Chapter Eighteen
It was the last morning they would have the leisure to walk in Brinmouth. Elizabeth knew it even before she opened her eyes. The chamber was very still and touched with early light. She could hear the distant murmur of the waves, steady and familiar; the sea would remain though she must leave it.
She rose earlier than was her habit and dressed with particular care. It was only a walk, such as she had taken nearly every morning for six weeks, yet she found herself lingering over the fastening of a ribbon or the arrangement of a sleeve. She laughed once at her own attention to such matters.
Mrs. Gardiner was already at the breakfast table.
Mr. Gardiner had gone to the harbour, where business could not yield even to a last morning.
Mrs. Gardiner looked at Elizabeth with one of her quiet, encompassing glances, so gentle that they never embarrassed, yet so perceptive that they never deceived.
“You slept tolerably, my dear,” she said.
“Tolerably,” she answered. “Though I shall miss the sound of the water. It is a poor preparation for Hertfordshire meadows.”
Mrs. Gardiner poured another cup. “The tide will reward you this morning. Your uncle expects Mr. Darcy at the harbour, so you and James may take your usual hour on the sands.”
Elizabeth bent her attention to her tea.
“I shall not be gone long,” she said. “There is so much to be done before we quit the house. And you will want to write to the children at Ashford House. They must be impatient for your return.”
“For ours,” Mrs. Gardiner corrected. “They will miss you too, Lizzy.” Her aunt laid a hand briefly over hers.
“There is time enough for what matters.” Elizabeth made no answer, but a few minutes later rose to fetch her bonnet from the little passage.
James touched his hat and fell back at the proper distance as she stepped into the morning.
The air was bright and fresh; clouds drifted high above the sea, and the water shone beneath them with uncommon clarity.
She descended the path toward the strand with a composure she did not entirely possess.
Nothing had been spoken between them of London, of Hertfordshire, or of what might follow when distance and duty resumed their claims. He had been all steadiness and every kindness, yet kindness was not certainty.
The tide was far out. Long pale reaches of sand shone where the water had withdrawn, traced by narrow channels that glimmered like glass. The air held the mingled scent of salt and weed and the faint tar of the harbour. It was all so familiar that the thought of leaving it touched her unexpectedly.
She glanced back and saw that James had halted at the rise, respectfully distant.
Several times she fancied that a figure upon the path might prove to be Mr. Darcy, and was as often mistaken.
At length, however, he appeared by the lower way from the street above, the slope having concealed him until he was nearly upon the strand. He removed his hat and bowed.
“Good morning, Miss Bennet.”
“Good morning, sir.”
Her voice was steady, though her pulse was not. They spoke for a few moments of the weather, of the tide, of her uncle's business at the harbour. A gull wheeled low over the water and vanished toward the quay. The tide had begun to turn, and small waves slipped quietly over the sand.
“Your time in Brinmouth is very nearly finished,” he said at last. “Your uncle mentioned yesterday that you leave tomorrow.”
“Yes,” she replied. “We go first to town for a day or two. Mrs. Gardiner is impatient to see the children at Ashford House. We shall not linger. My uncle's business here is concluded; there is no further cause to remain.”
“I think Brinmouth will remember you longer than you remember it.”
She coloured and looked down at the sand. “You make it sound as if my tread upon the beach is of consequence.”
“It has been so to me,” he answered.
They walked on. The waves rose and fell in their quiet measure. A gull settled on a distant rock.
At length he spoke again.
“Miss Bennet; may I ask whether you find the walk fatiguing to-day, or whether you could bear to go as far as the outer bar? The sand is firm there, and we should still be well within Mrs. Gardiner's appointed time.”
“I am quite equal to it,” she said. “The air is so mild; one might believe the sea wished to be kind upon our last day.”
He inclined his head, and they followed the curve of the bay toward the farther point where the tide had drawn back, leaving a broad expanse of glistening sand between the shore and the line of foam.
James remained where the path widened; from that distance he could see them clearly, and hear nothing.
For some minutes neither spoke. The sound of the water accompanied them, and the distance between themselves and the cottages gradually increased. Elizabeth became conscious that they were farther from interruption than they had ever been before.
They reached the place where the waves thinned to a shining fringe before curling back upon themselves. The horizon lay in a clean line; above it the sky rose pale and cloudless; below it the sea darkened by degrees into blue. Mr. Darcy stopped.
“Miss Bennet.”
Her name, spoken very quietly, had never sounded so deliberate. She halted and looked at him. He stood before her, his hat in his hand, his eyes fixed, not in boldness, but in a collected earnestness.
"You must allow me to say what I have long wished to say. I would not speak while my acquaintance with your family was imperfect; I would not speak while I could still suspect myself of a passing gratitude for attentions shown me here; I would not even speak until I had examined, as far as I was able, whether I might offer you a home in which you could be safe and honoured. But I have done with testing my own heart; it has been too long decided. I love you, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth stood in astonishment. She had thought herself prepared for much; she discovered she had not been prepared for this.
“I love you,” he continued, more steadily.
“I cannot fix the hour, or the look, or the word which began it. Perhaps it was when I saw you upon this shore; perhaps when I first heard you speak with such gentleness of those who had not deserved it; perhaps when I perceived how much you had borne, and how little you had allowed yourself to think of it. But from the time I knew you here, my regard has been growing into something which governs all my hopes of happiness. You have taught me to hope in a way I had thought gone from me. You have made me wish to be a better man than I have yet shown myself. I can no longer be silent without being false.”
He paused a moment; his gaze never left her face.
“If you can feel for me a regard in any degree answering to my own; if you can imagine that a life shared with me at Pemberley, and wherever duty calls us, would not be a sacrifice; if you can trust that, whatever troubles may arise, I would stand between you and every needless pain that my care can avert; then I entreat you to make me the happiest of men and to accept my hand.”
For a moment she could not speak. Though she had long ceased to be indifferent to him, and though his attentions had often encouraged hopes she scarcely dared acknowledge even to herself, the reality exceeded every anticipation.
She stood looking at him, scarcely knowing what she felt, except that the happiness of the moment was almost beyond her power to bear.
“Mr. Darcy,” she began, and stopped.
He saw her agitation and, misreading it, drew back a little in spirit, though his countenance remained composed.
“I have distressed you,” he said. “Forgive me. If my declaration has only brought you pain, I would not for the world press you to answer soon. Say nothing now, if silence is easier. I had only to assure you of my attachment. I shall think myself not wholly unhappy, even if it is refused, since I have been permitted to love you openly for this one hour.”
The humility of this last sentence restored her at once.
“You mistake me,” she cried. “You can scarcely suppose that what you have said could give me pain.” Her colour deepened, but she forced herself to continue.
“I am only unused to such happiness. It comes too suddenly. If I seem ungrateful, it is because I do not yet understand how I can deserve what you offer.”
“Deserve,” he repeated, with an emotion that altered his whole countenance.
“If there is any question of deserving between us, I have nothing to answer for myself. You know enough of my temper to be aware that I have much to amend, much to learn. But if you will accept me, I can promise you this; that whatever I was before I knew you, I shall never be content again to be less than the man you believe me.”
Elizabeth could not immediately answer. The waves reached the shore and retreated again.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said at last, “I have learned, in these weeks, to value your judgment, to trust your honour, and to depend upon your kindness. I have seen you with my aunt and uncle. I have seen you with those who could do nothing for you. I know that wherever you are, you will be just and generous. I could not hear what you have now said and be indifferent. I love you, very dearly, and if you still wish it, I shall be most happy to become your wife.”
For a moment he did not move. It was as if he must hear the words again in his own recollection before he could believe them.
Then the change in his expression was such as she had rarely seen; all the habitual reserve gave way to a look of gratitude and joy which touched her more deeply than any eloquence.
“Still wish it,” he repeated. “There is nothing upon earth I have wished so much.”
He took a step nearer and, with all the deliberation of a man anxious rather to honour than presume, held out his hand.
She placed hers in it, and he closed his fingers around it as though accepting a trust. For an instant he bent his head and pressed his lips to her glove.
The touch was light, yet she felt it throughout her whole frame.
When he looked up again, the happiness of his countenance was beyond disguise.
“I shall speak with Mr. Gardiner today,” he said.
“I owe him more than I can easily express. It is from his judgment that I first learned to hope I might be worthy of your esteem.”
Elizabeth could not help smiling then. “You need not fear their reception. My aunt and uncle have long been your friends.”