Chapter 8
My dear Aunt Gardiner,
Where shall I begin? You may not wish, after my last, to receive any further correspondence from a creature so wholly lost to propriety as myself.
You see, I am in a penitent frame of mind. Like as not, it will not endure beyond the night, and I shall be returned to the cheerfully impertinent niece you know in the morning.
Tonight, however, I must give voice to the self-recriminations which justly burden my mind.
What, you may ask, has provoked this uncharacteristic sobriety?
You will be shocked to learn that Mr. Darcy is the cause—or perhaps not shocked, for I see now that my judgment and conduct regarding that gentleman has been in many respects wanting, and you, with your good sense, will certainly have discerned that truth before I.
He wounded my pride, and in return I heaped slander upon his head.
He was wrong to slight me; I was equally wrong to assume his deficient manners made him a villain.
Lest you believe that this insight arises from the pure fruits of reflection and repentance, I must at once disabuse you of the notion.
I have been shown my own folly in the clearest possible fashion.
This afternoon, when my ankle at last permitted me to emerge once more from my chamber, I came upon Mr. Darcy in the smaller sitting room.
As surprised as I was mortified—for I had depended upon finding that part of the house empty—I turned at once to depart.
Mr. Darcy, however, called out and begged me to stay. Some strange note in his voice prevailed upon me, and I allowed him to escort me to a chair. He once again showed remarkable solicitude, finding a stool for my foot and offering to ring for tea, which I refused.
Once I was comfortably situated—as comfortably as one could be, given the mortifications inherent to the situation—Mr. Darcy took the seat across from me and regarded me with a grave expression wholly distinct from his usual haughty glower.
On a man of less distinguished bearing, I might have called it earnest. He opened his mouth as though to speak, then shut it and stood, pacing the length of the room twice before coming to stand before me.
This was, as you might imagine, quite intimidating, for he is not a gentleman of middling stature.
I felt like one of the Israelites, cowering before Goliath.
Discontented, I made to stand, but he at once stayed me.
“Pray, a moment, madam.”
I sank once more into my chair, and he resumed his own place.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, “I owe you an apology.”
I could think of nothing to say in that moment and merely stared at him with an expression of incomprehension.
“The remark which Miss Bingley repeated yesterday ought never have been uttered. They were not the words of a gentleman, and I am ashamed to have spoken them.” He paused, but before I could respond, he spoke again, a rushed utterance that seemed to burst from him against his will.
“I wish you also to know that I do not only regret the words. I now consider them to be entirely false. Indeed, you are one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.”
He coloured, as did I. Once more, I found myself silenced at so wholly unexpected and unaccountable a piece of flattery. I felt it incumbent upon me, however, to reward his magnanimity by relieving his discomfort.
“I thank you, Mr. Darcy. I owe you an apology as well, I fear. I should not have spoken so discourteously. I am mortified to recall my own conduct.”
He shook his head, and though his expression was forbidding, I found his gravity in that moment inexplicably reassuring.
“What cause have you for shame? You were the one attacked, and you spoke only what you believed to be truthful.”
This, you will agree, was a most absurdly generous characterisation of my conduct, and I could not but protest.
“I ought not to have questioned your devotion to your friend, nor made mention of the Bingleys’ origins. It was base hypocrisy in me to do so while accusing you both of arrogance.”
He smiled at this, to my surprise.
“Perhaps we may agree that neither of our conduct would withstand much scrutiny. Nevertheless, I cannot think you bear an equal share of the blame for that regrettable encounter. You were injured, and your hostess accosted you most untowardly.”
By this juncture, I was thoroughly astonished. Who was this congenial stranger in Mr. Darcy’s immaculate attire?
I thanked him but insisted that I must persist in thinking myself entirely culpable.
As I spoke, I attempted a teasing smile in hopes of conveying the sincerity of my contrition, and I was yet further alarmed when he smiled in turn.
Aunt, I have always known Mr. Darcy to be a handsome man—greatly though I begrudged that knowledge at first—but his smile left me quite dazzled.
Fortunately, it was swiftly supplanted by his habitual solemn glower, and I was therefore able to gather my wits before he spoke again.
“You were gracious even to permit this conversation, Miss Elizabeth. I wonder if I may impose further upon your good nature. It seems to me that I owe you some particulars concerning my treatment of George Wickham.”
I at once assured him that he owed me nothing of the sort—though I was, of course, wildly curious to know what he might say.
This refusal must have been a sign of ethical improvement, do you not think?
In addition to curiosity, however, I felt overwhelmed with doubt.
In spite of Mr. Darcy’s gracious apology, I did not believe I ought to credit any protestation of innocence he might make.
Nevertheless, when he insisted upon providing details of his dealings with Wickham, I could not bring myself to decline to hear them.
What Mr. Darcy disclosed to me—oh, aunt, I cannot write it here, nor shall I ever reveal it to anyone, even to one so wholly worthy of confidence as yourself.
Let it suffice to say that I now have good reason to believe Mr. Darcy to be entirely justified in his conduct towards Mr. Wickham.
You may think me credulous, ready to believe Mr. Darcy only because he flattered me.
But I assure you, he would never have fabricated the details he disclosed.
He offered to provide me with corroborating documents, but I know it to be unnecessary.
I have been a fool, easily deceived by happy manners and a handsome face.
Knowing what I do now, I am ashamed both of my rash judgment and of my impudent attempt at the Netherfield ball to remonstrate with a gentleman I scarcely knew.
I can only be grateful that Mr. Darcy should choose to confide the truth to me, when I have treated him with nothing but impudence from our first meeting.
I have learned several trying lessons in recent days, aunt, but I am determined to profit by them.
We parted soon after, both of us in a subdued and contemplative humour.
Mr. Darcy retreated upstairs until dinner, while I went through to join the party in the drawing room.
I could not bring myself to partake much in the lively conversation.
The snow has slowed once more, and Lydia and Mamma are convinced that we shall be able to leave tomorrow.
Papa enjoys distressing them by insisting that another storm is certain to come tonight.
Jane noticed my subdued manner and inquired if I was entirely well. I feigned a slight headache and thus provided myself with an excuse to retire shortly after dinner and compose this letter in privacy.
Outside, the wind rattles the bare trees and fresh snow is falling.
Perhaps Papa is not mistaken in prophesying another storm.
When this missive is complete, I shall extinguish the candle on the desk and watch the snow fall through the dark.
Till now, the sight has given nothing but vexation, but at present, the wild weather soothes my turbulent spirits.
I do worry for the tenants, though. Yesterday evening, I was surprised when Alice brought my dinner tray.
I had expected that she would take the opportunity of the fine weather to visit her family, but evidently the paths have not been cleared that far, and the housekeeper could not spare her.
She must be frantic at this fresh snowfall, poor girl. I shall inquire after her tomorrow.
For the moment, however, I wish to enjoy an atmosphere entirely in keeping with my own inner turmoil.
I remain,
Your chastened but affectionate niece,
Elizabeth