Chapter 13
Fitzwilliam,
I ought by now to have given up the pretence of inscribing these missives to you, for ’tis certain I shall never send them.
Perhaps it would be better if I did: you dined at Darcy House this evening, and I might have given you the whole packet.
You would certainly have quizzed me for several days, perhaps the next fortnight, but at length, you would have found some new diversion, and I might have put my sojourn in Hertfordshire behind me.
I had intended to do precisely that. I even brought the packet of letters down to the drawing room in anticipation. You saw me place a hand upon them after we bade Georgiana good night, and you asked, “What have you there, Darcy?”
But I could not bring myself to utter the truth, instead declaring them letters of business and calling a footman to return them to my room.
I doubt you believed my lie, but you refrained from prying, for which I am grateful, and you departed some time later, still in ignorance of all that I have written and endured in the past fortnight.
Nevertheless, here I am, writing to you once again.
I began these letters as a convenient occupation, but they have since become a necessity.
To speak aloud of the sentiments which absorb my thoughts and oppress my spirits is impossible to me.
I could not bear it. It is better to allow the past fortnight to fade into a dream.
I shall endeavour never to meet her again.
In my recollection, she will remain inviolate, the finest and loveliest of women, and I shall be better for the memory.
But I must not allow such sentiments to blind me to my duty.
Perhaps I ought to find a bride this season.
The thought of pursuing some other young lady revolts me, but once the deed is done, this yearning might lose its power over me.
Surely, the ton must contain some young lady possessed of good sense and a teasing smile whom I could come to esteem.
Would it not be unfair, however, to pursue a young lady because of her resemblance to another? I must overcome this attachment.
It would likely be for the best if I consigned these letters to the fire, but I cannot bring myself to do so.
They exist as proof that my interlude in Hertfordshire did, in fact, transpire, and moreover they record how it changed me.
I have been shown the error of my own prejudice, my haste to despise others for their inferior birth or unfashionable manners.
My presumption that I must be held in esteem solely because of my name and fortune has been proved absurd.
I shall henceforth, I hope, be wiser and kinder.
I shall never be Bingley, of course, eager to dance and to flatter every young lady who crosses my path.
I shall always be wary of raising vain hopes and cultivating the acquaintance of sycophants.
But I may nevertheless do better—exert myself for the comfort of others. Elizabeth has shown me that.
To write her name is a dangerous pleasure.
Truly, I ought to consign these to the fire: should anyone discover them, they would certainly damage her reputation, with only one possible remedy.
I have tried to destroy them. I have held them over the fire in my study, felt the heat scald my fingers, but I could not let them fall.
My will has never been so feeble: I am ordinarily, if nothing else, a man who acts upon whatever he resolves.
Perhaps my departure from Hertfordshire cost me too much.
When I clasped her hand in mine and she urged me to return for Bingley’s wedding, I was nearly overcome.
How dearly I wished to promise to return, to give some sign of my affections.
Do I flatter myself that she was disappointed by my response?
No—something did truly dim in her eyes, and it was that sight that overset my caution.
I bent to kiss her hand—one kiss to carry with me before I left her behind.
I did not look back as I departed, though I am certain that she watched me, and I burned to steal one final glimpse of her.
Had I done so, however, I doubt I would have succeeded in my escape.
Is it any wonder that I cannot bear to burn these letters? Is not my infirmity of will excusable under the circumstances?
I did not return her shawl either. I had intended to do so on the morning of my departure, but I slipped it into my trunk at the last moment.
It is now locked away in one of my desk drawers, and I remove it several times a day.
When I hold it in my hands, I can almost imagine that she is in the room with me, watching me with a mischievous smile.
I should not have taken it. The expense of replacing such a garment would not be trivial for the Bennets. But I cannot bring myself to parcel it up and mail it back.
Now that Bingley is to wed Miss Bennet, it will require all my ingenuity to avoid Elizabeth.
It may mean the loss of a friendship which has, for some years, contributed greatly to my contentment.
Perhaps at length I shall conquer this desire; perhaps I shall be able to meet Elizabeth in Bingley’s home with indifference—or at least with the disinterested pleasure of a friend.
Perhaps then it will not trouble me to dispose of these letters.
Until then, I may be permitted this one indulgence, surely.
I shall conquer this.
Forgive me, Elizabeth.
Editor’s Note: The letter ends here without further signature, in keeping with its transition from correspondence to personal confession.