Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites

by Linda Berdoll

  She was growing as angry as I was, yet she controlled her temper sufficiently to reply.

  ‘You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.’

  I felt an intense shock. If I had behaved in a more gentleman-like manner? When had I ever been anything but a gentleman?

  ‘You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it,’ she said.

  I could not believe it. She could never have accepted my hand? Never accept a connection with the Darcy family? Never accept all the benefits that would accrue to her as my wife? It was madness. And to blame it, not on my manner, but on my person! I looked at her with open incredulity. I, who had been courted in drawingrooms the length and breadth of the land!

  But she had not finished.

  ‘From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.’

  I felt incredulity give way to anger, and anger to humiliation. My mortification was now complete.

  ‘You have said quite enough, madam,’ I told her curtly. ‘I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time’ – and to prove that I was, even now after such base insults, a gentleman, I added – ‘and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.’

  Then, having delivered myself of my final proud utterance, I left the room.

  I returned to Rosings, walking blindly, seeing nothing of my surroundings, seeing only Elizabeth. Elizabeth telling me I had ruined her sister’s happiness. Elizabeth telling me I had ruined George Wickham’s hopes. Elizabeth telling me I had not behaved like a gentleman. Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth.

  I said not a word at dinner. I saw nothing, heard nothing, tasted nothing. I thought only of her.

  Try as I might, I could not put her accusations out of my mind. The charge that I had ruined her sister’s happiness might have some merit, though I had acted for the best. The accusation that I had ruined Wickham’s hopes was of another order. It impugned my honour, and I could not let it rest.

  ‘A game of billiards, Darcy?’ asked Colonel Fitzwilliam, when Lady Catherine and Anne retired for the night.

  ‘No. Thank you. I have a letter to write.’

  He looked at me curiously but said nothing. I retired to my room and took up my quill. I had to exonerate myself. I had to answer her accusation. I had to show her she was wrong. And yet how?

  My dear Miss Bennet

  I scored through the lines as soon as I had written them. She was not my dear Miss Bennet. I had not the right to call her dear.

  I crushed my piece of paper and threw it away.

  Miss Bennet

  The name conjured up an image of her sister. It would not do.

  I threw away a second sheet of paper.

  Miss Elizabeth Bennet

  No.

  I tried again.

  Madam, you have charged me with

  She will not read it.

  Be not alarmed, Madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers which were last night so disgusting to you.

  Better.

  I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten.

  Yes. The manner was formal but, I prided myself, not stiff. It should relieve her immediate concerns and persuade her to read on. But what to write next? How to put into words what I had to say?

  I threw down my quill and walked over to the window. I looked out over the parkland as I gathered my thoughts. The night was still. There were no clouds, and the moon could be seen glistening in the sky. Beneath that same moon, within the parsonage, was Elizabeth.

  What was she thinking? Was she thinking about me? About my proposal? About my sins?

  My sins! I had no sins. I returned to my desk and read over what I had written. I picked up my quill and continued. My words flowed easily.

  Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr Bingley from your sister: and the other, that I had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr Wickham.

  Blasted the prospects of that scoundrel! I had given him every benefit, and he had repaid me by seeking to ruin my sister. But the first charge must be answered first.

  I thought back to the autumn, when I had first arrived in Hertfordshire. It was a few months ago only, and yet it seemed a lifetime away.

  I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with others, that Bingley preferred your eldest sister, to any other young woman in the country. I observed my friend’s behaviour attentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him.

  Let there be no deception. I had done with deceit. I had seen a partiality in Bingley, and I did not disguise it.

  Your sister I also watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced from the evening’s scrutiny, that though she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of sentiment. If you have not been mistaken here, I must have been in an error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter probable. If it be so, if I have been misled by such error, to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable.

  I was charitable, allowing Elizabeth her feelings, and her natural defensiveness on behalf of her sister, but I must also be charitable to myself.

  …the want of connection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. But there were other causes of repugnance.

  I hesitated. I had expressed these feelings before, in person. Elizabeth’s words came back to me. ‘Had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.’ Was it ungentleman-like to list her family’s failings? My anger stirred. No, it was nothing but the truth. And I would tell the truth. I had already given her a disgust of me. I had nothing left to fear.

  These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your mother’s family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison of that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father. Pardon me. It pains me to offend you.

  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’ un
easiness 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, acqui
t 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.