Mr. Darcy's Diary

‘You must not blame my aunt,’ she said. ‘It was Lydia who told me of it, and then I asked my aunt for greater detail. Let me thank you again and again,’ went on Elizabeth, ‘in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of discovering them.’

Generous compassion. She thought well of me, but in what way? I was in an agony of suspense.

‘If you will thank me, let it be for yourself alone,’ I said. My voice was low and impassioned. I could not hold my feelings in. ‘Your family owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of you.’

I stopped breathing. I had spoken. I had let out my feelings. I had offered them to her, and could only wait to see if she would fling them back in my face. But she said nothing. Why did she not speak? Was she shocked?

Horrified? Pleased? Then hope rose in my breast. Perhaps she was kept silent by pleasure? I had to know.

‘You are too generous to trifle with me,’ I burst out.

‘If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged. But one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.’

It seemed to be an age before she spoke.

‘My feelings are so different…’ she began.

I started to breathe again.

‘…that I am humbled to think you can still love me…’

I began to smile.

‘…now I receive your assurances with gratitude and…and pleasure…’

‘I have loved you for so long,’ I said, as she slipped her hand through my arm and I covered it with my own. To claim her was a joy. ‘I thought it was hopeless. I tried to forget you, but to no avail. When I saw you again at Pemberley I was overcome with surprise, but quickly blessed my good fortune. I had a chance to show you that I was not as mean-spirited as you thought me. I had a chance to show you that I could be a gentleman. When you did not spurn me, when you accepted my invitation, I dared to hope, but your sister’s troubles took you away from me and I saw you no more. I could not let matters rest. I had to help your sister, in the knowledge that by doing so I was helping you. Then, when she was safely married, I had to see you. I was as nervous as Bingley when we arrived at Longbourn. It was clear that your sister was a woman in love, but I could tell nothing from your face or manner. Did you love me? Did you like me? Could you even tolerate me? I thought yes, then I thought no.

You said so little –’

‘Which was not in my nature,’ she said with an arch smile.

‘No,’ I said, returning the smile. ‘It was not. I did not know whether it was because you were displeased to see me or merely embarrassed.’

‘I was embarrassed,’ she said. ‘I did not know why you had come. I was afraid of showing too much. I did not want to expose myself to ridicule. I could not believe that a man of your pride would offer his hand when it had already been rejected.’

‘His hand, no, but his heart, yes. You are the only woman I have ever wanted to marry, and by accepting my hand you have put me forever in your debt.’

‘I will remind you of it, when you are cross with me,’ she said teasingly.

‘I could never be cross with you.’

‘You think not, but when I pollute the shades of Pemberley, it is possible that you might!’

I laughed. ‘Ah yes, my aunt expressed herself forcefully to both of us.’

‘She told me I would never live at Pemberley,’ said Elizabeth.

‘I ought to dislike her for it, but I am too much in charity with her. It is her visit that brought me to you.’

‘She came to see you?’

‘She did. In London. She was in high dudgeon. She told me that she had been to see you, and that she had demanded that you contradict the rumour of our impending marriage. Your refusal to fall in with her wishes put her sadly out of countenance but it taught me to hope.’

I spoke of my letter. ‘Did it,’ I said, ‘did it soon make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?’

‘It made me think so much better of you, and so immediately, that I felt heartily ashamed of myself. I read it through again, and then again, and as I did so, every one of my prejudices was removed.’

‘I knew that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter.’

‘The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that implies.’

‘When I wrote that letter, I believed myself perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit.’