21. Evidence and Doubt #3
The question emerged hoarsely.
She lifted her eyes.
“Because I cannot build a marriage upon a matter that will poison us both.”
His grip loosened.
“I do not understand.”
“You have judged a man without allowing for the possibility that he can be different.”
The words came steadily now, though tears slipped unchecked down her cheeks.
“All I asked of you was to speak with Mr. Wickham.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“Elizabeth...”
“To try.”
“I know.”
“You would not.”
“I believed—”
“I know what you believed.”
She drew one trembling breath.
“I have never asked you to become his friend.”
“No.”
“I never asked you to declare him innocent.”
“No.”
“I begged you to hear him.”
Silence sat between them.
A crow called somewhere across the meadow.
Elizabeth brushed impatiently at her tears.
“I cannot promise to obey a husband whose first impulse is a stubborn belief in his perception before seeking understanding.”
The words struck with terrible force because they contained no malice.
Only grief.
“I fear...”
She faltered.
“I fear that if another misunderstanding arose between us years hence, you would judge me with equal firmness before hearing my explanation.”
Darcy recoiled physically.
“Never.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I do.”
“You believe you do.”
Her voice broke.
“But so did you believe Mr. Wickham guilty before allowing him to speak.”
Darcy found no answer.
She searched his face.
“I love you.”
The confession hurt far more than rejection alone could have done.
“I believe you honorable.”
“I am trying to be.”
“I know.”
Another tear escaped.
“But honor without humility can become frightening.”
He bowed his head.
Every accusation pierced because every one contained truth.
“I cannot marry you today.”
She withdrew her hands.
“If someday you can truly set aside your pride long enough to seek understanding...”
She could not finish.
Instead, she whispered, “I should like nothing better than to become your wife.”
Darcy stood motionless.
The wind stirred fallen leaves around their feet.
At last, he managed, “May I hope?”
Elizabeth’s eyes closed briefly.
“Yes.”
She left then, not because she wished to leave him, but because remaining had become unbearable.
Halfway toward the house she paused.
Without looking back she said, “I think you are a better man than this.”
Then she disappeared beyond the hedge.
Darcy remained beneath the oak until the lengthening shadows reached his boots.
He had ridden to Longbourn expecting to depart engaged.
Rather, he carried home a refusal that did not feel like rejection.
It felt like a sentence passed upon his own conduct.
His horse picked its way along the road toward Netherfield.
Darcy scarcely noticed the miles.
Elizabeth’s words repeated themselves relentlessly.
Honor without humility can become frightening.
He winced.
Had he truly become that man?
His first instinct rose in immediate defense.
Wickham deceived my father. He squandered every opportunity. He sought Georgiana.
The familiar litany steadied him for perhaps half a mile.
Then another memory intruded. The widow thanking Wickham outside Mr. Philips’ office. Favorable reports of his behavior and character. Months of irreproachable conduct.
Elizabeth’s unwavering confidence.
Georgiana’s curious reluctance to discuss Ramsgate.
The pieces refused to arrange themselves.
His confidence no longer sat as securely as before.
He pulled his horse to a halt atop a gentle rise overlooking Meryton.
The village roofs glowed amber beneath the lowering sun.
Somewhere among them Wickham lived.
Darcy removed one glove and pressed thumb and forefinger against his brow.
He had demanded Elizabeth choose.
Choose him alone instead of her family. Choose between present experience and past testimony.
How impossible he had made her position.
He was courting her. They were not married. Not bound by vows. He had offered affection with one hand while placing an impossible condition in the other.
The realization filled him with shame. “I have been a fool.”
The words disappeared into empty countryside.
His good opinion, once lost, was indeed lost forever.
He had quoted the sentiment often enough in his own thoughts over the years.
It had seemed wisdom.
Now he questioned whether it had become an excuse.
Could no man improve?
Had not Elizabeth herself taught him to examine his own pride?
Was he the only person capable of change?
The questions came unwelcome.
No immediate answers followed.
One conviction remained immovable.
He loved Elizabeth beyond any power of denial.
If there existed even the smallest possibility that she was right—if one honest conversation could preserve the future they both desired—then refusing to attempt it ceased to be pride.
It became cowardice.
Darcy straightened in the saddle.
Tomorrow.
He would speak to George Wickham.
Not to surrender judgment.
Not to abandon caution.
Simply to hear him.
The prospect filled him with profound reluctance.
Still, Elizabeth had asked no more than fairness.
He had promised.
Tomorrow he would keep that promise, whatever the consequence.