Chapter 7
Richard, am I an unfeeling man? I would not have believed so, before today.
Arrogant and unfeeling. That is what she called me. I was too angry to credit her words at first. But hours of pacing snowy paths have settled my mind, and I begin to fear that she spoke the truth. Could I be—
Forgive me. My words are incomprehensible, and even my hand is scarcely legible, I see. I must strive to master myself.
That is better. I have gone down to dine and returned upstairs immediately after the meal.
Miss Elizabeth did not appear. Knowing her innate boldness, I cannot believe that any sense of embarrassment would have kept her in her chamber: she is not one to yield to intimidation.
I rather fear that she injured her ankle in her haste to escape the drawing room this afternoon.
Bitterly do I regret all the careless aspersions I have levelled against her and her family, in conversation and in these pages. Were these the words of a gentleman?
Perhaps these letters ought to be burnt.
But no. I will not conceal my own folly. Though I may never dispatch these, yet I may keep them as aids to reflection.
To think that I believed her to be desirous of my attentions, even flirting with me like some arch society miss! All along, she has despised me.
Will you laugh at me for my vanity, or pity me. I should infinitely prefer the former.
She even referred to Wickham. I am certain that is what she meant when she accused me of destroying the prospects of “a good man.” A good man! That utter
I now recall her words at the ball—how she spoke of Wickham losing my friendship.
I had thought that she was sounding me out in her usual teasing fashion, but upon further reflection— She is too clever to credit his tale of woe.
Of that I am certain. But if she believes me to be so devoid of proper feeling as her words suggested—
Can she hate me that much?
You will think me a madman if ever you read this, Richard. I certainly must not send it. Forgive me. I shall attempt to set my thoughts in order.
The wretched scene began this afternoon, when I came downstairs after a brief walk behind the house to find Miss Bingley awaiting me in the hall. She entreated me to join her in the parlour, and I could find no reason to refuse her.
To my distress, she began by proclaiming that Miss Elizabeth’s injury had been a stroke of fortune.
I was just preparing to disavow the sentiment when we observed that the lady in question was sitting by the window and had evidently overheard our conversation.
I cannot but admire her composure as I recall the scene: her countenance betrayed neither wrath nor mortification.
Only her eyes, bright with defiance, and the gentle flush of her cheeks betrayed any knowledge of her hostess’ malice.
She spoke not a word of reproach, justified though they might have been.
Caroline Bingley, however, failed to exercise the same discretion.
Instead, she abandoned any semblance of courtesy: whilst I looked on, mute with alarm, she declared her determination to prevent Bingley’s engagement to Miss Bennet and accused Miss Elizabeth and her family of avarice.
These suspicions I myself share, of course, and yet to hear them uttered by Miss Bingley filled me with unease.
Thus confronted, Miss Elizabeth met blow for blow, accusing us of disdaining the neighbourhood and acting out of a selfish indifference to Bingley’s happiness.
To this, I naturally objected and thus brought upon myself the full measure of Miss Elizabeth’s ire.
I cannot bear to recapitulate the whole argument.
Suffice it to say that I expressed my disapproval of the match as gently as I could manage, suggesting that Miss Bennet might be pressured by her mother into a marriage of convenience.
This, Miss Elizabeth disputed in the strongest terms.
Perhaps I ought to believe her, and yet I am certain that my judgment in this matter was impartial. Elizabeth naturally longs for her sister to be happy, and so perhaps deceives herself. If Miss Bennet truly loved Bingley, I am certain I would know it. Would I not?
But we did not discuss the matter long. The final blow came not from Miss Elizabeth, but from Miss Bingley, who chose to repeat an absurd insult I had uttered against Miss Elizabeth and her mother some weeks ago. She must have treasured my words up for just such a moment.
“Her, a beauty? I should as soon call her mother a wit.”
You could not rebuke me for those words in any language strong enough to equal my own shame when I glimpsed the sheen of tears in Miss Elizabeth’s eyes. But her next response!
“I care nothing for the opinion of any man so arrogant and unfeeling as to ridicule a young lady or destroy a good man’s prospects.” Those were her exact words. I can still hear the icy dignity in her voice as she spoke them.
She limped from the room before I could protest or attempt any apology.
How I wish I could say that my better nature prevailed upon me in that moment to assist her, but I was quite frozen by shock and mortification.
Miss Bingley made some expression of indignation as soon as Miss Elizabeth had departed, but I did not stay to hear it.
I called for my greatcoat and retreated at once out of doors to compose myself in the unearthly quiet of the snowy afternoon.
It would be useless to recount to you the inward turmoil that accompanied me on that icy walk. Crises of the soul demand a more skilful pen than mine for their narration.
Suffice it to say that the storm within my spirit was far more fearsome than the bitter wind without. Great though my wrath and wounded pride were, they could not make me forget the pain in Elizabeth’s eyes which my own words had occasioned.
Perhaps she was right to call me arrogant. But unfeeling I cannot be: not when the sight of one tear on her cheek can pierce to the very depths of my being. Blind I have certainly been, however, not to have perceived her dislike of me and the truth of my own feelings for her.
I believe— I could almost declare—
I love Elizabeth Bennet. Absurd to admit as much after so short an acquaintance.
A day ago, I had thought my interest in her would pass as soon as I departed Hertfordshire.
Now I perceive that the danger was greater than I imagined.
A century would not be enough to erase those eyes, that voice from my recollection.
Yet I cannot make her an offer. She despises me, and even were it not so, our relative circumstances render any union impossible. Her connections are an insuperable obstacle.
But I am determined not to part from her upon such terms: I must render my apologies for my ungentlemanly conduct and, if I can, ensure that she is guarded against Wickham.
If I can be certain that she does not despise me, that she will remember me kindly when we part, then that will suffice. It must suffice.
Darcy