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Fitzwilliam Darcy remembered the last time that he cried as vividly as he knew his name. Then, he was seven years old only. His mother had been violently ill with cold and she was in such a danger as for the doctor to declare her ‘to die in all likelihood.”
Love for his mother had driven him to the chapel to pray in a private room and there, he had fallen asleep. Nobody knew of his presence in the room and he was locked therein for the whole night. When he awoke in the middle of the night to discover himself locked up in the chapel, he had banged on the door till the flesh on his knuckles wore off, but alas the chapel was too far off from any living quarters to ensure that he was heard. All his fears for his mother and of the dark consolidated in his chest and he had cried the night away. His sobs were his rescue, for the search party, led by his own father, had found him close to dawn.
His father had looked more embarrassed to find his son crying than locked up in the chapel. With a grave look, he had carried him on his shoulder into the manor where he gave him such grave letdown for disgracing him by crying that his young son never forgot. There never was any situation, thereafter, that would ever necessitate the affair of tears.
The son was now all grown and inherited his late father’s legacy. Today, he remembered that day because the feelings in his chest sought release in tears, but only the recollection of that day, so vivid stopped the flow. Darcy was now in his room, unable to attend dinner. He was still dumbfounded with the hatred that had spewed forth from Elizabeth’s mouth- he had no inkling how much she detested him and how low he was in her opinion. He, who was willing to neglect her philandering to make a proposal to her (indeed, he had thought she would think this highly in his favour) was the one who had been upbraided for his immoral conducts. The irony was a potion too bitter to swallow.
In this state, did Colonel Fitzwilliam come upon him and alarmed- for he had never seen his cousin so miserable, he sought to comfort him by ringing for spirits and offering a listening ear. Perhaps, it was the spirits or the pathetic murmuring of Fitzwilliam, but Darcy who never had felt the need to share his burden with a living soul, divulged all that burdened him to his cousin. To his credit, the other Fitzwilliam was most attentive and appropriately sympathetic. When Darcy was done, he spoke to him most candidly.
“I know, dear cousin, that it might be too soon to consider anything Miss Bennet said in a light other than the injustice of it all to your person, but I want you to dwell upon her words carefully when and where you—”
Seeing that Darcy would have made an objection, Fitzwilliam got the better of him by raising a hand in objection.
“Aye, I do know you to be none of the accusations levied against your character, but think- she must have a basis for them all and only this I desire of you- to look into the credibility of her accusations of your character. As for the other accusations, I say it would be the greatest injustice to leave her off with such impressions about her sister and Wickham particularly. I am afraid that I may have fuelled her deductions as regard her sister for we discussed the issue only this morning while we took a turn in the park without the least intelligence on my part that it was her sister I spoke to her about- for in truth, I know not who the object of our discourse was when you informed me about it on our way thither here.”
Darcy could now reckon from whence Elizabeth obtained accurate intelligence about his involvement in Bingley’s sudden quit of Netherfield. He had told Fitzwilliam of the affair but without reference to the lady or her family. No doubt, his cousin could not know that she was related to Elizabeth and related the whole story to her from which Elizabeth had formed her opinions. Darcy could not find it in him to be angry at his cousin; however, his cousin had more to say.
“Do not also forget that I am privy to Wickham’s treachery and I know for certain that you have been on his tail, gaining intelligence by the consultation with a hired hand on his whereabouts for you still fear of his designs on your sister. I am of the opinion that you explain all these to Miss Elizabeth.”
Perhaps in Elizabeth’s accusations tonight, that concerning Wickham was the most painful. He, who had been at the receiving end of the man’s cunningness and bitterness, was found blameworthy for only conjectures, and lies which Wickham had spread. Still untrusting of the man’s motives, he still was such that his constant visits to the tavern at Hertfordshire were all in attribution to this mistrust. Indeed, he didn’t think it past Wickham to in his absence, make an attempt concerning Georgina once again. In the least, he had thought Elizabeth capable of withholding all judgement till she heard his side also- he had no idea of her bitter prejudice against him.
“What good will that do?” Darcy asked. “She never will believe me.”
“Leave that to her sensibility to judge,” Fitzwilliam replied. “And I daresay that despite her ill judgement in this case, Miss Elizabeth has a good head on her pretty shoulders.”
That said, Fitzwilliam gave his cousin a slap on the back and walked out of the room leaving Darcy to dwell upon his words.
Hours later, found Darcy writing a very long letter. In the letter, he poured his soul out once more as he could for the last time. Despite the hurtful words that Elizabeth hurled at him, he knew not how he could write to her, ever of his pride forgotten, in a final quest to earn her favour. Though this quest he knew to be impossible, he rested in the knowledge that at least, he might be exonerated in her eyes in some account.
Even he did not know it then, but her words had touched a part of him that would never remain the same for, indeed, pride only needed the affection of a person and the censure of such person to redeem itself in the eyes of the world.
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Elizabeth was absolutely ashamed of herself. Twice reading Darcy’s letter as she walked aimlessly around the park was enough mortification for her despicable behaviour to last her a life time of mortification. At first, she had pronounced the words in the letter a lie; the inconsequential talk of a man with a hurt pride- she never knew how much of a fool she was. Another careful reading of the letter, however, had revealed to her the sincerity of the author and impacted on her all she had been hitherto too blind to see. She could not believe the extent of her prejudice, absurdity and blind contempt with which she had held Mr. Darcy. He had met her this morning in the park again, despite her attempts to avoid him. Composed, he given her the envelope holding the letter, but his composure did nothing to hide the dullness of his eyes. To imagine the pain that she must have given him now brought tears to her eyes.
“How despicably I have acted!” she lamented in self censure. “I, who have prided myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! Who have often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or blameable mistrust! How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind! But vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either was concerned. Till this moment, I never knew myself.”
In his letter, he had taken great care to explain the details of Jane and Bingley’s affair along with that of Wickham. His description of Jane’s indifference to his friend was undeniable. Even Charlotte had made the same complaint and bid her to encourage Jane to show more interest in the man so as to encourage and not subject him to dissuasion. Mr. Darcy also excused his behaviour on account of the behaviour of her family members and therein, she was mortified beyond words, but equally irrefutable were the words with which he described her family members, especially her mother and two youngest sisters.
As for Wickham, her shame knew no bounds. She had judged so wrongly. She could scarcely believe the man she knew to be all charm and smiles to be any who could behave abominably towards his benefactor’s daughter by eloping with her in a hope of having her dowry of thirty thousand pounds. However, the story held some creditability because she now remembered Wickham’s quickness to attend his favours to Miss King when she inherited ten thousand pounds.
Elizabeth grieved that her better judgement had so failed her; causing her to blame the wrong man and scorn his professions of love.
After long hours of rambling around the park, she remembered that he had said nothing about the presumed vice which she fancied that had coloured his judgement against her. Not one word had he said as regards meeting her in the tavern at Meryton. Renewed shame filled her and she hurried home at last thinking of a way to see him, though she knew not what she must say to him. Back home, however, she met with the news that the gentlemen had left Rosings. She needed no fortune teller to inform her that there was no likelihood that she might ever encounter Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy again.