Chapter 18 #2
He had not mistaken the distinction between gratitude and something more.
Her thanks had been simply given, without exaggeration and with no attempt to extend them beyond what was due.
Yet neither had she diminished what had passed between them.
She met him with a steadiness that could only increase his admiration and respect.
Darcy had not allowed himself to consider what must follow from such a change. It had been enough to observe it, and enough to know that her opinion of him was no longer governed by prejudice, but that she was now inclined to think well of him where once she had not. That time had passed.
He knew what he felt. It was not a conclusion formed in haste, nor one adopted under the influence of a single moment.
It had grown from a series of observations, each confirming what the last had suggested, until there was no longer any uncertainty.
He had no inclination to resist it. What remained was to determine how he ought to act.
He was not ignorant of the difficulties that must attend such a decision.
His family, his connections, and the expectations long associated with both could not be easily set aside.
His aunt’s opinion, in particular, would be strongly opposed to any attachment of the kind he now contemplated.
He did not deceive himself as to the extent of her disapproval.
Yet he found it did not weigh with him as it once might have done.
The objections were neither new nor unexpected.
He had considered them before and had once allowed them to influence his conduct.
They were no longer enough. With each day that passed, Darcy felt increasingly ready to disregard them entirely.
His regard for Elizabeth was not to be dismissed as a passing inclination. It had already withstood considerable reflection. It had not been diminished by any circumstance that ought to have checked it. On the contrary, the more he knew of her, the more impossible it became to think lightly of her.
The more impossible it became not to love her.
With such pleasant thoughts of future happiness, the short distance between Rosings and the Hunsford parsonage passed quickly.
Though Darcy would have liked to go directly to Elizabeth, courtesy required that he at least greet his hosts.
Leaving a sermon half-written and his inkpot open on his desk, Mr Collins received him with an eagerness that suggested any interruption must be an honour when it proceeded from a visitor as distinguished as the nephew of his patroness.
Darcy returned the civility as politely and as briefly as he could, and asked after Elizabeth.
“Miss Eliza is in the garden, I believe,” Mr Collins said.
“The doctor came yesterday afternoon and told my poor cousin that she must refrain from walking much for another week, but as you may have observed, Mr Darcy, she is such a one for fresh air! Nothing would satisfy her but to go out of doors. Naturally, I have not allowed her to risk further injury to the joint, and told her most carefully that she must not go too far. I am sure you can well imagine what your most excellent aunt and my noble patroness would say in such a case. Do you not think, Mr Darcy, that she would at once advise Miss Eliza that she must be most careful, and not under any circumstances risk injuring her ankle again by attempting to walk too much?”
Darcy inclined his head and was spared further explanation by Mrs Collins, who entered at that moment and, with quiet composure, directed him at once toward the back of the parsonage.
“You will find her there,” she said. “It has the closest shaded bench to the house.”
“I am obliged to you.”
Mrs Collins bowed an acknowledgement and withdrew.
Elizabeth was seated on a bench under an oak tree, no more than six yards from the door.
She held a book in her hands, but was not reading.
Her expression was rather abstracted, as though she were far away.
Likely she was thinking of her injury, and wishing to be well again, but Darcy could not keep from wishing that she might be occupied by some of the same thoughts that had been his companions during the walk to meet her.
She looked up at his approach, smiling when she saw him. “Mr Darcy.”
“Miss Bennet,” he said, and bowed as gracefully as he was able. Elizabeth bowed her head in return and shifted a little to the side in an invitation to sit beside her.
He did so. “May I hope you are improving?” Darcy asked. “Mr Collins informed me you have been instructed to walk as little as possible for another week.”
“I am very well, I thank you,” she said. “At least as well as I can expect to be, when I am not permitted to forget that I have been foolish.”
“I do not think you have been so,” he returned.
“I believe I have sufficient evidence to the contrary,” she said, with a slight smile. “But you are kind not to let me feel it.”
“Not kind,” Darcy demurred. “Only aware that we all stumble from time to time.”
She regarded him for a moment, as though the simplicity of the answer gave it more weight than it first appeared to possess. “So we do,” Elizabeth said at last. “You are quite right. And quite wise.”
Caught by surprise, Darcy could not help but laugh. “Now it is you who are too generous.”
She laughed with him. “It is kind of you to come here and amuse me. I do not know what I would have done without you. Being obliged to move as little as possible is dreadfully tiresome.”
“I can well imagine,” Darcy said.
She nodded. “I ought not to complain, I know, but to be grateful that I am expected to make a full recovery. But when I look out at the countryside, growing more green and lush each day, and know that each day I do not walk is another day I will not see the flowers blooming or surprise a fox from among the bushes, I feel I can hardly bear it.” Elizabeth shook her head a little in self-reproach.
“Excuse me, Mr Darcy. You must think me sadly weak-minded to complain so.”
“Not at all,” he said, suddenly wishing her to know that he understood what it meant to her to be a part of nature.
Darcy wished himself greater eloquence, but that could not be helped.
He could only tell her what he thought and what he felt.
“No, you must allow me to contradict you.
I well know that it is a great loss to you.
More than any woman — or indeed, any man — of my acquaintance, I cannot think it right for you to be long away from the beauty of the countryside and of growing things.