Chapter 6
“You are reckless.” The colonel spoke with evident annoyance.
“I was with Lady Catherine on the front terrace, directly overlooking the park…and you were with Miss Elizabeth. It required all my powers of persuasion to induce her to return indoors. She does not see well at a distance, but she expected me to inform her of everything that was passing. I did my best; still, you may expect some reprimand and a number of questions this evening.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam was about to continue, but he stopped abruptly at the sight of his cousin’s expression. There was grief and perplexity in it, as though Darcy had laid bare his soul and revealed the depth of his despair.
“My good God, Darcy, what has happened?” he exclaimed, suddenly seized by the other’s distress.
But Darcy was not yet ready to speak. They walked on in silence for several minutes, the colonel prepared to yield to any wish his cousin might express.
He had never seen him in such a state, and if Darcy accepted his presence and shared his silence, it was because he could not bear to be entirely alone.
Not someone, Darcy thought, but you. Even thinking required effort, as pain and sorrow overwhelmed him.
At another time, he would have withdrawn from all company—even from the colonel—but something within him had altered.
He was prepared to moderate his pride, to accept others as they were, and to cease attempting to shape them according to his own exacting standards.
“Is it so serious?” the colonel asked at last, unable to restrain his anxiety.
“It is.” Darcy fixed his gaze upon the parsonage in the distance, and involuntarily the colonel followed it. This concerned Miss Elizabeth, yet he could not conceive what could have occurred to produce such distress.
“I am angry with her, but also with myself,” Darcy said suddenly.
He had been taught never to weep, never to betray his feelings. It had been the same with his father, his uncle—every man he had known. Such restraint was considered essential to manhood. Yet he could no longer remain silent.
“She refused my proposal,” he said, and it seemed to him that his whole world had collapsed.
The colonel could scarcely credit such news. He could not imagine any woman refusing a man such as Darcy—honourable, well-intentioned, and possessed of a fortune sufficient to secure a happy life for any woman. His faults were no greater than those of other men.
“But why?” the colonel asked, almost in a whisper. “How did you express yourself?” He spoke with some apprehension, for he knew his cousin was not always at ease in matters of feeling.
Darcy hesitated only a moment. “I told her that I had struggled in vain against my feelings—”
“No!” Fitzwilliam exclaimed, attracting the attention of gardeners at work nearby. “Forgive me,” he added more quietly. “You told her that you had struggled against your love for her?”
Darcy did not answer. With the clarity that time had already begun to afford him, his own words now appeared deeply misguided. He lowered his head, scarcely able to continue.
“And that was all you said before making your offer?”
“No. When I saw her astonishment, I believed it right to be entirely sincere. I spoke of my sense of her inferiority—of the obstacles her family presented, which had long opposed my inclination—” He broke off at the colonel’s evident dismay.
“I was wrong,” Darcy said quietly, as they resumed their walk.
“Who am I to judge you? Yet yes—a proposal ought to dwell upon affection and merit. It should be a moment of happiness, not of examination.”
“I thought her different—that she would understand my reserve.”
“She is different; but she is still a woman who desires to be loved. And what did she say in return?”
Darcy was silent.
“I do not wish to intrude,” the colonel added, somewhat embarrassed.
“No—it was my choice to speak to you. It is difficult to bear such a situation alone, and solitude makes it worse.”
“You may tell me anything. You know that your confidence is safe with me.”
Darcy inclined his head; he knew it well. He had no friend like his cousin. In happier times, they had shared much, and now he stood beside him in distress.
“She has disliked me from our first meeting.” He spoke slowly, with long pauses between his words.
“My arrogance…my conceit…my selfish disregard of the feelings of others—all these, she said, formed the foundation of her disapprobation, upon which later events have only strengthened her dislike. I am the last man in the world she could ever be persuaded to marry…and more in the same spirit.”
Silence again fell between them. Darcy was overwhelmed by her answer. He had never truly imagined that she would refuse him. Still more painful was the image she held of him. The woman he loved regarded him as proud and selfish…
“Is that what I am?” he asked at last.
The colonel could not answer him without reservation. Darcy was far from unworthy, yet he did possess some of the faults Elizabeth had named. She had exaggerated, perhaps, but their dispositions were not wholly dissimilar. For that very reason, he had always thought them well suited.
He did not know whether Elizabeth loved Darcy, but her vehemence might itself be a sign of deeper feeling.
It was not uncommon for the mind to oppose what the heart concealed.
The prejudiced Elizabeth Bennet and the proud Fitzwilliam Darcy were the clearest examples—each resisting what they most felt.
Instead of expressing his affection plainly, he had begun with censure; she, in turn, had defended herself with equal force, and in doing so had destroyed every hope of union.
But how was he to make Darcy understand this?
Such understanding could not be imposed—it had to be discovered.
“You may at times appear somewhat haughty,” the colonel said at last. “And she is not one to yield.”
“Yes, you are right. I did not expect such a response. Yet the most singular part of our conversation was when she accused me of having injured her sister’s happiness.
She declared that, even if her feelings had been otherwise, she could never accept the man who had destroyed her beloved sister’s prospects. ”
It was now the colonel who stopped short. His face grew pale. “This is my doing,” he said, deeply agitated. “I am so sorry. It was but a casual conversation—I mentioned how you had saved a friend from an imprudent attachment…Good God, I am truly sorry.”
Darcy laid a hand upon his arm. “Do not reproach yourself. If she chooses to judge me entirely upon that matter, then she is mistaken. Had Bingley truly loved her sister, no one could have persuaded him to withdraw.”
“It may be loyalty on her part. That is not a fault.”
“I agree—but if that alone stood between us, we might have spoken of it calmly. No—she was offended by me, and by my manner of speaking. She would have refused me in any case.”
“You cannot be certain. It may have been the principal cause. If you wish, I might speak to her—or better still, you might address the matter again under calmer circumstances.”
Darcy shook his head with decision. “No. After such a refusal, no rational man would renew his suit. It was not merely a refusal—it was a censure.”
“And yet, you spoke of her family in a manner that might well be taken as offensive.”
“I spoke what I believed to be true.”
It was a fruitless discussion. Neither was yet capable of recognising the full extent of the offence. Darcy believed himself justified; Elizabeth could never accept such a judgement upon her family.
“I am calmer now,” Darcy said, as they returned to Rosings.
They passed the afternoon in the library, drinking and smoking, at a distance from Lady Catherine; but at dinner, her scrutiny was unavoidable.
“I observed you walking in the park in a most agitated manner. What has occurred?” she demanded.
“I have some concerns in my affairs, and Darcy has been advising me,” the colonel replied, meeting her gaze with steadiness.
“You must take care, Fitzwilliam. You would not wish to dispose of your resources unwisely. A poor investment might leave you with nothing. You ought to marry advantageously—and soon.”
The colonel made no reply. He knew too well that any answer would invite a lengthy lecture, and he preferred silence.
But Lady Catherine was not satisfied, and she turned towards Darcy.
Before she could speak, he said, “Indeed, Lady Catherine, I have also been discussing with my cousin the question of marriage. I intend to marry.”
The colonel laid down his knife and fork in astonishment. He could not imagine what Darcy meant by such a declaration.
“At last—a sensible resolution,” Lady Catherine said with unusual animation. “And whom have you in view?”
The colonel felt a sudden unease that Darcy was making a mistake.
Words spoken at that table could not be withdrawn.
Why speak of marriage at such a moment? Darcy required time to recover, to reflect, to consider his own conduct.
But to declare his intention to marry in front of Lady Catherine was totally unexpected and dangerous.
“I have no particular lady in view at present,” Darcy replied calmly, “but my decision is made, and before the year is out, there may well be a wedding in the family.”
The composure of his manner troubled the colonel. Marriage was not to be resolved upon in a moment of distress. He hoped—briefly—that Darcy intended to seek a proper understanding with Elizabeth. But the next words dispelled that hope.
“I shall look for a young lady of distinguished connections,” he added, while Lady Catherine nodded approvingly.
“I always knew you to be a young man of excellent principles. Your dear mother would have been proud.”
His dear mother would have wished him happy, the colonel thought, though they were no longer of one mind.
Darcy had renounced Elizabeth, and now seemed resolved to act in such a manner as would make any renewal impossible.
It was a melancholy conclusion, but Darcy possessed the same firmness as Lady Catherine.
Once he had formed a resolution, he rarely abandoned it.
“I trust you have not forgotten,” Lady Catherine continued eagerly, “that my dear sister wished you to marry my Anne.”
Darcy raised his eyes in evident surprise.
He glanced involuntarily towards Anne, who coloured deeply, unable to respond to so indelicate a remark.
Her mother’s want of delicacy was well known.
The timid creature at the table bore little resemblance to the gentle young lady they had seen in Lady Eleanor’s drawing-room only a month before.
Mrs Jenkinson, seated beside her, seemed the only person who showed her any real concern.
“I am only just beginning to consider the matter,” Darcy replied with composure. “When the time comes, I shall make my intentions known.”
Lady Catherine made a gesture of impatience.
“I hope you will give due consideration to your family and to your mother’s wishes.
But for tomorrow evening, I shall invite a larger party—Mr and Mrs Collins, and the two young ladies.
You are both too grave tonight. We must have music, and more varied conversation. ”
Darcy exchanged a look with the colonel. No words were necessary.
“We regret, Lady Catherine,” he said, “but I have just received a letter from my father. Our presence is required in London tomorrow evening.”