Ungentleman-like? I thought, as I wrote the words. I had begged her pardon. What could be more gentleman-like than that?
… let it give you consolation to consider that, to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure, is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your eldest sister, than it is honourable to the sense and disposition of both.
Not only gentleman-like but magnanimous, I thought, well pleased.
Bingley left Netherfield for London, on the day following, as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning.
I paused for a moment. Here my conscience troubled me. I had behaved in an underhand manner. It had worried me at the time, for deceit is repugnant to me, and yet I had done it.
The part which I acted is now to be explained.
I paused again. But the letter must be written, and the night was drawing on.
His sisters’ uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered, and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in London. We accordingly went, and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a choice. I described, and enforced them earnestly. But, however this remonstrance might have staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded by the assurance, which I hesitated not in giving, of your sister’s indifference. He had before believed her to return his affection with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley has great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgement than on his own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into Hertfordshire. when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much.
No, indeed I cannot. I spared him a fate which I did not spare myself, and yet I was not easy. I had acted badly, I must confess it. My honour demanded it.
There is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair, on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is, that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister’s being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley; but her brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might have met without ill consequence, is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this concealment, this disguise was beneath me; it is done, however, and it was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister’s feelings, it was unknowingly done: and though the motives which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn them.
I had written the easy part of the letter. The difficult part was still to come. Had I the right to go further? The incidents I had to relate did not only concern myself, they concerned my sister, my dear Georgiana. If they should ever be made public … but I found I had no apprehension of it. Elizabeth would not speak of them to anyone, certainly not if I asked her to keep silence, and she had to know.
But did she have to know all? Did she have to know of my sister’s weakness? I wrestled with myself. I returned once more to the window. I watched the moon sailing over the cloudless sky. If she did not know of my sister’s weakness, then she could not know of Wickham’s perfidy, I reflected, and it was to tell her of this that I had begun the letter.
I could pretend it was to answer the charge of being the cause of her sister’s unhappiness, but I knew in my heart it was because I wanted to exonerate myself of all blame in my conduct towards George Wickham.
I could not bear the thought of him being her favourite, or the thought of my being valued at nothing by his side.
I resumed my letter.
With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured Mr Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he has particularly accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity.
‘Colonel Fitzwilliam will vouch for me,’ I said under my breath.
But how to tell the tale? How to arrange the incidents of Wickham’s life into some coherent whole? And how to write it in such a way that my animosity did not colour every word? For I meant to be fair, even to him.
I thought. At last I continued to write.
Mr Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to him, and on George Wickham, who was his godson, his kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and afterwards at Cambridge. Hoping the church would be his profession, he intended to provide for him in it. As for myself it is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities, the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself. Here again I shall give you pain …
How deep do her feelings go? I wondered. I stabbed the paper with my quill and blotted the page. It was so scored through with crossings out and additions, however, that I knew I would have to rewrite it before presenting it to Elizabeth, and I paid the blot no heed.
… to what degree you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr Wickham has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his real character. It adds even another motive.
A motive of keeping you safe, dear Elizabeth.
I found myself thinking of what could have been. If she had accepted me, I could be sleeping soundly, with the expectation of rising to a happy morning spent in her company. As it was, I was unable to sleep, writing by the light of a candle and the glow of the moonlight that came in at the window.
I took up my quill, telling her how my father, in his will, had desired me to give Wickham a valuable living, that Wickham had decided he did not want to enter the church, and that he had asked for money instead.
He had some intention, he added, of studying the law, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than believed him to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr Wickham ought not to be a clergyman; the business was therefore soon settled, he resigned all claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his society in town.
Rationally put. She could not take exception to such moderation, though I had had to write it five times to achieve such a result.
For about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. You will hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances, and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others as in his reproaches to myself. After this period every appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.
Yes. Last summer. I went over to the side of the room. I had brought a decanter with me, and a glass. I poured myself a whisky and drank it off. The fire had been lit against the Easter chill, but it had long since gone out, and I needed the whisky to warm me.
I did not want to write the next part of the letter
but it had to be done. I tried to put it off, but the clock on the mantelpiece was ticking and I knew I must finish what I had begun. I must, however, ask her for secrecy. That she would grant it I had no doubt. She had a sister whom she loved dearly. She would understand the love and affection I had for mine.
I told her of Georgiana’s meeting with Wickham in Ramsgate, and of the way he had played upon her affections, persuading her to agree to an elopement.
Mr Wickham’s chief object was unquestionably my sister’s fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me, was a strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.
I sat back, tired. I had come to the end. Now all that remained was for me to wish her well.
This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed. For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam; and that there may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.
Fitzwilliam Darcy.
It was done.
I glanced at the clock. It was half past two. I had to copy the letter into a fair hand, one she could read, but I was tired. I decided to rest.
I undressed slowly and went to bed.
Wednesday 23rd April
This morning I woke with the dawn. I slept again, until my valet wakened me. I rose quickly, then made a fair copy of my letter. I made my way to Colonel Fitzwilliam’s room. He was in his dressing-gown when I arrived, about to have his valet shave him.
‘I need to speak to you,’ I said.
‘At this hour?’ he asked, laughing.
‘I need your help.’
His look changed. He dismissed his valet.
‘You have it,’ he said.
‘I need you to do something for me.’
‘Name it.’
‘I need you to bear witness to the events related in this letter.’
He looked at me in surprise.
‘They contain particulars of Wickham’s relations with my sister.’
He frowned. ‘I do not think you should divulge them to anyone.’
‘Events have made it imperative that I do so.’
In the briefest of terms I told him of what had passed; that I had proposed to Elizabeth and been refused.
‘Refused?’ He broke in at that. ‘Good God, what can you have said to her to make her refuse you?’
‘Nothing. I said only what any sensible man would have said,’ I replied. ‘I told her of the struggle I had had in overlooking the inferiority of her connections, the objectionable behaviour of her family, the lowness of her situation in life—’
‘Only what any sensible man would have said?’ he asked in surprise. ‘Darcy, this is not like you. You cannot have so mismanaged it. To insult a woman and then to expect her to marry you?’
I was surprised at his reaction.
‘I spoke nothing but the truth.’
‘If we all spoke the truth there would be a great deal of unhappiness in the world, and particularly at such a time. Some things are better left unsaid.’
‘I abhor deception,’ I said.
‘And I abhor a blockhead!’ he returned, half-smiling, half-exasperated. Then he became serious. ‘But to offer for Miss Bennet … I confess you have taken me by surprise. I had no idea your affections were engaged.’
‘I took care you should not know. I did not want anyone to know. I thought I could vanquish them.’
‘But they were too strong for you?’
I nodded, and though I would not have admitted it to anyone but myself, they still were. No matter. I would conquer them. I had no choice.
‘Will you stand witness for me? Will you make yourself available to her, should she wish it?’ I asked him.
‘You are sure she will say nothing of it to anyone?’
‘I am sure.’
‘Very well. Then yes, I will.’
‘Thank you. And now I must leave you. I hope to put this letter into her hand this morning. She walks in the park after breakfast. I hope to find her there.’
I left him to his valet and went out into the park. I had not long to wait. I saw Elizabeth and walked towards her. She hesitated, and I believe she would have turned away if she could, but she knew that I had seen her. I walked towards her purposefully.
‘I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?’
I put it into her hand. And then, before she could hand it back to me, I made her a slight bow and walked away.
Of my feelings as I returned to Rosings I will say nothing. I scarcely know what they were. I imagined her reading the letter. Would she believe me? Would she think better of me? Or would she dismiss it as a fabrication?
I had no way of knowing.
My visit to my aunt is drawing to an end. I leave tomorrow with my cousin. I could not go without taking my leave of those at the parsonage, but I was apprehensive about the visit. How would Elizabeth look? What would she say? What would I say?
As chance should have it, Elizabeth was not there. I said all that was proper to Mr and Mrs Collins and then took my leave.
Colonel Fitzwilliam went later, remaining an hour so that Elizabeth might have a chance of speaking to him if she wished it, but she did not return. I can only hope she has accepted that I have told her the truth, and that her feelings towards me are now less hostile. But any other kind of feelings … such hopes are over.
Thursday 24th April
I am in London again. After all the unforeseeable events at Rosings I find that here, at least, things are still the same. Georgiana has learnt a new sonata and netted a purse. She has also made a very good sketch of Mrs Annesley. But although London has not changed, I find that I have. I am no longer happy here. My house seems lonely. I had never realized how large it is, or how empty. If things had gone otherwise … but they did not.
I have much to do, and I will soon be too busy to think of the past. During the days, I have business which must be attended to, and at night I mean to attend every party and ball to which I have been invited. I will not allow the events of the last few weeks to discompose me. I have been a fool, but I will be a fool no more. I am determined to forget Elizabeth.
Friday 25th April
‘Mr Darcy! How good of you to attend our little gathering!’ said Lady Susan Wigham as I entered her house this evening.
It was comfortable to be back in a world of elegance and taste, with not one vulgar person to mortify me. The ballroom was full of refined people, many of whom I had known all my life.
‘Do let me introduce you to my niece, Cordelia. She is visiting me from the country. She is a charming girl, and a graceful dancer.’
She presented Miss Farnham, a blonde beauty of some nineteen or twenty years of age.
‘Would you care to dance, Miss Farnham? I asked.
She blushed prettily and whispered: ‘Thank you, yes.’
As I led her out on to the floor, I found my thoughts straying to the Netherfield ball, but I quickly controlled them and made myself think of Miss Farnham.
‘Have you been in town long?’ I asked her.
‘No, not very long,’ she said.
At least, I believe that is what she said. She has a habit of whispering which makes it difficult to h
ear her.
‘Are you enjoying your stay?’
‘Yes, I thank you.’
She relapsed into silence.
‘Have you been doing anything of interest?’ I asked.
‘No, not really,’ she said.
‘You have been to the theatre, perhaps?’
‘Yes.’
She said nothing more.
‘What play did you see?’ I coaxed her.
‘I cannot recall.’
‘You have been to one of the museums, perhaps?’ I asked, thinking the change of subject might stimulate her.
‘I do not know. Is the museum the large building with the columns outside? If so, I have been there. I did not like it. It was very cold and draughty.’
‘Perhaps you prefer reading books to visiting museums?’ I asked her.
‘Not especially,’ she whispered. ‘Books are very difficult, are they not? They have so many words in them.’
‘It is one of their undeniable failings.’
Elizabeth would have smiled at this, but there was no humour in Miss Farnham’s voice when she whispered: ‘That is exactly what I think.’
We lapsed into silence, but realizing that my thoughts were beginning to turn to Elizabeth, I determined to persevere.
‘Perhaps you like to sketch?’ I asked her.
‘Not especially,’ she said.
‘Is there anything you like to do?’ I asked, hearing a note of exasperation in my voice.
She looked up at me with more animation.
‘Oh, yes, indeed there is. I like playing with my kittens. I have three of them, Spot, Patch and Stripe. Spot has a black spot, but otherwise he is entirely white. Patch has a white patch on his back, and Stripe—’
Mr. Darcy's Diary Page 12