by Eliza Gordon
"That is not an unnatural surmise," said Fitzwilliam. "But it is a lessening of the honour of my cousin's triumph very sadly."
This was spoken jestingly. It appeared to her so just a picture of Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an answer, therefore, abruptly talked on indifferent matters.
Later, shut into her room in the Parsonage, she could think without interruption of all that she had heard.
It was not to be supposed that any other people could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There could not exist in the world two men over whom Mr. Darcy could have such boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures taken to separate Bingley and Jane she had never doubted. She had always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and arrangement of them. If his vanity did not mislead him, he was the cause. His pride and caprice were the cause, of all that Jane had suffered, and continued to suffer. He had ruined for a while every hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart in the world. No one could say how lasting an evil he might have inflicted.
"There were some very strong objections against the lady," were Colonel Fitzwilliam's words. Those strong objections probably were, her having one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in business in London.
To Jane herself, there could be no possibility of objection, Elizabeth thought. All loveliness and goodness as she is. When she thought of her mother, her confidence gave way a little. She would not allow that any objections there had material weight with Mr. Darcy, whose pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from the want of importance in his friend's connections, than from their want of sense. She was quite decided, at last, that he had been partly governed by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of retaining Mr. Bingley for his sister.
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 that Elizabeth was unwell, did not press her to go and as much as possible prevented her husband from pressing her. Mr. Collins could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine's being rather displeased by her staying at home.
Chapter 31
When they were gone, Elizabeth reread all the letters which Jane had written to her since her being in Kent.
They contained no actual complaint. There was not any revival of past occurrences or any communication of present suffering. But in almost every line there was a want of the cheerfulness which used to characterise her style.
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 greater, that in less than a fortnight she should herself be with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her spirits.
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.
While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the door-bell. Her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself. He had once before called late in the evening, and might now come to inquire after her. This idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently affected, when, to her utter amazement, Mr. Darcy entered 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. He sat down for a few moments, and then getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised but said not a word.
After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her in an agitated manner. "In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."
Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured, doubted, and was silent.
The avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for her, immediately followed.
He spoke well, but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed.
In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to the compliment of such a man's affection. Though her intentions did not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to receive.
He was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride.
With warmth, he dwelt on his sense of her inferiority. How family obstacles had always opposed his inclination.
She did not doubt he struggled with these feelings, but the expression of them was very unlikely to recommend his suit.
Roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to answer him with patience, when he should have done.
He concluded by presenting to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite of all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer. And with expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of his hand.
As he said this, she could see that he fully expected a favourable answer.
He spoke of apprehension and anxiety, but his manner of speech expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only exasperate farther.
When he ceased, the colour rose into her cheeks. She said, "In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed. Yet they may not be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt. If I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot. I have never desired your good opinion, and you have bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings, which have long prevented the acknowledgement of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation."
Leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed on her face, 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 dreadful.
At length, with a voice of forced calmness, he said, "And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I might wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance."
"I might as well inquire why you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character? Telling me in such a way with so evident a desire of offending and insulting me. Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I have. Had my feelings been indifferent or even been favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining the happiness of a most beloved sister?"
As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour. The emotion was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her.
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 the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other. And involving them both in a 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 feeling 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 tranquillity, he then replied, "I have no wish of denyin
g that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister. 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.
"But it is not merely this affair on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from 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 colour.
"Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can 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 poverty—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! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully," cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room. "My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed!" Stopping in his walk, he turned towards her. "Your pride was hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. Had I concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by reason, by reflection, by everything, these offences might have been overlooked. These bitter accusations might have been suppressed. 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 me on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?"
Elizabeth felt herself growing angrier every moment. Yet she tried to the utmost to speak with composure. "You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected my decision. It spared me the concern that I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner."
She saw him start at this, but he said nothing.
She continued, "You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it."
Again his astonishment was obvious. He looked at her with an expression of mingled incredulity and mortification.
"From the very beginning of my acquaintance with you, your manners impressed me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain for the feelings of others. Thus formed the groundwork of disapproval on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike. I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry."
"You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. 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, he hastily left the room.
Elizabeth heard him 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 an offer of marriage from Mr. Darcy! That he should have been in love with her for so many months! So much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all the objections which had made him prevent his friend's marrying her sister. Reasons which must appear at least with equal force in his case. It was almost incredible!
It was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride. His shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane. His unpardonable assurance in acknowledging it even though he could not justify it. The unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny. The pity which the consideration of his attachment had for a moment excited was soon overcome. She continued in agitated reflections till, at the sound of Lady Catherine's carriage, she hurried her away to her room. Unequal was she to encounter Charlotte's observation.
Chapter 32
The next morning Elizabeth awoke 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. Totally indisposed for employment, she resolved to indulge herself in air and exercise.
She proceeded to her favourite walk. The recollection of seeing Mr. Darcy's sometimes there stopped her. Instead of entering the park, she turned up the lane, which led farther from the turnpike-road. She walked two or three times along that part of the lane. The park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed one of the gates into the ground.
The pleasantness of the morning tempted her 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. Every day was adding to the verdure of the early trees.
On the point of continuing her walk, she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the grove which edged the park. He was moving her way. Fearful of its being Mr. Darcy, she directly retreated. The person who advanced was now near enough to see her. Stepping forward with eagerness, he pronounced her name.
She had turned away. On hearing herself called, though, in a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the gate.
He had by that time reached it also, and was holding out a letter, which she instinctively took.
With a look of haughty composure, he said, "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 a slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight.
With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity, Elizabeth opened the envelope. To her increasing wonder, she perceived a lengthy letter written in a close hand. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it.
It was dated from Rosings, at eight o'clock in the morning.
"Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter. It does not repeat of those sentiments or renew the offers which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you or humbling myself. I will not dwell on wishes which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten. I would spare us both from the formation and the perusal of this letter but that my character required it to be written and read. You must, thus, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention. Your feelings, I know, will give it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice.
"Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was that I had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister. And done so regardless of the sentiments of either. The second that I ruined the immediate prosperity and prospects of Mr. Wickham. Wilfully and wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favourite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect its exertion, without just cause would be depravity. From the severity of that blame, I hope to be secured by the following account of my actions and their motives. I can only say that I am sorry if, in the explanation, I relate feelings which offend you. The necessity must be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd.
"I saw that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any other y
oung woman in the country. It was not till the evening of the dance at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of a serious attachment. I had often seen him in love before. At that ball, I had the honour of dancing with you. At that time, I was first made aware that Bingley's attentions to your sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage. Sir Lucas spoke of it as a certain event, of which the time alone could be undecided. From that moment I observed my friend's behaviour. I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever seen in him. Your sister I also watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard. I remained convinced from the evening's scrutiny, that though she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of sentiment. If you have not been mistaken here, I must have been in error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter probable. If it be so, if I have been misled by such error to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. The serenity of your sister's countenance and air was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be easily touched. That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is certain. I venture to say that my investigation and decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it. I believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. My objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged. In my case, having the utmost force of passion to put aside such objections. The want of connection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. There were other causes of repugnance. Causes that I had endeavoured to forget because they were not immediately before me. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your mother's family was nothing in comparison to a want of propriety. A want frequently betrayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father. Pardon me. It pains me to offend you. Amidst your displeasure at this representation of your nearest relations, consider that, to have conducted yourselves to avoid any share of the like censure, is praise bestowed on you and your elder sister. It is honourable to the sense and disposition of both. I will only say that from what passed that evening confirmed my opinion of all parties. I aimed to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. He left Netherfield for London, on the day following with the design of soon returning.