This story was posted elsewhere. i made some tweaks and I'm now posting it here. It is the refined version. :) Enjoy!

Caveat:

I do not pretend to know men's emotions, but I am guided by letters poems written by men and of songs sung and stories told by men about themselves. This little short was inspired by a poem by WB Yeats below, which is not EXACTLY romantic, but it serves and also to some knowledge that every breakup contains within it a cycle of human emotions.

To His Heart, Bidding it Have no Fear

BE you still, be you still, trembling heart

Remember the wisdom out of the old days

Him who trembles before the flame and the flood

And the winds that blow through the starry ways

Let the starry winds and the flame and the flood

Cover over and hide, for he has no part

With the lonely, majestical multitude.

William Butler Yeats

A Note to Himself

The day opened up cool and bright, thinly marked with the watery warmth of a slowly stirring sun. The air outside was alive with the sounds of a mid-spring day that seemed to vacillate between the coolness of winter, and the heated passion of summer. Together, they had, born between them, a temperature of remarkable moderation. It was the type of morning that would have been a balm to his spirits under the usual circumstances. But, on this day, it did nothing for him.

He blinked, surprised at how sleep had eventually found him, so sure was he that he would have stayed up all night. What had happened last night? For a few lucid moments he maintained the peacefulness of non-comprehension. But then it all flooded back. The passion he had nursed. The desire he had stoked. The love he had nurtured...it had all been for nothing. His mind recoiled in anger at the remembrance.

His thoughts grew gloomy. How dare she? Was she mad? Did she not actively encourage him? Was she not expecting his addresses? How dare she? Who was she to refuse him?! A woman in her position should never have expected that one such as he would have even deigned to look at her, far less to love her. Ungentlemanly, she said. Last man in the world, she said. She, Elizabeth Bennet a woman who would be destined for a life much lower than anything that he had placed at her feet. She had called him ungentlemanly. She had deemed him the last man in the world she would ever marry! He, who was willing to sacrifice everything for her. He, who was willing to give up all claims to duty, give up all that was expected of him in choosing her. Give up every conceivable expectation of society, of family, of heritage and lineage, of geography even! Sacrifice all in making her an unmatched offer. He, he was willing to do all that! Only to end up the recipient of her disgust and her scorn. Dismissed. Cast aside. The worst of men.

She had defended George Wickham. It stung, for some incomprehensible reason, it stung. Of all the men in the world why did she have to settle on him? His anger pitched again and then settled into something worse, a resigned sort of despondency. It would be Wickham. Providence was playing him for a fool. It would be Wickham. His mind reeled a bit on the realisation of the implications of her defense of George Wickham. He wished in no way to know how far their understanding went. As these bitter thoughts churned in his head, he was made nauseous, and wretched by it all.

His memory of her expression as she had given him the worse set down of his life, seared through the recesses of his mind and he had to blink to contain the distress within him that he had no business feeling. It took many a long moment of staring aimlessly into the fire, of replaying the details of every scene of their encounter, of focusing again on every turn of expression that she had made, until he had finally determined on the necessity of writing her a letter. He had barely begun it before he found himself laughing. Laughing at the ironic madness of it all. Here he was writing a letter to the woman he loved and it was as far removed from a love letter as a letter could be. His mind sobered at that thought and he felt some of the bitterness inside him seep onto the pages beneath his quill. He had apologised once within it and that would be enough. There was nothing more to be done, after this letter he would be rid of her, after this letter she would be rid of him.

The first clue to his discomposure was his drunkenness.

As courtesy demanded, they had gone that morning to take their leave of those at the parsonage. Darcy had left his cousin after a half hour. He left directly for Rosings. Two hours later the colonel found him arguing with the stable-hand as he was awkwardly trying to mount a spirited hunter that the young groomsman was trying to draw away from him

"Unhand the horse boy! I am well able to sit atop it!"

"Begging your pardon sir, but you be in no temper to ride a horse...begging your pardon sir!" The poor boy was in distress, clearly never having before encountered such a scene. Colonel Fitzwilliam lost no time in addressing the situation. He nodded to the boy to take the horse away as he guided his cousin away, speaking to him sternly in a lowered voice

"What is the meaning of this Darcy? You are drunk! What is this! Come now man! Surely you are not distraught to be leaving Lady Catherine?!" The Colonel made a play for levity but it was brushed aside

"I want to leave Richard! I want to leave now!" Darcy countered in a low angry cut, his tone unreasonable and petulant.

"And you believe riding away drunk, on a horse that is a jumper, will deliver you safely to London? Come now man. You want to leave, we shall leave. But as we had agreed, on the morrow. And perhaps you may wish to sober up first before you step in front of Lady Catherine. What have you been drinking? Scotch?"

"Rummm" Darcy slurred, with a grin.

Based on Darcy's exceptionally untoward behaviour, the Colonel was not surprised at the alacrity in the manner of their leaving the next day but he still saw fit to question.

"Why the rush? Darcy." he stepped in front of his cousin and blocked his path. "What is it? What is wrong?"

"There is nothing wrong Richard. I am quite well. I just need to...I just need to get away from here. Rosings has...well it has been too much. I have spent too much time here. Please, cannot we just leave? I just need to get away from here. I wish to go home. I wish to get to London or Pemberley! Would that I could get to Pemberley." It was an odd roundabout sort of speech that the colonel was having the devil of a time following. It made no sense whatsoever. But as always, Darcy arranged business as it suited him. If he desired to leave, they would leave. But that did not mean he had to quietly accept it. So he persisted in trying to understand the uncharacteristic behaviour of the man in front of him.

"That is not sound, you know it is not. You came from Pemberley. Why all the hurry? All this rush? Is there something you are withholding? Is something else wrong? Georgiana! Is it something with her? Oh blast it all man just tell me!"

"No! It is not about her! Good god Richard! Cannot a man just do something for his own sake? I say I want to leave and leave now! I wish to leave and just put this blasted wretched place behind me! I want to go home, London! Pemberley! Anywhere! Let us just go!"

The burst of temper silenced his cousin, as the colonel looked at him aghast. He had never seen Darcy so disheveled. He watched him in amazement as his face literally contorted itself as he struggled for composure and for a moment he had felt the horror that Darcy was going to cry. But slowly, under some concentrated efforts, he saw him finally settle into stoicism. Never in all his years knowing the man before him, did he ever see him so discomposed, so distressed. And he should know, he was there when Darcy lost, first his mother, then his father and never had he looked like this. Darcy broke through his thoughts. Taking a deep breath he said in his normal voice "just oblige me this once cousin, ask me no questions. I wish to leave under the hour at least."

And so they left, leaving Rosings behind.

For one man in the carriage at least, as he struggled to lay a coldness upon his heart, there was a numbness that could not be easily disregarded. His recourse to liquor the evening before had been but an impulsive fleeting relief. The relief of becoming totally insensible. He had drank alone in his room again after his cousin had unceremoniously deposited him. His only object being to gain the ability to not think as the liquor overran his body. But the price paid was steep, a headache of unrivaled proportions, and a body dehydrated and aching. Luckily, he was left much to himself before their departure and his aunt developed the misguided notion he was adversely affected by leaving his cousin Anne. He was too weary, both of spirit and body to argue against the idea. Now as he sat in his carriage, heading to his London home, he observed his cousin sleeping across from him. Confusion beset him. What of the Colonel over there? Did Elizabeth favour HIM? What could have brought about all her evident distaste and disfavour for himself?

"It is something utterly fantastic' he thought as he stared again outside at the world going by. The carriage, already a mile from Rosings, set onto a short stretch of uneven potholes, ridiculously swaying the box forcing the driver to go slower. The violent rocking reflected exactly the condition of his mind. "It is utterly fantastic that after all this time, after all your scruples, the one woman you would set your heart on, is the one woman whose heart is not set on you. Utterly fantastic, utterly stupid, the most ridiculous thing a man of supposed intelligence could ever have stumbled upon. That, not only is she NOT set on you. But that she is set against you! Blasted stupid man! And what of her? What good would she have brought to me? Nothing but misery I suppose. His mind however, was unwilling to follow through with that thought. Not even in his mind, in the most dreadful bitterness of spirit could he bring himself to fully slight her. His look continued impenetrable while his cousin sleepily opened an eye and glanced at him from across the carriage.

'Aye—that is because you have the right disposition. But that gentleman," looking at Darcy, "seemed to think the country was nothing at all. His eyes darted across to Elizabeth Bennet as she rose in his defense, her eyes slightly defiant, to her mother, to him, to herself. It was fascinating to observe the play of emotions on her face. Most distinctly did he feel the danger of his admiration, the danger of lingering too much on her lips as she spoke, or on the curve of her neck as she arched herself to lend effort to her spirited defense. The danger of the beautiful, intense expression of her eyes.'

Everything about her beguiled him, intrigued him, bewitched him and now, could only torment him.

"It is another ten odd miles or so." The colonel said a bit absentmindedly, breaking through the cords of his memory. It was at that moment he knew, he had to stop thinking about her. It was physical torture of the acutest type. And yet he could not seem to stop.

"Have you ever been in love Richard?" The question was pulled out of him before he could draw it back. Colonel Fitzwilliam arched an eyebrow as if to say this is new.

"In love you say? Well I cannot rightly say. I have admired many women, but as to love. It is what we would all wish for. But I do not think I have ever encountered the feeling. I have never known what is was to love, nor...what it is to have lost it." The colonel added cautiously. "Have you Darcy?"

The question was more a statement. Looking away to the outside again, he nodded.

"Yes, I have."

As he reflected on these thoughts going through the darkened streets close to home. He found his agitation rising again. He had done well speaking with the colonel on indifferent matters. He had been diverted, entertained and could have been said to be of a tolerably composed mind and an even more tolerably composed body. But thoughts of home drew him back into all that he had once desired; that his home become hers, that all that he had, would be hers, that her children be his.

"Love is a dangerous thing," he said to himself. He had known his danger and still he had ignored it. He swung on the pendulum of life in a manner that was more real to him than anything he had ever before experienced. When did he love her? How came he to love her? He had not a clue. The only thing he knew for certain was that he did and now, now he was faced only with a tremendous sense of loss. It was a dull, empty feeling. A sort of gnawing numbness. He felt it keenly, the rejection pained him. He remembered her smiles, her playful, secret sweet smiles. Smiles he had once thought were for him only. Only now he knew, they were for him but the secret behind them was not a joy, only a pain. At this point he had no idea what went wrong, where he went wrong. All he knew was that in his heart lay an emptiness, a grief he had not words to describe, as if something good and wonderful was torn from him. Something beautiful of the what could have been. His reserve cracked a little under its weight. The weight of emptiness, the weight of loss.

An unusual sensation of grief in him lay just beneath the surface, with rage as its close companion. A war was being waged within him and he was the bystander, the contender, and the casualty. She was lost to him, gone forever. He would never see her again. Every connection between them was now broken. It were as if she were dead. The thought pricked at him even as he willed strength to himself.

He plastered a congenial smile on his face as he met his butler and made his addresses to his housekeeper. After dismissing his valet on the pretense of weariness, he moved with relief through the halls of his home. Thus far he was successful, his thoughts were his own to control, not once had they strayed to where they were not wanted. He walked methodically up the stairs and then moved swiftly to the section of the house where his chambers were located. He did not even pause past the mistress chambers. He spared not a thought. He was in control. He was complete master of himself. He increased his pace on spying his bedroom door at the end of the corridor. Swiftly he moved and faster, faster and with purpose. As he opened the door and then locked it behind him, he leaned against it allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the dim light of the darkened room which was chastened only by the fireplace. Thank god finally he was alone! Alone. The word echoed through his being like the far away call of a lonely sailor, a man, cut loose and set adrift. He had shut the door and shut the world outside. As he stood and leaned his back against the door, he slid slowly and sank down to the floor as his composure crumpled. There, his head bowed low, cradled on his knees, he sat as a man defeated. He gave in to the losing struggle, losing the battle of composure, allowing himself the turmoil of his grieving heart.

In the quiet of a London night. In the darkness of a London house. In the privacy of a man's London bedroom, where none could see nor hear nor feel, what he had seen and heard and felt, Fitzwilliam Darcy wept.

Finis