Pride and Prejudice (The Wild and Wanton Edition) (22 page)

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LIZABETH’S MIND WAS FILLED with thoughts of Jane, Bingley, and, worst of all, Mr. Darcy. She refused to leave her room. The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned brought on a headache. It grew so much worse towards the evening that, added to her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her cousins to Rosings where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins, seeing she was really unwell, did not press her to go and as much as possible prevented her husband from pressing her. However, Mr. Collins could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine’s being rather displeased by her staying at home.

Elizabeth could not care about Lady Catherine or any disappointment she might feel. At the moment she wanted nothing more than to be far away from Rosings. Had there been a carriage at her disposal, she would have been off before her hosts were back from their engagement. However, there was not such means of escape and she instead found refuge beneath the covers, hidden away from the world as she tried to find a solution to end her sister’s suffering and reunite her with Mr. Bingley. Nothing came to mind.

When they were gone not quite the full of a half-an-hour, Elizabeth, intending to exasperate herself as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, examined all of the letters which Jane had written to her since arriving in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering. But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that cheerfulness which had been used to characterize her style, and which, proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself and kindly disposed towards everyone, had been scarcely clouded. Elizabeth noticed every sentence conveyed the idea of uneasiness, with an attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy’s shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict, gave her a keener sense of her sister’s sufferings. It was some consolation to think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next — and, a still greater, that in less than a fortnight she herself would be with Jane again to contribute to the recovery of her spirits, by all that affection could do.

She could not think of Darcy’s leaving Kent without remembering that his cousin was to go with him. Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear that he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not mean to be unhappy about him. Elizabeth would not pretend to love where she did not, nor because the option before her seemed a reasonable prospect. Though, had Colonel Fitzwilliam been inclined towards her, she might have begun to feel differently. But, he did not and she did not.

While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the doorbell. Her spirits were lifted by the idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had once before called late in the evening, and might now come to inquire after her. However, this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room. In a hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she was better. She answered him with cold civility, her stomach too knotted and her chest too tight for her to say much else beyond, “I am better, thank you.”

Though she did not offer, he sat down for a few moments. She did not join him, did not dare, for her head swam with the memory of Jane’s letter, and if she stepped too close she might say something imprudent. He watched her expectantly, and then, in the same hurried manner, he got up and paced about the room. Elizabeth’s anger towards him was replaced by surprise, but she said not a word.

After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her, agitated. “Forgive my coming so late, but I had to see you, Miss Elizabeth.”

At his words she took a seat, unable to continue supporting herself in her amazement.

He came before her, standing straight with his hands stiffly at his side, as if forcing them to remain there. “In vain I have struggled and will do it no longer. My feelings will not be repressed. I have fought against what I know to be right, considering the inferiority of your birth and the expectations of my rank; the obstacles of your wont of connections, of its being a degradation to my —”

“What do you mean by telling me this, sir?” she interrupted, not caring if she were rude.

“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression and she instantly pushed to her feet. He stood a little close to her chair and the action brought her directly before him. She had intended to move away from him, but her legs would not make the effort. She could not speak and found herself staring at him with what had to be a dumbfounded look of astonishment. When the initial words finally made their way through her brain, she began to doubt she had actually heard them. Surely, Mr. Darcy did not just say he loved her. Such a notion was inconceivable.

He took a few steps back to put distance between them, studying her face as he waited for her to speak. She could not. Clearly considering her silence to be sufficient encouragement, he continued, “As I have said, I long struggled with these feelings for you. I came to you on the balcony at Netherfield with the idea that I might tell you, but knew such a declaration warranted full consideration. I took pains to suppress my feelings because of the improbability of such a match as ours, but they will be silenced no longer.” Coming towards her once more, his hands lifted, hesitated, then firmly clasped hers. He drew them up, settling them against his chest so she could feel his heart beating. The rhythm was fast, and blended with the heat and lift of his chest. His words became soft, as he said, “I love you, and for this reason I am willing to overlook those things which render my regard illogical. I can forget common sense; forgive the difference of our ranks; and will forever put aside any disregard I have toward your family — for they can hardly be considered as to recommend my suit. Though my intention is not to be disrespectful on that matter, only honest in my telling you, for you have always seemed fond of a direct assertion of opinion.”

He spoke well, though he was no more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride, and there were feelings besides those of the heart he felt it necessary to be detailed. In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to the compliment of such a man’s affection, and though her intentions did not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to receive. His hands tightened on hers, his strong fingers stroking the backs of her hands in what could only be eager anticipation on his part. She found it hard to concentrate with him so close and pulled her hands gently away. He glanced down at the parting, but let her go, moving instead to lean against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed on her face.

Taking a deep breath, she thought of all he said, and all sympathy roused to resentment by his preceding language. She lost all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to answer him with patience.

He concluded with, “I wish to represent to you the strength of my attachment which, in spite of all my endeavors, I have found it impossible to conquer; and do so express my hope that I should now be rewarded by your acceptance of my hand.”

As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt of a favorable answer. He spoke of apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only exasperate farther. The color rose into her cheeks, and she said, “In such cases as this, I believe the established mode is to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you.”

“Could?” He stiffened visibly.

“But I cannot.” She continued, as if he had not interrupted. “I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry for the pain I have caused you. It has been most unconsciously done. However, I daresay it will be of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it.”

Mr. Darcy seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the appearance of composure, and would not open his lips till he believed himself to have attained it. The pause was, to Elizabeth’s feelings, dreadful. At length, he came closer to her, studying her expression, as if closer examination would somehow contradict her words. With a voice of forced calmness, he said, “And this is all the reply which I am to have the honor of expecting? I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavor at civility, I am thus rejected.”

“I might as well inquire,” replied she, her voice rising as she thought of what he had done to Jane, “why with so evident a desire of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character? This is some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil, but I have other provocations. You know I have. Had not my feelings decided against you — had they been indifferent, or had they even been favorable, do you think any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps forever, the happiness of a most beloved sister.”

As she spoke, Mr. Darcy’s mouth parted slightly and his face colored, but the emotion was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she continued.

Elizabeth leaned aggressively towards him. “I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you played there. You dare not, you cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing 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 he was listening with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feelings of remorse. He even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.

“Can you deny that you have done it?” she repeated.

With assumed tranquility, he replied, “I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. 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. “You call your actions kind?”

“I do.” The words held a finality of subject and she knew he did not intend to explain himself further.

“Jane would have made him the best of wives, for her entire being would have been devoted to his every happiness. You may object to my family, but you cannot object to Jane’s manners. She is sweet and good and harbors no ill will towards anyone. I daresay she would even forgive and make excuses for you should she ever learn of your role in her acute unhappiness. She loved Mr. Bingley, wholly and completely — and not for his superiority of position as you would be apt to call it, but for himself alone. When he was at Netherfield she could talk of nothing else, and even you had seen how her entire being lit up whenever he came near despite the fact she is painfully shy and guards her emotions even with me. How can you call severing such a love as a kindness?”

He did not have an answer.

“But it is not merely this affair,” she continued, “on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded many months ago by the words of Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself? Or under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others.”

“You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns,” said Darcy, in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened irritation. He too leaned forward. Their faces came uncomfortably close. Every muscle in his body tensed and she was all too aware of his person.

Her fists balled at her sides. “Knowing what his misfortunes have been, how can one but help feeling an interest in him.”

“His misfortunes!” repeated Darcy contemptuously. “Yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed.”

“And of your infliction,” cried Elizabeth with energy. “You have reduced him to his present state of comparative poverty. You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and ridicule.”

“And this is your opinion of me!” Darcy’s eyes scanned over her cheeks and mouth, as if he could not decide between kissing and slapping her. He walked with quick steps across the room, “This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed. But perhaps,” added he, stopping in his walk, and turning towards her. His voice rose, matching the loud tone of hers. “These offenses might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own.”