Chapter Thirty-Eight #2
I have struggled to determine whether writing to you violates the request you made of me at Netherfield. If it does, I ask your forgiveness for this final intrusion. I shall not repeat it.
Elizabeth swallowed and continued.
There is little I can say in my defence which I did not attempt to say that evening, and with the benefit of reflection I find that I have less desire to defend myself than I had then. You were right in the most important particular. I ought to have told you.
The first letter enclosed with this one was written at Willowbrook after I opened the earliest of your letters which came into my possession.
I intended to send it. I did not. What began as cowardice in withholding it was soon joined by a selfish desire to know more of you, the unknown author whose words had already engaged my interest.
Not long afterwards, Bingley invited me to Hertfordshire, and I allowed myself to imagine that Providence had contrived to bring me there so that I might meet you.
Perhaps I was not entirely mistaken, for it permitted me not only to know you, but eventually to find Miss Harding.
Yet by the time we met in Hertfordshire, I had read too much, knew too much and had allowed myself to become interested in a woman who had never consented to be known by me at all.
Elizabeth's eyes remained upon the last sentence.
There was no attempt to soften what he had done, no insistence that his intentions had been honourable enough to excuse the result.
Darcy had written plainly of the deception which followed and of the confidences she had offered him without knowing that many were already familiar to him.
I could tell you that I never intended to cause you pain, but intention is a poor answer for having done so.
I could tell you that what I learnt from your letters made me admire you before we met, but I understand now that even affection does not excuse the means by which that knowledge was obtained.
You accused me of allowing you to offer confidences which I already possessed.
I have thought of those words often. I cannot restore those moments to you, nor can I make our first acquaintance what you believed it to be.
For that deception, and for the humiliation I caused you when you discovered it, I am deeply sorry.
The words blurred, and Elizabeth blinked until they became clear again.
She had wanted him to understand. Even while refusing to listen to him at Netherfield, some part of her anger had arisen from the fear that he could never understand what had truly wounded her, that he would forever regard the reading of the letters as the whole offence and never comprehend what his silence afterwards had taken from her.
She continued.
Miss Harding now has every letter which was addressed to her.
I have told her and her father the truth concerning how they came into my possession, and Colonel Fitzwilliam has acquainted them with everything necessary concerning his search.
Mr. Harding has kindly permitted me to assist in settling those difficulties which might otherwise have prevented his daughter from returning to Hertfordshire, but I beg you not to mistake my purpose in doing so.
Neither he nor Miss Harding owes me anything.
Nor do you.
Elizabeth drew a slow breath before reading the final portion.
I shall not come to Longbourn. You asked me not to approach you again, and I will not use the happiness of Miss Harding’s return as an excuse to disregard a wish you expressed plainly. I have presumed upon your confidence too often already.
I do not ask you to forget what I have done, nor do I expect that regret alone should restore the confidence I forfeited. I ask only that, if time should ever lessen the pain I caused you, you might find it in your heart to forgive me.
Whatever you decide, you have my word that I shall respect it.
Yours etc.,
Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Elizabeth remained looking at his name long after she had finished.
He could have come to Longbourn with the others and placed Julia before her as proof of everything he had done since their quarrel, and she could not pretend that seeing her friend would not have softened even the fiercest anger.
Instead, he had remembered the last thing she asked of him and denied himself the advantage.
“Thank you, Mr. Harding,” Elizabeth said at last, folding both letters carefully. “For giving these to me.”
“I thought you ought to have them.” Mr. Harding hesitated, his gaze moving briefly towards Julia. “I will not presume to advise you concerning Mr. Darcy, Miss Bennet, but my daughter and I owe him a great deal. He behaved towards us with a generosity I shall not easily forget.”
Before Elizabeth could answer, Julia touched her shoulder. “Mr. Darcy is very sorry, Lizzy.”
Elizabeth managed a small nod and placed the letters upon her lap.
There was little she could say with half her family within hearing, particularly now that Mr. Harding’s account had revealed enough to make her silence of the past three weeks rather conspicuous.
Her father already knew there had been a quarrel, Jane knew its cause, and the rest had certainly heard enough that Elizabeth expected several uncomfortable conversations before the day was over.
For now, however, no one questioned her, and Elizabeth was grateful for it.
She turned back to Julia and tried to give her the attention she deserved, but Darcy’s letter would not leave her thoughts.
He had tried to tell her that night at Netherfield that Julia had been found.
Elizabeth remembered interrupting him, remembered refusing to hear another explanation from him, and for the first time wished she had allowed him to finish.
She could not regret her anger. He had deceived her, and three weeks had not made the injury imaginary merely because she understood his remorse better now.
Yet while she had been nursing that hurt at Longbourn, Darcy had gone to Julia with the letters he had once taken from her, and somehow those same letters had helped restore Elizabeth to her friend’s memory.
Her anger remained, but she could feel it dissipating, little by little, beneath the weight of all Fitzwilliam Darcy had done and all he had given back.
Elizabeth did not suppose herself capable of forgiving him entirely before the day was out, nor was she certain she wished to. But Julia was beside her, alive and slowly remembering, and for the present, Elizabeth could think of nothing that deserved more of her attention than that.