She finally reached her destination, but only a moment later, her breath caught, and she turned back in haste. There, in a secluded spot, was Mr. Darcy himself. He of all people!
He called out to her, and she had no choice but to stop in response and turn again to face him. He stepped closer, appearing as composed as ever, though dark circles surrounded his eyes. The agitation she had witnessed the previous night seemed to have disappeared, and the resentment he must surely feel was well concealed beneath his proper manners.
Embarrassed, though she knew she had no reason to be — after all, she had done nothing wrong — she looked at him, heat flooding her cheeks. He spoke with quiet determination, his voice low and steady.
“Miss Bennet, I was hoping to meet you here. I beg you will do me the honour of accepting this letter.”
He extended it to her, but Elizabeth only stared at it, motionless. A letter for her? Could it be the one he had been writing the previous night?
“Please,” he repeated. “I assure you it contains nothing to distress you further, unless you find distressing my share of the truth in regard to our disagreement from yesterday.”
Her fingers closed around the letter reluctantly, their eyes meeting for a brief, unsettling moment.
“I thank you, sir. As distressing as it might be, the truth is always worth learning.”
“Indeed. The truth — based on facts and proof, not falsehoods meant to conceal reality. Please read the letter, if you will. I ask nothing more, and I shall not bother you any longer.”
With that, he bowed and departed, leaving Elizabeth alone with the letter and a heart in greater turmoil than before. For a moment, she was tempted to ask him whether Miss de Bourgh was well, but that would have been a silly error on her part. He might not have even seen his cousin that morning. Then again, if a tragedy had occurred, he would have found out and certainly would not have come in search of her.
Undoubtedly, it was the letter she had seen him writing the previous night. So it was meant for her. He had taken the trouble to write it; he had put all that effort into it. Was it so important to him that she read it?
What did he mean by falsehoods? Was it another attempt to sully Mr. Wickham’s name? With his usual arrogance, Mr. Darcy had mentioned facts and proof. Would she find them in that letter?
She unfolded the pages with trembling hands and began to read, every word increasing her turmoil even more. She read the letter once, twice, thrice, pacing the grove as the revelations contained in it became a weight pressing upon her chest and taking her breath away.
This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together…
Those words echoed in Elizabeth’s head as she made her way back to the parsonage, fighting a sudden weakness that slowed her steps and hastened the beating of her heart.
When he had handed her the letter, she had not known what to expect; but the revelation within it exceeded even her imagination.
Mr. Darcy had no scruples in laying horrible accusations against Mr. Wickham, which she knew could not be true. If they were, it meant Mr. Wickham was the worst sort of scoundrel, who had deliberately deceived everyone in Meryton and intentionally lied to her. She could not have been such a complete fool as to trust a dishonourable person and call him her friend, could she?
And in regard to Jane, Mr. Darcy had explained he believed her feelings for Mr. Bingley were not genuine or strong. How could he know? He had only spoken to Jane a few times. His arrogance and self-sufficiency made him believe he had the right to decide the fate of others. Just as Colonel Fitzwilliam had said, nobody liked being right, or having his judgments deferred to, more than Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth held the evidence in her hand that Mr. Bingley had left Netherfield because of the lack of decorum displayed by her family. No, that was not entirely true; the main reason was Mr. Darcy’s selfish actions and his arrogant assumption that Jane did not love his friend.
Mr. Darcy, the man who presumed she, Elizabeth Bennet, held him in regard and would welcome his proposal, dared to judge Jane’s feelings for Mr. Bingley!
What laughable irony! He must feel quite silly about his poor understanding of character!
But Elizabeth had to admit that Jane’s heart was not easy to read; even Charlotte, who had known the Bennets since infancy, had said as much. To a stranger, Jane’s restrained nature might be misleading. But in any case, one should not intervene in such important matters if one wished to be deemed a gentleman! After all, Mr. Darcy’s heart and mind were not easy to read either! In some ways, he resembled Jane, except Jane was ten times kinder, prettier, and sweeter.
And Mr. Wickham was ten times more amiable and pleasant than Mr. Darcy. How could he be the villain Mr. Darcy described?
But then again, why would Mr. Darcy invent such a dreadful story involving his sister? Everybody who knew him agreed that he was an excellent, loving, and loyal brother, and her own observations confirmed it. He and his sister had lost their parents when Miss Darcy was very young, and she probably regarded him both as a father and a brother. Would he fabricate a story about her attempted elopement? Surely not — that was beyond any doubt. Besides, he had suggested she appeal to Colonel Fitzwilliam to confirm his testimony. So — was it true? Had Mr. Wickham truly planned to elope with the daughter of his beloved godfather? He had told Elizabeth he had not seen Miss Darcy in many years and that she had grown up to be very much like her brother. So he must have deliberately lied to her. And what a horrible lie! How dare he? And how could she have believed him so easily?
By the time she entered the parsonage, Elizabeth’s soul and mind were a tumult of strong opposing feelings engaged in a painful fight.
She hurried to her room to change for breakfast, locking the door behind her.
Mr. Darcy was certainly a proud, arrogant, unpleasant sort of man. But Mr. Wickham was nothing but a scoundrel with noprinciples, no honour, no dignity, no loyalty, and no decency. Once she admitted a portion of the story might be true, the rest of it quickly invaded Elizabeth, like a wave drowning all her previous misconceptions. She, Elizabeth Bennet, was a simpleton, a silly, impressible woman with no wit or wisdom, unable to separate the truth from deceit.
She deserved to be called out for her silliness; she deserved to be ridiculed and reprimanded. But there was nobody to deliver the deserved punishment as she would never reveal the contents of Mr. Darcy’s letter to any living soul.
The mere fact that, despite their quarrel and her accusations, Mr. Darcy had trusted her enough to reveal his sister’s story was a reason for gratitude but also shame and pain for Elizabeth. She did not deserve such consideration, and she would certainly not have trusted Mr. Darcy if their situations were reversed.
Perhaps, despite his numerous faults, he was a better person than she, after all. He should congratulate himself on her rejection since such a simpleton like Elizabeth Bennet did not deserve to become Mrs. Darcy.