Darcy’s Story

“These bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I with greater policy concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by reflection, by everything.”

Darcy looked to her for a reply, but received none. He therefore decided to speak plainly, and said, “But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?”

If he had thought to get her agreement on this, he was mistaken, for Miss Bennet rounded on him and replied, “You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.”

Darcy for once was quite dumbfounded, and unable to say anything as she continued, “You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.”

Sentiments so opposite to those which he had expected to hear led Darcy to regard her with feelings of mingled incredulity and mortification. But worse was to come.

“From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”

Although Darcy struggled to comprehend such a catalogue of rejection and criticism, yet his convictions of the soundness of his sentiments as far as her family were concerned gave him some certainty and comfort. Since clearly there was nothing to be gained by his remaining in the room, or remonstrating with her further, he said, “You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”

With these words Darcy hastily left the room, opened the front door and quit the house.

17

When a man has been accustomed since his earliest years to command what he desires, a disappointment in matters nearest to his heart must come as more than a severe shock.

On his return to Rosings, Darcy went upstairs directly, unable to compose his mind enough to spend the evening in the company of his aunt and cousins. He paced his room for half an hour, fury, resentment and dismay within him in equal measure.

He had no qualms about what he had said to Miss Bennet concerning the manners and origins of her family. When she had had time for reflection, she must readily acknowledge them to be true from her own observation. As to her sister’s affections, that was—perhaps—a matter on which she might have better information than himself.

It was on the subject of Wickham that Darcy’s resentment burned most strongly. What a misfortune for fate to allow that gentleman to poison her mind! He recalled only too well his conversation with her during the dance at the Netherfield ball. Clearly Miss Bennet had been easily deceived by Wickham’s narration of his dealings with the Darcy family, and by his pleasing style of address.

At least that deception could be remedied, and she must be trusted with the unhappy story of his sister’s encounter with Wickham the previous year. He had confidence in her discretion as to Georgiana’s unfortunate entanglement.

Darcy tossed and turned through all the dark hours, composing in his mind a letter that might remove her admiration for Wickham and at least absolve himself from unreasonable prejudices as far as Miss Jane Bennet was concerned.

Eventually, after many hours, Darcy finally fell into a restless sleep. When he awoke, he rose quickly, anxious to complete the task ahead.

Thus it was after a very disturbed night that Darcy sat down in the morning to write.

Rosings, eight o’clock in the morning.

“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.

Darcy paused, acutely aware of the pain in her dislike of him. Whatever he had in the past anticipated when he should reach the situation of offering for the hand of a woman of status worthy to be his wife, he had never contemplated rejection of his suit.

Nor had he ever thought that he should be told in such terms of the unwelcome nature of his offer, nor of the manner in which he had made it.

Certainly, he had no regrets about what he had said to Miss Bennet, but his affection for the lady was strong enough for Darcy to wish her to continue reading further into the letter. He picked up his pen again and, dipping it into the inkwell, went on,

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.

Again he paused in thought, for her words came too readily to his mind,

“I might as well enquire why with so evident a design of offending me and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character. I have every reason in the world to think ill of you.”

Was that the character by which he wished to be known, which he displayed to the world? Darcy shied away from the thought, and wrote on.

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.

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.

Wilfully and wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favourite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect its exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two young persons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could bear no comparison.

But from the severity of that blame which was last night so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance. I shall hope to be in future secured, 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 your’s. I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must be obeyed and further