Page 39 of Moments of Truth
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 him the 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.
Having thus cleared the first point, I turn to the second—the heavier accusation, because it touches my honour.
You have been taught to believe that I, from base jealousy or malice, deprived Mr. Wickham of the means of advancement.
That you should think so ill of me, after so brief an acquaintance, has wounded me deeply, but I must submit my account of the truth to your candour.
Mr. Wickham is the son of a most respectable man, long steward to my father, who honoured him with unmerited regard.
My father’s affection extended to the son, and he became godfather to the child.
That partiality, I admit, sometimes excited in me a boy’s jealousy, but it never lessened my sense of duty.
In his will, my father recommended the young man to my protection, bequeathing him a sum of one thousand pounds, and signifying a wish that he should enter the Church, in which he had provided him a valuable living.
Mr. Wickham, however, soon declared his resolution to decline holy orders.
He expressed a wish to study the law instead, and represented that the legacy left him would be insufficient for his support.
Out of regard for my father’s memory, I consented to give him, instead of preferment, the sum of three thousand pounds.
He accepted the exchange with every appearance of gratitude, and all further claims between us were understood to be cancelled.
For three years, he lived at leisure on this sum, pursuing no profession.
At length, impoverished by dissipation, he applied to me again—this time entreating the very living he had renounced.
My refusal he represented to others as cruelty and injustice, but could I, in honour, accede to his demand?
Having once renounced his claim for a pecuniary equivalent, his pretension was groundless.
From that hour, he has not ceased to traduce me wherever credulity or idleness would listen to him.
But even this, painful as it has been, I would have left to time.
There is, however, a later event which no longer allows of silence, though I speak of it with extreme reluctance.
It concerns the dearest object of my care—my sister Georgiana.
A year ago, she, then but fifteen, was placed under the charge of a lady whose character we had no reason to doubt.
Mr. Wickham, through her connivance, obtained admission to her intimacy and, by every art of flattery and design, persuaded her to believe herself attached to him.
He even prevailed upon her to consent to an elopement—an elopement, Miss Bennet, designed not only to secure her fortune of thirty thousand pounds, but to wound me in the tenderest point.
Happily, my sister’s candour saved her. At the very last moment, she confided in me.
I hastened to her, and the scheme was frustrated.
The whole affair was hushed up, for her sake; but the misery it caused, the disgrace which might so easily have ensued, I leave you to imagine.
Of his character, you may now judge for yourself.
These, madam, are the circumstances which you had no means of knowing when you reproached me with cruelty.
My desire is not to compel your esteem, nor even to solicit a reconsideration of your refusal; it is only that you may not continue to think me the worst of men.
If, after reading this, your opinion of me remains unchanged, I shall bow to it as unalterable.
Yet I could not bear to leave you under misapprehensions so injurious to truth.
I ask nothing of your compassion; I solicit only your justice.
I remain, with the sincerest respect,
Your obedient servant,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Elizabeth’s curiosity was insatiable, yet the weight of the letter was almost oppressive to her spirits.
She found herself pausing midway through sentences, her eyes fixed upon the page while her mind laboured to absorb the meaning.
At other moments she returned to entire paragraphs, compelled to retrace every line until the sense was firmly secured.
The composition was clear, the hand uncommonly even, the arguments laid out with precision, yet there was too much to be taken in at once.
Darcy’s unexpected confession—so wholly unlike what she had anticipated—supplied a dreadful kind of clarity, overturning with relentless force the very foundations on which her judgments had rested.
She pressed herself to continue, but as the catalogue of facts unfolded before her—his admitted errors, his undeniable pride—a painful light was cast upon her own conduct.
Elizabeth saw herself guilty of hasty conclusions, of credulity where caution was required, of trusting the charm of one man while condemning the reserve of another.
She had prided herself on a discernment superior to that of many around her, imagining her judgment a shield against deceit, and yet she had been deceived—deliberately, artfully—by Mr. Wickham.
If Darcy’s fault was pride, her own had been prejudice, and she felt in her bosom which of the two had produced the greater mischief.
Nearly two hours passed as she wandered the quiet alleys of the park, reading and rereading, until every sentence seemed engraved upon her memory.
The breeze stirred the branches above, scattering blossoms at her feet like pale confessions from nature itself, and the fragrance of lilac seemed to mingle with the sharp pangs of her remorse.
Each line of his defence, each recollection it awakened, pressed more heavily upon her heart.
She could not deny that Wickham’s tale, so plausibly told, had been believed with an eagerness almost wilful; and now she must suffer the mortification of owning herself unjust.
At length, when she folded the letter and placed it carefully within her reticule, a kind of clarity, hard won, arose in her mind.
It was accompanied not by relief, but by a sober, trembling resolution.
She could no longer deny the sincerity that breathed through Darcy’s words, nor dispute the truth they laid bare regarding her own failings.
Her prejudice, once worn as armour against disappointment, now lay upon her like a chain she longed to break.
As she turned her steps toward the parsonage, her pace was measured, her countenance thoughtful.
The evening sun fell through the trees in slanting beams, as though nature herself would illuminate the path she was now resolved to tread—a path toward humility, and, she dared to hope, toward a truer comprehension of Mr. Darcy’s character.
With every step she inwardly vowed to regard him henceforth not as the proud tyrant of her imagination, but as a man whose faults, though real, were balanced by virtues of equal magnitude.
And if in time her new understanding might lead to forgiveness—of him, and of herself—Elizabeth thought it would be the first true victory over her own heart.