Into Kent (20 page)

To avoid reflection on this uncomfortable observation, Darcy chose instead to consider Mr. Collins: the absurdity of his retelling of the story, his generally repulsive demeanour, together with his fawning obedience to Lady Catherine’s every whim, gave Darcy to contemplate how wholly unjust were society’s rules; this man, though no longer a rival, of course, had made himself free to court Elizabeth in Hertfordshire, yet to Darcy she was denied by what society deemed “proper”. As he listened on and on to Collins’ speech, the notion that the parson, whose personal deity appeared to be Darcy’s rather nonsensical Aunt Catherine, could have the right to wed a lady of
Elizabeth’s character, but that she was forbidden to Darcy, deeply offended his sense of justice, and provided him a more convenient object on which to turn the frustration which resulted from his own self-condemnation.

Contemplating Mr. Collins and the absurdities and inequities associated with him, watching him trail behind his aunt like a puppy on a lead, brought to mind his cousin, St. Stephens, the duckling. On the heels of that diverting thought
came the memory of whence it originated, and he stole an embarrassed look at Elizabeth. There were so many points on which she might, very understandably, feel resentment against him, had she but known, and surely she was entirely justified in her present coldness. He could only hope that she would come to allow that the retarding weight that held him back from declaring himself was not unreasonable, at least insofar as to acknowledge the certain disapprobation their nuptial would earn from Society; as she was clearly aware of her family’s oft-demonstrated lack of decorum, he hoped that he might rely on this for his future redemption.

But in the next moment his mind stopped abruptly at the notion of Collins being a duckling, like St. Stephens; first Lady Catherine and Mrs. Bennet, and now Mr. Collins and Cousin George; that there should be two such notable instances of correspondence between his family and that of
Elizabeth was more than unsettling. Looking about the room, he saw only two truly superior persons: Elizabeth and Colonel Fitzwilliam. Very few men Darcy had ever met could compare to the Colonel when it came to honour, ability, and breeding, and he knew Elizabeth to be far above the other ladies of his acquaintance in her merits as a sister, as a daughter, and as an exemplar of her sex. The implications of these points on the connexions that each party would be bringing to an union between Elizabeth and himself, gave him much to think on, and he turned it over slowly in his mind while watching his cousin entertain Elizabeth.

It was clear that Darcy’s emotions had quite escaped his control, and were now colouring his every thought; but unlike Netherfield, where his rage at Wickham had had an object and
sharpened his mind, the present confluence of warm esteem, excessive embarrassment, and a deep sense of injustice and frustration, had mired Darcy in a tangle of indecision that bewildered him, and made rational thought nearly impossible. After their guests had departed, he took himself upstairs to write to Georgiana; his letter, a convoluted affair that commingled his ideas of Society, Pender’s discussion of human heredity, and St. Stephens’s being a duckling, must have puzzled his sister on reading it, but it quite accurately reflected Darcy’s own disordered state of mind.

Throughout the next day, determined to see it through to a conclusion, he devoted all his energies to the problem. At length, however, with greatest dissatisfaction, he was forced to acknowledge that it was simply beyond him to end this on his own: try as he might, he simply could not force it to a resolution. Without additional intelligence there never would be a final determination; he needs must hear from Elizabeth—on her feelings he must rely to break this stalemate. The Parsonage was to come to Rosings that evening for tea; he hoped to find some opportunity of speaking to her, perhaps to arrange another meeting in the grove, where he might speak more openly, and discover the true nature of her feelings, both towards himself and as to a potential union. Without more information, he was certain, he would never find his way free of this impossible quandary, and be released.

When evening came, however, and the company from Hunsford arrived, Elizabeth was not among them. He immediately enquired, and heard from Mrs. Collins that Miss Bennet was unwell, and had stayed home in consequence. His apprehensions awakened, he considered this through the hour they drank their tea; the longer he thought, the stronger his concerns became for Elizabeth’s health. His fears grew greater as the others sat by, idly talking; and when the card tables came out, he excused himself, pleading indisposition—as he was certainly indisposed towards sitting there playing at cards, while Elizabeth lay ill and unattended at the Parsonage. Rather than to go to his chambers, of course, he hurried directly to her.

Darcy had by this time worked himself into a state of immoderate anxiety and alarm at the possibility Elizabeth might be seriously unwell; as he hastened across the darkened grounds, he forgot his embarrassment and misgivings: his only thoughts were for her well-being. Should she be seriously ill, he would ride that night himself to London, and fetch his own personal physician to attend her. Soon arriving at the Parsonage and being ushered into her presence, however, his urgent enquiries as to her health were answered favourably: she was not seriously ill. He sat down in relief, and assured himself it was so by seeing her look well, although her ailment had seemingly left her spirits low. His apprehensions over her illness, however unnecessary they had proven to be, now turned to an even deeper unease: what if she had been lost to him? What if, having found her truly ill, he had ridden off immediately to London, only to return too late? These terrors, coupled with the altogether repellent notion of leaving her, to return alone to the insipid elegance of Rosings, held him there with her in spite of the hour, and the fact that they were alone.

With high-wrought emotion, he rose and began pacing the room; the possibility that he might have lost her, and that he might never have spoken, he could not face. He paced across the floor in silence some minutes; the lady—his lady, his dearest Elizabeth—sat quietly watching; she understood him, he knew: his silences did not offend her any more than hers did him. He thought back warmly over the many instances when she had honoured him by sharing the recesses of her heart and mind, in consenting that he might enter into her silences.

Looking up and finding Elizabeth’s eyes on his, he found himself suddenly and shockingly overmastered; it was not the moment he would have chosen, nor was he at all prepared, but her gaze stopped him where he stood, and his feelings burst forth without preamble: “In vain have I 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.”

He saw her start and blush, but it was not to be expected that her modesty would permit her to speak.

He hurried on, carried along on the surge of his passion as it fought free of its bonds: “I have loved you ever since Netherfield, I think—but this I am sure you must know already; indeed, you must have been aware of my feelings, even before I was. But I hope you will believe me when I say I had not the slightest intention, at any moment, of trifling with your feelings; I did, most earnestly, endeavour to protect you from knowing how I felt; but all my efforts have come to naught. I cannot tell you how you have haunted my thoughts, every where I have gone: in Town, at Pemberley—you are ever with me in my mind, and in my heart; I cannot look any where, but I see your smile. I was a fool to think I could deny you that place in my heart which is so completely yours, and that I could accept any sort of existence without you as part of it. Every cherished good that I can ever hope for, descends from you; I have come at last to recognise that you are as life itself to me.

“For so long I have wished to speak; but you must know the difficulties I have had to overcome: your family, your connexions—the inferiority of their standing seemed an unconquerable barrier to our happiness. No matter with what exertions my heart would rail against it, the demands of character and judgement always stood opposed to my inclination. As I am head of the Darcy family now, I must of course be all the more vigilant to avoid any hint of degradation in a possible alliance, and if I could have stopped up my emotions, I would; but here, being with you, the passionate regard I hold for you has prevailed over every feeling, overthrown every argument set against it—by comparison with my love for you, these considerations count for naught. I know I must look a fool to you, to have wasted so many months of our happiness on idle, vain debate; yet I hope you will not think me weak, or irresolute in my love for you, as I am certain you must recognise the duty I had to my family’s honour to avoid any misalliance, and will forgive me that delay and indecision which must have injured you ever since Netherfield.

“I hope, and I pray, that you will accept these present measures by way of amendment, and reward that attachment I have found so impossible to overcome, through all the anxious days and months that have separated us, by accepting my hand in marriage.”

At his conclusion, leaning an arm on the mantle of the hearth, Darcy thought he had expressed himself creditably, regardless of the extemporaneous manner of his beginning; all in all, he felt a great relief: all his endless deliberation, all that he had tormented himself with, was now behind him. He had found speaking his heart to Elizabeth much easier than he could have imagined; his faith in her was complete, and in openly speaking his feelings, it seemed to him that he was doing no more than confirming to her what she already knew—what they had already shared together in the quiet recesses of their hearts. His trials were over, and, from this night, he hoped never to be separated from her more. He turned to his beloved to accept her reply.

The lady spoke thus in return: “In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode 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. But I cannot—I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to any one. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope 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 after this explanation.”

As
Elizabeth began to speak, Darcy at first heard her words with greatest confusion: her manner expressed anger: could she still be angry with him?—he had just asked her for her hand in
marriage
. He had told her that he wished to join their lives together for ever, that he would do anything for her—had already done much for her, indeed—and desired to share every thing life could offer: joys and sorrows, triumphs and defeats—how should her anger be so complete that it stood proof against such sincere application? But as the lady continued, he gradually became aware that in her response she was beyond curt—she was, in fact, being altogether rude; in her manner there was nothing but ire and resentment. Elizabeth, rude? Darcy thought incredulously. She is
never
rude—not to Miss Bingley, not even to Aunt Catherine! He heard her say “…never desired your good opinion…” with utmost bewilderment; after all the time they had spent together, after all the attentions she had shown him, both in Hertfordshire and here at Rosings, how was he to understand this?

He stood by the mantelpiece some moments, attempting to bring his thoughts into order, and to make sense of what she was saying. When he arrived at the cold and uncaring rejection at the end of her speech, he felt the stirrings of that anger that presaged an outburst of feeling. He strove against it, and, when certain he had risen above it, he said, “And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I might, perhaps, 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 enquire,” she retorted heatedly, “why, with so evident a design 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? Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I
was
uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I have. Had not my own feelings decided against you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man, who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?”

Again, Darcy was at a loss to understand her: “offend and insult”? thought he in wonder. How have I done that? “…against your will…” —He had never said that! But in the next moment, it was borne in upon him that she must somehow have learned of his involvement in her sister’s affairs—Edmund: blast! This, he then apprehended, was the true source of her anger, the reason behind her coldness. That she should be angry at his interference he could understand; but, in all honesty, he still could feel no remorse: even now, she had never stated as fact that her sister loved his friend; he was secure in knowing that this was because, in truth, she could not, and her delicacy and probity would not authorise her to misrepresent the case. That he had been right at the time, he doubted not—and still was, indeed: her sister did not love Bingley, and, fine person though she might be, he deserved some one who would return his love equally, regardless of any other consideration.

But Elizabeth had not done: “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, of exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind.”