Mr. Darcy's Diary

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.