Page 40 of Moments of Truth
Tears welled unbidden as she read, and when at length she had perused the whole once more—indeed, for the third time—Elizabeth’s eyes were red and swollen from weeping. Never in her life had words upon paper wrought such anguish and such illumination together.
What have I done? The thought rose like a cry from her heart, overwhelming her with regret.
She had been prejudiced—unthinkingly, obstinately prejudiced—against Mr. Darcy, and worse, she had treated him with injustice.
His letter furnished an answer to every charge she had laid at his feet.
The bitterest truth of all was that, as she examined his words, she found minor fault in them.
Her pride longed to resist, yet her conscience whispered that his actions, however stern, were not undeserving of defence.
At first, she had bristled at his remarks on her family.
The tone seemed severe, and in the first flush of indignation, she had been tempted to resent them.
Yet upon the second reading, she could not but acknowledge their justice.
With painful clarity, she recalled that evening when her mother’s high spirits—heightened by more wine than prudence allowed—had betrayed her into speeches uncommonly free before strangers.
Elizabeth’s cheeks had burned with shame at the time; her remonstrances and Jane’s gentle hints alike had gone unheeded.
Could she then wonder that Mr. Darcy, less bound by filial affection, should judge even more harshly what she had suffered to witness with mortification?
Irony pierced her heart. Mrs. Bennet, whose every thought was bent upon securing advantageous matches for her daughters, might well have undone the very happiness she desired to ensure.
If her mother’s heedless volubility had truly endangered Jane’s chance of felicity, how grievous would the knowledge be to one who thought of little else but her children’s settlement?
Elizabeth, for her part, felt a measure of relief that she was not the cause of Jane’s pain.
Strange comfort! That the destruction should be wrought not by her hand, but by the failings of those nearest and dearest.
Yet even amidst her anguish, a small consolation gleamed.
Darcy’s explicit apology to Jane softened Elizabeth’s spirit.
It bespoke not only candour but a delicacy of conscience which she had once denied him.
A tender hope stole over her—that this acknowledgement might, in some providential way, restore Jane’s happiness with Bingley.
Elizabeth smiled faintly, picturing her sister’s gentle countenance illumined once again with joy, but the smile vanished almost at once, chased away by a darker tide of guilt.
A wave of shame rushed over her. To think that she, Elizabeth Bennet—who had prided herself on penetration, on reading hearts with ease—had been deceived so entirely by Wickham!
She resisted Darcy’s testimony at first, believing his words were but a self-serving defence.
How could the engaging, open, gallant Mr. Wickham be guilty of such baseness?
Yet as she calmed her spirits and compared each account, the fabric of Wickham’s tale began to unravel.
Memory furnished gaps she had too carelessly overlooked: his absence from the dance when discovery might have imperilled him, his artful attentions directed wholly toward herself, his manner of securing her confidence with every studied phrase.
What she had once ascribed to chance she now discerned as design.
The deeper she thought, the more glaring grew the inconsistencies.
She could not but confess that Wickham’s attentions, which had once flattered her vanity, bore every mark of calculation.
She had been chosen, not cherished; singled out, not esteemed.
To own herself so misled was bitter indeed, and her anger turned not on Darcy, nor even on Wickham, but upon herself.
She who had thought herself clear-sighted had proved most blind.
And yet—here was the humbling of her life.
Darcy, whom she had treated with disdain, had met injury with forbearance, restraint with dignity, truth with generosity.
She pressed the letter to her breast as if by that act she might atone, whispering a silent, hopeless wish that it had never happened—that she had never spoken, never wounded, never been so unpardonably unjust.
When she reflected on how rude and prejudiced she had been towards Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth scarcely refrained from weeping afresh. She sat upon her bed, the letter spread before her, while tears fell thick and fast upon the page, blurring the ink like a punishment written by her own hand.
In that moment, she longed for nothing more than to fly out of the parsonage, to run after him, to beg forgiveness.
The impulse was wild and hopeless, yet it throbbed within her with an urgency she could neither quell nor gratify.
How blind she had been—to mistake a good man for a proud one, to trust the words of a scoundrel while closing her ears to sincerity.
She had believed a tale so convenient to her resentment, never pausing to grant Mr. Darcy the smallest chance of explanation, nor allowing herself the humility of doubt.
Elizabeth rose unsteadily from the bed, pressing a hand to her aching breast. Her eyes were sore and swollen; each tear had seemed wrung from a conscience newly awakened, and the torment was yet unspent.
Her mind could not release the wish—the desperate, almost childish desire—that she might tell him of her error, of her shame, and of the sorrow she now endured.
To apologise for words spoken in anger, for thoughts steeped in prejudice, for the injustice she had so freely bestowed—this, she believed, must be her only expiation, though she feared it would never reach his ear.
“Elizabeth, is everything well?” Charlotte’s gentle voice drifted through the door.
“I wish only to be alone…” Elizabeth answered, her voice breaking upon the words.
A pause, and then the latch turned softly. “Then forgive me, but I must come in.” Charlotte entered, her expression a mixture of concern and surprise. Never had she seen Elizabeth in such discomposure.
Elizabeth lifted her tear-stained face, and only one confession escaped her lips: “I was wrong about him.” With that, she collapsed into Charlotte’s arms, sobs shaking her slender frame.
Charlotte held her, one hand upon her shoulder, her manner tender yet steady. “Lizzy, if you truly believe so, then the best balm for your heart will be to speak with him.”
Elizabeth drew back, eyes bright with distress. “It is difficult for me even to imagine looking him in the eye. How can I entreat him to listen, when I have given him every reason to despise me?”
“Because truth will not despise truth,” Charlotte replied softly, with more conviction than Elizabeth had expected.
Elizabeth pressed trembling hands together.
“I even attempted to write to him. But shame burned my cheeks before I had written three lines. How could I place in his hands the evidence of my folly? How could I bear him to read it, and know how base I was in thought and judgment?” She gripped the table for support, her voice faltering.
“How shall I ever begin to atone for the cruel things I believed of him? For the baseless accusations I entertained? Every word of his letter is a mirror, showing me my pride, my arrogance, my wilful blindness. I judged him severely—unjustly—merely because he was not eager to flatter, nor anxious to please.”
Her voice broke, and she pressed her fingers against her forehead.
“And Wickham… Oh, Charlotte, how easily I let him deceive me! I allowed my vanity and resentment to dress him in virtues he never possessed. I wanted Mr. Darcy to be the villain, so I might stand justified in my dislike. But I see now—I was the villain of my own judgment.”
Charlotte squeezed her arm gently. “Lizzy, we are all fallible. What matters now is whether you have the courage to act differently. If you cannot send him a letter, then speak with him when Providence affords the chance. He will see your sincerity.”
Elizabeth shook her head, tears brimming once more.
“I cannot deserve his forgiveness. Yet I wish—how ardently I wish—that I might tell him I see him now—not as pride painted him, but as his own words revealed him. And he is far better than I had believed.” Her voice fell to a whisper.
“Perhaps he will never think kindly of me again. But I cannot bear that he should think me a creature of prejudice and conceit. If nothing more, I owe him the truth of my remorse.”
“You must find a way, Lizzy,” Charlotte urged gently, though her tone carried firm resolve. “Matters cannot remain thus. He offered you his heart; he cannot think as harshly of you as you fear.”
Elizabeth covered her face. “After my ungracious refusal—so unfeeling, so uncivil—I can scarcely believe he would ever wish to see me again.”
Charlotte’s eyes softened with affection. “I have always known you to be brave, Elizabeth Bennet. Be brave now—prove me right.”
Elizabeth turned to face Charlotte, her eyes troubled, her voice wavering between defiance and uncertainty.
“But Charlotte,” she protested softly, “why should I? He has already caused such upheaval with his words and actions. And besides, Mr. Darcy must leave Rosings soon. How am I even to deliver such a letter to him without seeming forward or improper?”
Charlotte replied with a gentle smile, understanding her friend’s resistance yet unwilling to let her shrink from what might bring her peace.
“You need not parade your intentions, Lizzy. You could send the letter by discreet means—or, better still, we might contrive a short visit to Lady Catherine under some reasonable pretext. In such a moment, you could place it directly in Mr. Darcy’s hand. ”