Page 33 of Bitterness of Spirit

“Why would I? I had no reason to doubt his words and every reason to believe the accusations against you! From the moment you arrived in Hertfordshire, your entire behaviour was a proof of what we later heard!”

“My behaviour? May I ask what I did to you that was so horrible?”

“Too many things to mention—and your ungenerous interference in convincing Mr. Bingley to leave Netherfield was the final proof of your true character. You pretend to be his friend, but you may have ruined his chance for happiness. You separated him from the most kind, generous, gentle soul that exists and deprived him of a genuine and deep affection—something he might not find again. How do feel about that?”

“I feel at peace! To Bingley I have been kinder than to myself!”

“And there it is—your arrogance again! You pretend that self-interest is kindness. I know you do not care that you broke my sister’s heart, but I hope you will witness your friend’s unhappiness and feel a shred of guilt. And if you truly pretend to possess affection for someone, you would show more concern for your cousin Miss de Bourgh. Rather than ruin Mr. Bingley ‘s happiness, you should take care of her comfort and health.”

Darcy’ eyes widened in shock and he became pale again. “Cousin Anne? What does she have to do with this? Why bring my cousin into this argument? And how can you insist I ruined Bingley’s happiness? Perhaps for you, your sister’s well-being matters most, but I could not allow my friend’s true affection to be repaid by Miss Bennet’s desire for a secure future.”

“If we were in search of a secure future, Mr. Darcy, I would have readily accepted your marriage proposal. But I cannot and I would not, even if I were forced to live on the street for the rest of my life. No, we do not search for a secure future. I hope you are content now.”

Astonishment left Darcy speechless; his countenance turned more severe, and his face expressed nothing but cold disdain that only encouraged Elizabeth’s anger as her tirade continued furiously.

“I cannot begin to understand how you have come to me with such a proposal since you could not accept my sister for your friend. I refuse to believe your statement declaring ardent love and admiration. Nothing in your gestures, your behaviours, or your gazes has shown anything close to affection. You offended me the first moment we met and then found fault in everything I did. What you mean to accomplish by this request is impossible to imagine. But perhaps you have some reason nobody else can understand. It is well known that you always have your way, even if that means hurting others. But be at peace, Mr. Darcy. We shall end this charade here. I shall never accept any request from you, and a marriage proposal least of all.”

“Yes, you have made that very clear—several times, madam. And I dare say you have said enough. I can see now how ridiculous my request was. I might have been guilty of some of your claims but not all. Everything I did was with the best intentions. None of my words were lies, and I said only what I heartily felt. Disguise of any sort is my abhorrence, and if you ever took the trouble to discern my true character, you might have known that. But since you are determined to think the worst of me, we should really end this discussion here.”

“How could I know you other than the way you appeared to me and others? How could I know more of your character if your manners revealed only negative aspects?”

“Perhaps you did not look closely enough, Miss Bennet. Or perhaps you are not as perceptive as I believed you to be. I never imagined you thought of me with such low regard! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps—again, perhaps, as I do not trust myself to be certain of anything—these offences might have been overlooked had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might have been suppressed had I, with greater policy, concealed my struggles and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination. It might not be your lack of discernment but your excess pride that made you refuse my honest offer. You spoke of my fault in ruining your sister’s happiness, but you seem to ignore that you might have the same fault.”

Elizabeth felt her cheeks burning with fury, and the words that needed to burst out nearly strangled her breathing. She replied with a force that made her voice sound like thunder.

“You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way than sparing me the concern I might have felt in refusing you had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner. From the very beginning of my acquaintance with you, your manners impressed me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others. 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.”

She stopped, and her eyes sent shafts of fire and hatred towards him. And they seemed to pierce him as his countenance changed once more, and he stumbled back against the wall, appearing to lose his balance.

“From the very beginning?” he whispered weakly, much to Elizabeth’s consternation. “So I have been wrong all this time? I have misunderstood everything all these months?”

Furious and still unable to control her reason, she noticed his eyes change expression. Through their blurred darkness, she thought she caught a glimpse of sincerity, regret, and sadness. He was suffering; she could see that. A variety of emotions became a tumult that weakened her knees. She found nothing to say nor the strength to move—nor did she observe the door opening until she heard Maria’s desperate voice.

“Lizzy, what has happened? What are you doing here with Mr. Darcy? Why are you fighting? I heard you screaming. Dear Lord, you look horrible! Are you crying? What did he do to you?”

With great effort, Elizabeth recovered and turned to her younger friend. “It is nothing, Maria, truly. Mr. Darcy and I had a heated argument—nothing of consequence. We both raised our voices. Sir, you should leave now.”

Darcy barely moved; he nodded and bowed briefly, then his steps hurried him outside. The doorbell announced his leaving just as it announced his arrival only minutes before: twenty-seven minutes past six, but it seemed like years.

As she turned towards Maria and forced a smile, Elizabeth could not help but glance outside, her gaze following his silhouette—shoulders drooped and almost running towards Rosings.

“I am fine, Maria. To be honest, I am very upset, and I did cry a little,” she admitted the obvious to a still frightened Maria Lucas. “I confronted Mr. Darcy about Mr. Bingley and Jane and about Mr. Wickham. I made some nasty accusations. We had a very painful argument. But it is all done now, and we cannot change anything. Please do not say anything to Mr. Collins, my dear. He would insist that I leave if he knew. But I shall tell Charlotte later. Will you promise me?”

“Yes, Lizzy. Of course I shall not tell Mr. Collins anything of the sort. I shall go back to my room—will you join me?”

“Gladly,” Elizabeth accepted, grateful that she would not be alone and not be allowed to think of Mr. Darcy—at least for the present.

***

Darcy left the parsonage, marvelling that his feet were moving although he could not sense them. He took one step after another, the grass brushing his legs, the wind touching his face. His entire body was a cold stone over which he had no control. He could not move; yet, he was walking. He could not feel; yet, an ache cut his chest. He could not think; yet countless thoughts flew into his mind as a blizzard that froze his brain.

Half an hour earlier, his feet, his mind, and his heart flew across the park, happy and relieved with the decision he had finally made. In the blink of an eye—a beat of the heart—he had understood that all his restraint and reluctance had been a waste of time. The decision was easy: she was the right woman for him. She was the one who would fill his life, the one who would complete him. She was meant to be his; they were meant to be together. So he went to propose to her, already excited at the notion of being engaged by the end of the day. Perhaps they could even travel to London altogether and meet her relatives.

He had entered the Parsonage, his soul filled with the anticipation of overwhelming happiness. And he left carrying the weight of astonishing and heart-breaking failure.

She rejected him. She told him how much she hated and despised him; she showed him what a fool he had been for months. She had loathed him since the beginning of their acquaintance. She abhorred his mere presence. She detested him as the lowest and most despicable of men. He was the last man in the world to her—simple and clear.

He could scarcely recollect their fight. So many terrible things had been said that he dared not remember them. She rejected him with the same passion that had always charmed him. She passionately hated him, and thus she repudiated him. She accused him so harshly and blamed him for so many faults that it was not worth retaining them. She put all the blame and all the flaws of the world on his shoulders.