel for a friend still lost in the labyrinth of her own emotions.
Elizabeth, meanwhile, lingered uncertainly at the gate before setting out with slow, deliberate steps.
She knew not whither to go. Rambling through Rosings Park was the natural course, yet her feet moved without clear design, as though her thoughts required open air to find some order.
Only two certainties presented themselves amid the chaos of her reflections.
The first was anger—anger that still smouldered whenever she recalled Mr. Darcy’s interference in Jane’s happiness. What right had he to weigh her sister’s worth, to measure her feelings with the cold scales of reason, and then to pronounce a sentence of separation as if he were master of all?
The second was a dawning uncertainty. Who was this Mr. Darcy in truth?
The man she thought she knew—proud, conceited, disdainful—did not entirely agree with the gentleman described so differently by Charlotte, by Mr. Collins, and even, in guarded phrases, by Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Each had spoken of him with respect, as a man of probity and loyalty.
Colonel Fitzwilliam especially—whose candour she had trusted—had declared his cousin to be one who never shrank from the defence of those he loved.
Could all these voices be mistaken, and hers alone correct?
Her thoughts turned unbidden to Wickham.
His easy manners, his flattering attention, his tale so artfully woven—how readily she had believed him!
And yet… had there not been moments when his gaiety seemed too studied, his complaints too pat, his bitterness a little too convenient?
She had dismissed such doubts at once, preferring the agreeable narrative he offered.
But now, recalling his glib tongue beside Darcy’s grave intensity, she felt a prick of shame.
And then there was Darcy’s avowal—those startling words that had poured forth with such urgency, as though his very being hung upon their utterance.
She had spurned him, yes, and with vehemence; but could any woman wholly forget the fire in his eyes, the tremor in his voice, when he confessed that he ardently loved her?
She pressed her hands together, as if to contain the memory before it escaped her grasp.
Her steps quickened, restless with conflict. She could no longer remain idly before the parsonage door; the park beckoned with its avenues and green lawns, and she obeyed its silent summons.
Still, questions thronged her. Why had he persuaded Bingley to abandon Jane?
What reasoning, what evidence, could possibly justify such cruelty?
She felt her indignation rise again, then falter, as Charlotte’s words returned with persuasive force: Mr. Darcy does nothing without deep reflection.
If he erred, it was not through malice, but conviction.
Was it possible she had condemned him without ever seeking his defence?
Elizabeth stopped and closed her eyes, striving for composure. In her mind’s ear, Charlotte’s voice rang out once more: “ Ask yourself, Lizzy—if you had not believed Darcy guilty of separating Jane from Bingley, how would you have answered his declaration?”
Her heart leapt with a pang that made her almost tremble. She had no answer. Only the memory of his earnest gaze, which haunted her still, as though some invisible thread bound her to him in spite of pride and prejudice.
The thought was intolerable. She seized a stone from the path, clutching it in her palm as though it were the embodiment of all her anger, all her regret.
She hurled it with sudden force, watching as it rose, arced high, and fell into the grass some distance away.
The action gave momentary relief, though the weight in her chest remained.
How vividly she remembered her father’s counsel from childhood!
“Lizzy, when anger seizes you, imagine it a stone in your hand. Cast it away, and let it fall where it may. Do not carry it with you, for it will burden your step and dim your spirits.” He had spoken with half a smile, half in earnest, but the lesson had endured.
How strange, that she had forgotten it in the very moment she most required its wisdom—when Darcy himself had stood before her, seeking only to be heard.
She laughed softly at her own folly, though the sound was tinged with tears. “If I had thrown my stone then,” she murmured, “perhaps I should not feel such wretchedness now.”
But regret had no remedy. She lifted her eyes to the wide blue above, and the brightness of the sky seemed almost cruel, mocking her inward tumult. “Will Mr. Darcy ever forgive me?” she whispered. The wind carried no answer.
Her thoughts turned at once to the Collinses.
How had she forgotten their interest in this affair?
What must be the consequence for Charlotte and her husband, if Darcy—stung by her rejection—chose to withdraw his favour?
A single word to Lady Catherine might suffice to ruin Mr. Collins’s fragile preferment.
True, neither Charlotte nor her husband would reproach her; yet Elizabeth knew that the fault would lie heavy on her conscience.
She had acted without foresight, blind to the wider circle her words might wound.
Thus she walked on, torn between resentment and remorse, between the desire to maintain her proud judgment and the humbling recognition that she might have erred most grievously.
Never before had she been so divided against herself.
Hitherto her instincts had guided her unerringly; now they faltered at every step.
For a moment she pictured Darcy again—grave, silent, departing with wounded dignity.
If he left for London without a word more, if he returned to Derbyshire never to be seen again, what then?
The very notion made her heart contract with sudden dread.
She had rejected him, yes; but could she endure to think he despised her utterly, that his affection had been extinguished, never to return?
Elizabeth pressed her hand against her breast, startled at her own sensations. No, I do not love him, she told herself fiercely. I cannot. Yet the protest rang hollow, even in her own ears.
Alone beneath the vast sky, she admitted what she had not dared confess aloud: she wished—oh, how fervently she wished—that she might see Mr. Darcy once more, not to retract her refusal, not to utter words of encouragement, but only to beg his pardon.
If he must leave her forever, let it at least be with the knowledge that she regretted her injustice.
She stooped to gather another stone, but this time she did not throw it. She turned it slowly in her hand, as though weighing the heaviness of her own heart. Then, with a sigh, she let it drop quietly at her feet. “Go, anger. Go, pride,” she whispered. “Leave me a little peace.”
She walked on, her shadow long upon the grass, her heart divided between hope and fear, between the sting of yesterday and the faint, perilous dream of what tomorrow might yet hold.
Her steps carried her instinctively toward the familiar path that meandered through the park’s verdant expanse—a path that now seemed no mere gravel walk, but a record of her own restless spirit, for every turn recalled some memory of Mr. Darcy’s presence, and every shaded corner seemed haunted by his voice.
What has come over him, to imagine so great a deception in his heart—that I could harbour the faintest interest in him? Elizabeth’s thought was as indignant as it was bewildered.
Yet the image of his countenance, grave and impassioned, rose before her.
She could not wholly deny that, when he confessed his feelings, his look had been unlike any she had ever received from man before.
It was not the vulgar admiration of idle gallants, nor the importunate stare of those who thought her beauty fair sport; no, his gaze had struck her as something solemn, almost sacred—an intensity that discomposed her, because it seemed to seek not her form but her very soul.