Gay Pride and Prejudice (26 page)

“I came to inquire after your health.”

“You needn’t have come.”

“In fact, I did need to come.” She paced the floor in front of Elizabeth.

“I cannot imagine why.”

“You know exactly why.” She dropped to her knees before Elizabeth, and reached for her hands. “It should not be so, but in vain have I struggled against my feelings for you. Against all reason, they will not be repressed.”

Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, blushed, doubted, and was silent. Caroline took this to be sufficient encouragement; and the avowal of all that she felt, and had long felt for Elizabeth, immediately followed. She spoke, too, of apprehension and anxiety regarding Elizabeth’s sentiments toward her, but her countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance was unlikely to recommend her suit, particularly given the history that existed between them.

“You must therefore allow me to tell you how ardently I love and admire you,” she finished at last.

Colouring even more deeply, Elizabeth pulled her hands away and said: “I will allow no such thing.” Her determination wavered momentarily after she said this, for she could not be entirely insensible to the compliment of the lady’s affection. But then she felt the texture of the paper folded on her lap, and remembered her sister’s disappointment upon receiving Caroline’s letters the previous winter.

Her face going pale, Caroline rocked back on her heels. The disturbance of her mind was visible in every feature as she struggled for the appearance of composure; the resulting pause was to Elizabeth’s feelings dreadful. But at length, with a voice of forced coolness, Caroline said: “I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected.”

“I do not intend to be uncivil. But even had not my feelings decided against you,” said Elizabeth, “had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the person who has been instrumental in ruining, perhaps forever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?”

As she pronounced these words, Miss Bingley changed colour; but she listened without attempting to interrupt Elizabeth while she continued: “I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted there. You dare not, you cannot deny, that you have been a principal in the plot to divide them from each other—of exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, and the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind.”

She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that Caroline was listening with an air which proved her wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse. She even looked back at Elizabeth with a smile of affected incredulity.

“Do you deny that you have done it?” Elizabeth repeated.

With assumed tranquility, Caroline replied: “I have no need of denying that I helped separate Charles from your sister. Towards
him
I have been kinder than towards myself.”

Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection, but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her.

“It is not merely this affair,” she declared, “on which my dislike is founded. Your character unfolded from the start as one ruled by pride and vanity. Can you deny that you believe my family degraded, unworthy of connection to the Bingley name?”

“I cannot,” said Caroline, rising to her feet and gazing down at Elizabeth.

“How perfect, to find that your one consistency should be your quite fantastic conceit.”

“My
one
consistency? To what inconsistency do you refer?”

“I wrote to you,” Elizabeth said, rising to face her, “and you did not answer. But why should this come as a surprise? Jane waited weeks for you to visit, and when you finally deigned to appear at Gracechurch Street, you were barely civil to her. Is that why you lied about visiting her at all? No matter—you have proven beyond a doubt that you are not capable of being a true and faithful friend, anymore than your brother could ever be.”

Caroline shook her head. “And I suppose you would know all about truth and faithfulness, as you stand here in the house of your cousin and his wife—your lover!”

Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to the utmost to speak with composure when she said: “You are mistaken, Miss Bingley, if you suppose that your opinion on these matters affects me in any other way, than as it spares me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved more honourably.”

She saw Caroline start at this, but as the lady said nothing, Elizabeth added: “From the very beginning of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your contemptible pride and conceit, were such as to form the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last person in the world whom I could ever be prevailed upon to love.”

“You have said quite enough,” said Caroline, her features schooled now into an unreadable mask. “I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be more ashamed of my own. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”

And with these words she quickly left the room, and Elizabeth heard her the next moment open the front door and quit the house.

The tumult of her mind was now painfully great. She knew not how to support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for half-an-hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was increased by every review of it. That she should receive a passionate avowal of love from Caroline Bingley! That Caroline should have been in love with her for so many months, so much in love as to wish to be with her in spite of all the objections which had made her prevent her brother’s marrying Jane—and which must appear at least with equal force in her own case—was almost incredible! But Caroline’s pride, that abominable pride, paired with her shameless refusal to apologise for the injury she had inflicted upon Jane, soon overcame the wonder which the consideration of her attachment had for a moment excited. Elizabeth continued in very agitated reflections till the sound of Lady Catherine’s carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter Charlotte’s observation, and hurried her away to her room.

Chapter Thirty-Five

E
LIZABETH AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING
to the same thoughts and meditations which had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the surprise of what had happened; it was impossible to think of anything else; and, totally indisposed for employment, she resolved, soon after breakfast, to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding directly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Miss Bingley’s sometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park, she turned up the lane, which led farther from the turnpike-road. The park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed one of the gates into the ground.

After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was lured, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and look into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent had made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk, when she caught a glimpse of a lady within the sort of grove which edged the park; and, fearful of its being Miss Bingley, Elizabeth directly retreated. But the person who advanced was now near enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced her name. She had turned away; but on hearing herself called, though in a voice which proved it to be Miss Bingley, she moved back towards the gate. Caroline had by that time reached it also, and, holding out a letter, which Elizabeth instinctively took, said, with an air of unusual formality, “I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?” And then, with that slight bow of hers, she turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight.

With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still increasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter-paper, written quite through, in a very close hand. The envelope itself was likewise full. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated from Rosings, at eight o’clock in the morning, and was as follows:

“Please do not be concerned, Miss Eliza, that this letter will contain any resuscitation of the sentiments professed last night. It is not my intent to trouble you, nor to expose myself any further than I have already done, but I cannot rest easily until I address some among the considerations you raised in the course of our recent conversation. I only hope that you might be persuaded to pardon the presumption with which I am requesting your attention.

“You were not altogether wrong when you accused me of conceit, nor of pride. But while I did not deny last night the accusations you bestowed so liberally, this morning I find that I should like to offer a fairer accounting of my actions and motives. If, in the course of this explanation, I offend you, I pledge my sincere apologies. My aim is not to harm you in any way, only to remedy what I view to be the rather more affecting misunderstandings between us.

“It is true, I am aware, that I appear to believe myself and my connections far superior to those of others. In fact, I am overly conscious of the origins of my family’s fortune. In school, and later, in town, I watched doors close and offers of friendship hastily be withdrawn wherever it was revealed that my father had come by his land and money through honest trade. To move in the society to which Louisa, Charles and I belong, it is difficult indeed to always be viewed as one who does not measure up. As a result, I have developed a carapace of sorts that I don in certain situations, a shield from the unkind whispers and demeaning manners of those individuals who believe me unremittingly inferior. I am distressed indeed to think that this defensive measure offended you, you who have been so engagingly forthright on most occasions. Perhaps almost too outspoken at times, given the events of last night.

“In regard to your sister’s feelings toward my brother, I was apparently wrong in my estimation, as was Mr. Darcy. At the Netherfield ball, alerted by a comment from Sir Lucas, Darcy and I both perceived that Charles’s partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what either of us had previously witnessed in him. Your sister, however, while her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever, seemed without any symptom of extraordinary regard. Thus were Darcy and I convinced that, though she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not feel the same degree of sentiment that Charles did. Believe me when I say that from all outward appearances, her heart did not appear so greatly invested. Add to that the vulgar behavior of your mother and younger sisters at Netherfield—pardon me for saying this, as I know it must offend you, although you and Jane are both entirely blameless of this charge, as you must be aware—Darcy and I agreed that Louisa’s serious objections to the match were not entirely unfounded. This is why he and I went along with Louisa’s plan to separate them, not merely owing to pride or superiority, but out of genuine love of and loyalty to my brother. Something, I suppose, of which you believe me incapable.

“Certain Charles was headed for a fall, we accordingly followed him to London, where Darcy engaged in pointing out to him the incommodity of such a match. While his remonstrance might have delayed my brother’s determination, I do not believe that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been for the assurance that Darcy gave of your sister’s indifference. Charles had before believed Miss Bennet to return his affection with sincere, if not with equal regard. But he has great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on the judgment of others, particularly that of Darcy, than on his own. To convince him that he had deceived himself was no very difficult task. Nor was persuading him against returning into Hertfordshire, once he believed Miss Bennet cared not for him.

“You may find fault, as I now do, with our decision to conceal from Charles your sister’s being in town. He is even yet ignorant of her presence there. We decided to withhold this information primarily because of the belief that his regard did not seem enough extinguished for him to see her without some pain. Perhaps this concealment was beneath us; it was done, however, with all the best intentions. If we wounded your sister’s feelings, as we so clearly must have done, we did so unknowingly; and though our motives may to you appear insufficient, I am not yet entirely prepared to condemn them.

“But charges of pride and malevolent scheming aside, you also accused me of faithlessness, to both you and Miss Bennet. What I would have you know is that, while my behavior has certainly seemed indicative of a lack of consistency in feeling, it cannot accurately reflect my sentiments, neither toward you nor your sister. On the matter of not writing back to you—please believe me when I say that your letter never reached me. Had I known, I would have responded immediately, for I very much wished us to become better acquainted. My lack of knowledge of your correspondence is related to a wider issue—namely, my place in my family. There is a reason that Louisa, Charles and I moved to Netherfield last year, one that has been hidden, for good reason, from public consumption. Therefore, I would beg you to keep what I am about to impart wholly to yourself. If you are unable to do so, please stop reading at once, and cast this letter into the fire directly upon returning to the Parsonage.

“If you are still reading, then I will assume you consent to the necessity for secrecy—a condition in which you have no doubt found yourself previously. So here it is, the information that Charles and Louisa would have no one outside ourselves ascertain: Last year, I entered into a friendship with a married woman, whose jealous husband threatened to publicly expose my ‘unnatural tendencies’ and, thereby, ruin the family, if I were not to leave Cumbria forever. Charles found Netherfield, and thither we went, with Louisa acting as my self-appointed guardian to ensure I would not advance any other opportunity of blackening the Bingley name. When she understood that Charles was becoming infatuated with your sister, and I with you, Louisa decided it was time to move back to town, where she confined me to Grosvenor Street and forbade me any contact with you or Jane. I can and do admit to a lack of courage, in allowing myself to be so managed by my sister, but the threat of being removed from the family and sent off to live on my own with neither fortune nor friend, a warning which Louisa leveled at me daily in London, was most affecting. I went to see your sister in direct violation of Louisa’s wishes, and worried the entire visit what would happen if she were to find out. A woman of our class on her own in the world without money or connection—such a situation rarely ends well.