Page 35 of Bitterness of Spirit

Yes, it was true that he danced wither her at the Netherfield ball, that they had interesting conversations, and that he took her side several times. Still, none of it suggested anything remotely like admiration and certainly not love—ardent love. She could not imagine that Mr. Darcy would ever use that word, let alone harbour such feelings.

What was she to do now? Must she face him again the next day? Surely, after such a fight, any hope of Mr. Bingley’s returning to Netherfield was destroyed forever. Mr. Darcy would never allow him anywhere near Jane. He would surely give up Netherfield shortly and be gone from their lives as though he was never there.

Rejecting Mr. Darcy was a decision Elizabeth could not regret for an instant. But, as the night progressed and she continued in agitated reflections, she was not equally pleased with her manner of addressing him. Further, she considered the effect of her rejection on her family and especially Jane—loved ones she had completely ignored during their heated argument.

Just before she fell asleep, she wondered whether there was another woman in the whole country who would reject a marriage proposal from a man who was by no means inferior and turn it into a battle—perhaps even a war.

Despite her turmoil, to none of her thoughts did she find palliation and to none of her questions did she find an answer.

Chapter 9

Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations that had turned her dreams into nightmares. She had not yet recovered from the surprise: it was impossible to think of anything else, and she still wondered whether it was real.

Totally indisposed for employment, soon after breakfast, she resolved to indulge herself in air and exercise. Charlotte attempted to open the subject again, but Elizabeth skilfully avoided it and left the house, proceeding directly to her favourite walk. Then she recollected that Darcy sometimes came there, and instead of entering the park, she turned up the lane, and she soon passed one of the gates on the grounds.

After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and look into the park. She caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove that edged the park. He was moving that way, and fearful of its being Mr. Darcy, she turned to depart. But the person was now near enough to see her and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced her name. On hearing herself called, though she recognized Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the gate.

He had also reached it by that time. Once she was close enough, she glanced at his face. It was pale, and his eyes were surrounded by dark circles. His figure was less impressive than usual, and he looked at her only for a moment. Rubbing his hands together, he held out a letter, and she took it instinctively. Then he said with haughty composure, “I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?”

She said nothing but held the paper. With a slight bow, he turned again into the park and was soon out of sight.

Surprised, tormented, with no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter. To her still increasing wonder, she perceived an envelope containing two sheets, written quite through in a very close hand.

It was dated from Rosings at midnight. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it.

Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments or renewal of those offers which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion should have been spared had not my character required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice.

Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. In addition to this, you mentioned my lack of care for my cousin Anne. I shall not offer many details on this subject, as there is nothing to be said. Since we were infants, I have had a strong affection for her, and I did everything in my power to prove it and to offer her comfort, friendship, and protection, whenever she asked it or when I felt it was needed. That will never change. What others think or what unreasonable hopes they might entertain will not affect me, nor will I change my life in order to please others.

Regarding the other painful subjects of our argument, the first-mentioned was that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister, and the other, that I had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. From the severity of that blame which was last night so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in future exonerated when the following account of my actions and their motives has been read. If in the explanation of them, which is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must be obeyed, and additional apology would be absurd.

With anger, disbelief, and torment, Elizabeth read every word. Amazed, she realised that he believed any apology to be in his power when she was certain he had no explanation to give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal.

With a strong opposition against everything he might say, she began his account of what had happened at Netherfield. She read with an eagerness and anger that hardly left her the power of comprehension.

He spoke of Jane and his belief of her being insensible and indifferent. “Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced that, though she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of sentiment.”

He was insufferable, conceited, insensitive, and arrogant! How dare he assume he could understand Jane? What impertinence! With the same cold insolence, he described the situation of her family and his objections to it. He named it the main reason for his decision to separate Bingley from Jane! But in writing that, he admitted that indeed Bingley had a strong and genuine affection for Jane and intended to bond himself to her, which made her loss even more painful and important. And it was all Mr. Darcy’s fault. He admitted that he conspired with Bingley’s sisters for the success of this despicable plan. And he showed no remorse for doing so—only meaningless apologies. His style was not penitent but haughty—like his character!

Furious, she read further, wondering what might follow. When he reached the account of Wickham, her ire grew. Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror oppressed her. “This must be false! This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!” she cried several times in an attempt to discredit his account.

She hastily put the letter away without even finishing the last page. But moments later, she took it up again. In a perturbed state of mind, she forced herself to read each word several times, and commanded herself to examine the meaning of every sentence.

Her heart beat wildly as tears of disappointment and weakness blurred her eyes when she looked one more time over the part regarding Miss Darcy and her attempt to elope.

As horrible a man as Mr. Darcy might have been—as arrogant and disdainful towards others—his love and care for his sister was universally acknowledged. He mentioned that no other human being was aware of the story except himself and the colonel. But he trusted her with such a dangerous, painful secret. It could not be a lie; it could be nothing but the complete truth. And it proved her foolishness.

The extravagance and general profligacy he laid to Mr. Wickham’s charge exceedingly shocked her; she could not be sure whether they were true but had no reason to consider them injustice. Of his former way of life, nothing had been known in Hertfordshire except what he had told them himself. As to his character, she had never felt a wish of enquiring for more information. She tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity or benevolence. But no such recollection befriended her except his charm of air and address.

She recollected Mr. Wilson’s harsh censure of Wickham when he had no scruples in revealing publicly his past connections with Darcy. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he had done and the inconsistency of his professions with his conduct.

After pausing on this point a considerable time, she once more continued to read to the end.

This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered at, ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning either. Detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night; but I was not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed. For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our near relationship and constant intimacy, and, still more as one of the executors of my father’s will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of me should make my assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning. I will only add, God bless you. Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Half an hour and several re-readings later, her decision was made and her mind clearer. She put the letter down and started to cry again; in less than a day, she had cried more than she remembered doing since she was a child: tears of anger, fury, disappointment, shame, helplessness.

Her effort to understand the meaning of such astounding disclosures and her struggle to admit the truth of the revelations left Elizabeth dizzy and spent. She went through the letter several more times with a contrariety of emotion excited by every sentence. Her feelings as she read were scarce to be defined.