With a strong prejudice against everything he might say, she began his account of what had happened at Netherfield. Elizabeth instantly resolved to dismiss his belief of her sister’s disinterest, for he freely admitted his real objections to the match. He expressed no regret for what he had done; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and insolence.
“Insufferable man!” she whispered, staring at his words as if they should soon light on fire and engulf her hands in flames. “Insufferable! How could he do it to poor Jane?”
However, this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham. She read with somewhat clearer attention a relation of events which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of Wickham’s worth, and which bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself — her feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult to define. Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, “This must be false. It cannot be!” When she had gone through the whole letter twice, though scarcely knowing anything of the last page or two, she put it hastily away, protesting that she would not regard it and that she would never look in it again.
In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing, she walked on. But it would not do. In half a minute the letter was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence. The account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though she had not before known its extent, equally agreed with his own words. So far each recital confirmed the other, but when she came to the will the difference was great. What Wickham said of the living was fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the other. For a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did not err. But when she read and re-read with the closest attention, the particulars immediately following of Wickham’s resigning all pretensions to the living, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three thousand pounds, again she was forced to hesitate. She put down the letter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be impartiality — deliberated on the probability of each statement — but with little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read on. Every line laid out the affair more clearly and, whereas before reading she had believed it impossible that any contrivance could render Mr. Darcy’s conduct less than infamous, she found his words capable of making him appear entirely blameless.
The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay at Mr. Wickham’s charge, shocked her exceedingly because she could bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his entrance into the militia, which he had engaged at the persuasion of a young man who, on meeting him accidentally in town, had renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he, himself, told. As to his real character, had information been in her power, she had never felt the need to inquire. His countenance, voice, and manner had established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those casual errors under which she would endeavor to class what Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many years’ continuance. But she could think of nothing. She instantly imagined him before her, in every charm of air and manner of speaking; but she could remember no more substantial good than the general approbation of the neighborhood, and the regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After pausing on this point a considerable while, she once more continued to read. But, alas, the story which followed, of his designs on Miss Darcy, received some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before. At last she was referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam himself — from whom she had previously received the information of his near concern in all his cousin’s affairs, and whose character she had no reason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and at length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his cousin’s corroboration.
She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation between Wickham and herself, in their first evening at Mr. Philips’s. Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was now struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered how it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his conduct. He had boasted of having no fear of seeing Mr. Darcy — that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that he should stand his ground — yet he avoided the Netherfield ball the very next week. She remembered also that, till the Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but herself. After their removal it had been discussed everywhere. He had then no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy’s character, though he had assured her that respect for the father would always prevent his exposing the son.
How differently did everything now appear where he was concerned. His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and hatefully mercenary. The mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer the moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at anything. His behavior to herself could now have had no tolerable motive. He had either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favor grew fainter and fainter. And in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not but allow Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago asserted his blamelessness in the affair. Proud and repulsive as Mr. Darcy’s manners were, she had never, in the whole course of their acquaintance seen anything that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust. Among his own connections he was esteemed and valued — that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a brother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his sister as to prove him capable of some amiable feeling.
Elizabeth took a deep, steadying breath, as her thoughts on the matter concluded. She grew ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham could she think without feeling she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, and absurd.
“How despicably I have acted!” she whispered, ashamed by her role in defending Mr. Wickham’s character at the expense of Mr. Darcy’s. She thought of all the little comments she had made to her friends and sisters, laughing at Darcy’s behavior and pride while bolstering Wickham’s. “I, who have prided myself on my discernment. I, who have valued myself on my abilities, who have often disdained the generous candor of my sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or blamable mistrust. How humiliating is this discovery! Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind; but vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were concerned. Till this moment I never knew myself.”
From herself to Jane, from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy’s explanation there had appeared very insufficient, and she read it again. Widely different was the effect of a third perusal. How could she refuse to credit his assertions in one instance, when she had been obliged to accept them in the other? He declared himself to be completely ignorant of her sister’s attachment, and she could not help remembering what Charlotte’s opinion had always been. Neither could she deny the justic
e of his description of Jane. She felt that Jane’s feelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and there was a constant complacency in her air and manner not often united with great sensibility.
When she came to that part of the letter in which her family was mentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her sense of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly for denial, and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded as having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind than on hers; for her younger sisters and mothers, even her father, had acted in such a way as to expose themselves to censure.
The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed, but it could not console her for the contempt which had thus been self-attracted by the rest of her family. It was a wonder Mr. Darcy even asked for her hand at all. How great was his attachment to her? How could she have not seen it? For, to reconcile himself to accept her, must have taken a great struggle on his part. However, no matter how elegantly he spoke, once reconciled to his feelings and decision, he should have been able to express himself better than to tell her he liked her most unwillingly. The sting of his words warred with the declaration of his passions. How could she, even if she had been inclined to consider him, accept such a proposal, no matter how honestly given? Upon reflection, knowing what she now knew from the letter, she might have been inclined to at least pause before declaring she would not have him.
It was too soon to regret her decision. She needed more time to think on it, more time to reconsider the whole of her acquaintance with Mr. Darcy, to form an opinion solely on her own, without having it spoiled by the falsity of others. Only then should she allow herself to rejoice or regret her hasty words.
“Not that it would matter,” she told herself. “He will not renew the offer and what was said will remain said. There is no reason that I should doubt my first impression. However, I will allow that I must consider reframing my overall opinion of the gentleman, giving it the benefit of sound judgment.”
“I love you, and for this reason I am willing to overlook those things which render my regard illogical,” he had said.
The words caused a warmth to spread throughout her body. Love. What could a man like Mr. Darcy possibly know of love — at least the fine, stout love she craved? No, he could not love her, not truly, not deeply, not.…
“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” Each word he had spoken burned into her thoughts, as clear, if not clearer, than the first time he said them. Was she wrong in her assessment? Ardent admiration and love bespoke of passion. Did he hide his emotions? Just as Jane hid hers from Bingley? But if Elizabeth could see Jane’s feelings, surely she could detect them in Darcy.
These thoughts led back around to her sister’s suffering. As she considered that Jane’s disappointment had been the work of their nearest relations, and how materially they were both hurt by the impropriety of the same, she felt depressed beyond anything she had ever known before.
After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every variety of thought — reconsidering events, determining probabilities, and reconciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and so important — fatigue, and the realization of her long absence, made her at length return home. She entered the house with the wish of appearing as cheerful as usual, and repressed all reflections that would make her unfit for conversation.
She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each called during her absence. Mr. Darcy came only for a few minutes to take leave. Colonel Fitzwilliam sat with them at least an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her till she could be found. Elizabeth could but affect concern in missing him, though she really rejoiced at it. She could think only of her letter and did not trust herself around Colonel Fitzwilliam, for she would be tempted to mention Darcy’s words.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE FOLLOWING MORNING the two gentlemen left Rosings. Though Darcy knew it would be torture to take his leave of Elizabeth after her refusal of him, he could not help but wonder at her reaction to his letter. It pained him to think she might not believe him, but he contented himself in knowing he had done all he could to relay the truth of passing events, and hope that any future meetings between them would be pleasant ones, without reproach or suspicion.
Beyond the two offenses which he had explained at length in his letter — for he always seemed to do better expressing himself in the written word than in the conversation of the moment — he felt the sting of a rejection so acute he could scarcely put a name to it. Not once, in all his apprehensions about asking for Elizabeth’s hand, did he consider she would not have him. The match, which caused him so much grief, should have caused within her a matching amount — if not more — joy. He was not insensible to the luxury of his position and fortune. That she should reject him, even with the reasons she so laid out, took much reconciliation of mind on his part.
There could only be one reason for it. Her dislike of him must be great indeed for his fortune and power not to prove an inducement. No, she had not even hesitated in her refusal of him. His internal struggle had not allowed for the possibility of her not wanting him and the sudden knowledge left a hollow emptiness in his chest and a rock in his stomach. He had known his whole life the reason why a woman would want to marry him was for what he had, and not who he was. By rights, he could have any pick of female, from any family, and they would eagerly agree to his hand with little more inducement than his name. It was a fact of wealth that he had long ago resigned himself to.
She did not care for him and her abhorrence must be deep indeed for her to reject all he had to offer. And, yet, if she took him for his wealth or position, she would not be the woman he had fallen for. The look in her eyes as she declared she would not have him, that she could never be induced to have him, burned into his soul. He had never felt so dejected, so alone, so heartbroken. The pain only seemed to grow worse with each passing second. He would never have her, never possess her, never lie next to her, never wake her with his kisses, or fall asleep with the scent of her lingering around him, or discuss books and music, or travel, or argue with her about any number of mundane things. He felt the acute loss of the life he would not have. The urge to scream filled him, but he swallowed the emotion, hiding behind the only comforts he had left — propriety and pride.
With Elizabeth, he had wanted to be with her, wanted to speak to her though the words did not always come out the way he wished them to. Often, after walking with her in the park, he would think of things he should have said and would always determine to do better upon their next meeting. However, Elizabeth never seemed to mind his silence and allowed him time to gather his thoughts before expressing them. He had so convinced himself that she understood him and accepted him, for more than his wealth. She did not put herself forward as other women had in search of a husband, and thus he had concluded her attention to him came from her own enjoyment of his company and nothing else.
How he had been wrong!
“We can stop the carriage,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam as they passed the Parsonage. “I can make some excuse if you would like to go in. A lost handkerchief perhaps?”
Seeing Mr. Collins waiting near the lodges to make them his parting obeisance, Darcy shook his head in denial. “No. I have nothing left to attend to at the Parsonage. I took my leave, I will not do it again.”
“I do not know all that happened, and I will not ask you for the details, but Miss Elizabeth is a reasonable young lady. I am sure whatever you imagined she might need to have clarified from me has already been determined to your satisfaction.”
“Indeed,” he agreed simply to end the conversation. He leaned back his head, closed his eyes, and refused to say anything more.
Mr. Collins brought home news of the gentlemen’s departure, particularly noting their
appearance of good health. No sooner had he relayed his intelligence, did he hasten to Rosings to console Lady Catherine and her daughter.
While he was away, Elizabeth was happy to be alone with her friend. Charlotte was as close to her as her own sisters, though perhaps not so close as Jane, and she found the familiar ease with which they could converse to be a comfort.
“I remember, some days back, you were going to give me your mother’s advice on how to keep your husband quiet,” Elizabeth said. The thought had passed through her mind on more than one occasion, but until this moment she had not had the privacy to ask.
Charlotte laughed. “It is how she told me to fix Mr. Collins’s interest, and is what gives me a few hours quiet when I should wish it.”
Thoroughly interested, and in need of a good distraction, Elizabeth implored her to go on.
Charlotte, with whispering secrecy, though there was no one to overhear, said, “A man is not unlike an animal during its season — aggressive, distracted, and inclined to run about here and there. But, it is within a lady’s power to control those habits, and make them more agreeable, not to mention the ability to settle things as they wish. Simply put, you must milk the energy from them.”
“My dear Charlotte, your mother gives advice as obscurely as mine. Mine speaks of visiting parlors, your mother speaks of milking.” Elizabeth laughed. “It is a wonder the world gets populated at all.”
“You are not getting my meaning,” said Charlotte. Then giving a slight, inappropriate gesture of her hands and a glance downward to the floor, she said, “You milk him. Down there. Though, it is not really milk, I daresay it works. It turns a man instantly docile and completely controllable, and what is the little chore when it assures I will have my way.”
Pride and Prejudice (The Wild and Wanton Edition) Page 24
