Page 24 of Moments of Truth
“My sister never meant Mr. Bingley any harm,” Elizabeth interjected quickly, her voice sharpened with the instinctive ardour of a defender, the same protective fire Charlotte had once admired when Lizzy stood up to the Meryton gossips on Jane’s behalf.
“Of course—I never doubted it, Lizzy.” Charlotte lifted her hands in protest, her tone placatory, as if to soothe a wounded pride. “I only wish to make clear that I do not question your sister’s worth. I am merely saying that Mr. Darcy would not act from malice. He must have had his reasons.”
“What reasons could a selfish, arrogant, and conceited man possibly have?” Elizabeth’s voice was scarcely above a whisper, yet its sharpness betrayed how deeply she clung to the charge. She recalled her mother’s oft-repeated caution—that asuitor’s manner must be studied with patience before judgment was passed—but her own temper could never brook such forbearance.
“Selfish? Arrogant? Conceited? Those are not words I should employ of Mr. Darcy,” Charlotte answered with a small smile, a smile both indulgent and steady, betraying neither offence nor surprise. She had long suspected Elizabeth to harbour such opinions. Indeed, many did likewise—some even in harsher tones—but Charlotte had lived long enough to distrust the clamour of general prejudice.
“Unsurprisingly, you would think that way,” Elizabeth returned. “It is the common judgment of those who know him little, or have never been favoured with his personal attention.” Her words were half-defiance, half-defence of her own prejudice, though she hardly acknowledged it; Jane’s gentle voice seemed to rise faintly in memory—“We must be slow, Lizzy, in believing ill of others”—yet she pressed it down, unwilling to yield her indignation.
“If so many think alike, does that not argue some truth in their words?” Elizabeth demanded, her eyes flashing in that very manner Mr. Bennet once jested of—too quick in her conclusions, too confident in the brilliance of her wit to doubt herself in the moment.
“Truth? Words?” Charlotte repeated slowly, musing. Then, with gentle firmness, she added: “What you call truth, I call prejudice. What you call words, I call accusations. Listen, Lizzy. Few people truly know Mr. Darcy. Many assume he is proud, pompous, unfeeling—but the truth may lie far from that. He cares for those about him; he places others before himself, even to his own discomfort. He has done so repeatedly, though he never proclaims it. His silence can be mistaken for hauteur,his reserve for disdain. Yet it is only his nature: he does not speak unless he has something certain to say. And when he does speak, his very confidence unsettles others, so that they brand him arrogant. He is not. To me, he is one of the truest, most honourable gentlemen I have ever known. I once told you, Lizzy, that a steady, respectable man is often more deserving of regard than one full of gallantry—and Mr. Darcy, whatever else may be said of him, is nothing if not steady.”
Elizabeth listened in silence. At first, she thought Charlotte only wished to soften her anger, to defend a man who had so wounded her pride, but as her friend spoke, Elizabeth perceived no artifice. Charlotte delivered her words with the unvarnished plainness of a woman who had observed much and asked little for herself. They reminded Elizabeth of a walk they once shared near Lucas Lodge, when Charlotte had remarked that happiness in marriage was as much about good sense as it was about ardour; Charlotte’s judgments, though practical, were rarely careless, and never founded on vanity. The sincerity touched Elizabeth more keenly than flattery ever could.
Elizabeth began to question her resolve. Might her opinions indeed have been formed too hastily? Charlotte had known Mr. Darcy longer, had seen him in ordinary hours, when pretence was unnecessary. And Charlotte was no flatterer—she sought not to please, but to speak her truth. The thought unsettled Elizabeth; for it was far easier to cling to resentment than to admit the possibility of injustice in her own judgment, and she had never been fond of confessing herself in the wrong.
As if reading her mind, Charlotte placed a hand gently upon her shoulder. “Have you confronted him directly on the matter of your sister and Mr. Bingley?”
“Of course I did.”
“Did you ask him why he persuaded Mr. Bingley to withdraw? Did you require of him his reasons?”
Elizabeth opened her mouth, but faltered. In truth, she had not. She had stormed and accused, but never demanded explanation. Her words, she now recalled with discomfort, had been too much the child of passion—sharp, ungoverned, and unworthy of the calm dignity Jane would have urged upon her. The memory made her colour with shame.
“No…” she admitted at last, her voice low and uncertain.
“You see, my dear,” Charlotte said kindly, “Mr. Darcy is not as you have painted him. One must not form opinions too swiftly, nor with scant evidence. Tell me honestly—how often have you spoken with him? How many true conversations have you shared?”
“Not that often,” Elizabeth confessed, her voice tinged with reluctant candour, as though the admission were a surrender. She felt again her father’s amused prophecy that her wit, delightful as it was, might one day lead her into errors of judgment; never had she felt the truth of it so keenly as now.
“Do you think such a brief acquaintance is enough to know someone truly?” Charlotte asked, her voice calm, yet touched with the authority of one who had long observed society’s follies. “Would it be fair, Lizzy, if another judged you without the least attempt at understanding you properly? What makes you so certain that Mr. Darcy is not the man I believe him to be? What if your impression of him is mistaken?”
“And what if the person I have come to know is the real Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth countered quickly. Her tone had the ring of self-defence, though her heart trembled even as she spoke. What if she had, indeed, misread him? The mere thought struckher with unease. “What if the man you think you have met is only a façade, a carefully crafted pretence? Perhaps the Darcy I have seen is true.” She could not relinquish her judgment so easily; yet if she were wrong, what a cruel, unfeeling creature she herself must appear to be.
“How long do you think a person can pretend for?” Charlotte asked softly, her gaze steady, as if she wished to lead her friend into reflection rather than victory.
Elizabeth hesitated. She did not know how to answer. The question unsettled her; for if Charlotte spoke the truth, then her own observations might have been but fragments, distorted by prejudice.
Seeing the confusion that clouded Elizabeth’s face, Charlotte smiled gently. “What I mean is—no man or woman can dissemble forever. Sooner or later, the moment comes when a mask will slip, when the truth is laid bare, and character stands revealed. I should think you of all people, Lizzy, who pride yourself on seeing through pretence, might acknowledge that.”
Elizabeth mused silently over what Charlotte had said, remembering her father’s teasing words—that she delighted too much in exposing absurdities, even at the risk of mistaking sincerity for folly.
“I take it you spoke with sharpness, and dismissed him—refused his proclamation of love outright?”
“Y–yes,” Elizabeth admitted, colouring. “Please, Charlotte, you must not speak of this to my mother.”
Charlotte gave her a reassuring smile. “Of course not, my dear friend. Your secret is safe with me. Yet I hope you have considered carefully the consequences of your words—not only for him, but for yourself.”
“No… I did not,” Elizabeth whispered, her voice thick with shame.
“Pity, Lizzy.” Charlotte shook her head slowly, not in censure, but with the sorrow of one who perceived more clearly than her friend could allow herself to see.
“Hmmm?” Elizabeth was startled by her friend’s gentle reproach.
“You must understand, Lizzy,” Charlotte continued thoughtfully, “Mr. Darcy is not a man to trifle with affection. He has never sought the notice of women, nor courted their favour lightly. If he has declared himself to you, it is not from vanity or idleness. He does nothing without deep reflection. That, at least, I am persuaded of. Therefore, that he should at last set aside his reserve and speak to you with earnestness of love—Miss Bennet, it is no slight testimony. It is proof of a feeling both deliberate and sincere.”
The indifferent mask on Elizabeth’s face melted at those words. She remembered his expression, the steady fire in his eyes when Darcy spoke of love. For the first time, she wondered whether what she had mistaken for arrogance was, in truth, a heart’s desperate effort to speak plainly where words failed him.
