Chapter 7
Despite Lady Catherine’s protests and even her threats, the two gentlemen left Rosings as soon as breakfast was over.
Darcy decided to ride. He needed that kind of exercise to calm his pain and arrive in London tired enough to sleep without bad dreams. The last night at Rosings had been sleepless, and the morning brought no comfort.
They made a brief stop at the parsonage, but declined the invitation to remain longer than a moment. They were in haste and wished only to pay their respects before leaving. While the others bowed and the colonel spoke to Mr Collins, Darcy silently placed a letter in Elizabeth’s hand.
He left the parsonage without looking back. Had he done so, he would have seen Elizabeth still standing on the path, watching them.
It had been a sleepless night for Elizabeth as well, the most dreadful night of her life.
She had been sad and tormented before, but at such times she had always had Jane beside her.
She could not possibly speak of any of her troubles to Charlotte, who was now a faithful wife, intent only on pursuing her husband’s interests.
Above all, Lady Catherine must know nothing of the proposal…
and of her answer. Charlotte—or even Mr Collins—might eventually suffer the consequences, though her refusal was precisely what that venerable lady would have expected.
The mere thought that her favourite nephew might propose to such a ‘common’ young woman would have been enough to cause a tragedy at Rosings.
She had paced her room for half the night, unable to rest. At first, she congratulated herself upon her conduct.
She had been loyal to her family and to Jane, while rejecting a man who thought the worst of them all.
Shocked by his words and by the manner of his proposal—as though it were an unpleasant, though inevitable, duty—she did not at first understand that his intentions were sincere.
How could any rational man have declared his love in such a way?
Yet all his statements about her family had been so humiliating and degrading that her anger had seemed justified.
He was the dreadful man who had contributed to her dear sister’s unhappiness.
Her refusal had been nothing but the expression of the rage provoked by his unjust treatment of the two lovers.
Later—when her anger had begun to subside after half a night of torment—a dreadful chill came over her.
She sat at last upon the bed, all strength drained from her body, and was able to remember more impartially.
Despite his tone and his words, he loved her.
She then began to cry as she had never cried before, with regret and despair.
He was conceited and offensive, haughty and provoking, but he loved her. Fitzwilliam Darcy loved her.
In the stillness of the night, she tried not to wake her hosts, but it was difficult to bear such feelings alone.
At home she had Jane, in London, Aunt Gardiner.
Rarely had she been so entirely by herself, and that it should happen at such a time!
She moved between a precarious peace of mind—out of loyalty to her family—and the growing feeling that she had made a mistake.
She loved Jane and respected her parents, but not for a moment had she thought of herself—of her own feelings or wishes.
That was not entirely true. She had been enraged by the manner of his proposal. He had briefly declared his love, but insisted upon presenting it as a struggle against his own inclination.
Though she had done what she believed was right, she loathed the manner in which she had refused him.
Her anger and her uncivil words had been intended to wound him—because he had wounded Jane.
But at the end of the night, with no tears left, she had drawn herself beneath the bedclothes, as she used to do as a child, and admitted that she loved him too.
The realisation was so unexpected that it took her some time to understand that the pain she felt could only be explained by the depth of her feelings for him.
How it was possible to love a man she had always believed she hated was a mystery indeed.
Yet her proud nature made it difficult for her to understand what lay before her.
She quarrelled with him offended by his haughtiness and by his apparent contempt for the people he had found in Meryton and, finally, in her family.
She might, perhaps, have accepted a declaration of love, and would have reflected upon a proper proposal, such as any woman might wish for.
In that case, it was possible that her better feelings would have prevailed and found their way into the affection that did exist in her heart, though it had been overshadowed by his past conduct.
As for the present—it was a disaster. Faced with his morose and discontented manner, she had replied with fury, ready to dispute every word.
∞∞∞
As the dawn broke at her window, Elizabeth had resolved to do what, at another time, she would have thought impossible: tell Mr Darcy plainly what was in her mind.
She was angry with him, yet she also bitterly regretted her hasty decision.
If he were to advise Mr Bingley to reconsider his feelings for Jane, then her own reluctance would be greatly diminished, and in time she might accept him.
Even in the light of day, it still seemed the proper course. Soon after breakfast, she went directly to her favourite walk, remembering that Mr Darcy sometimes appeared there in the morning, and hoping to meet him and tell him what she had to say.
Tempted by the pleasantness of the morning, she paused for a moment at the gates and looked into the park. The five weeks she had spent in Kent had greatly changed the country, and each day added to the fresh verdure of the early trees.
On the point of continuing her walk, she suddenly caught sight of the gentleman in question within the small grove that bordered the park.
She did not advance; a strange stillness held her in place as she tried to delay the moment of meeting, hoping she was prepared to say all that was in her mind.
But he approached quickly and reached her within moments.
He held out a letter, which she instinctively took, and said, with a look of composed hauteur,
“I have been walking in the grove for some time, in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?”
Then, with a slight bow, he turned and walked away.
With the letter in her hand, Elizabeth watched him as he went. She had neither the time nor the presence of mind to stop him; it was already too late. As swiftly as he had come, Mr Darcy disappeared, and a moment later she saw him enter the house without once looking back.
Once more, her world fell into confusion. He had come only to give her a letter. Her heart beat so violently that she glanced about her, wondering whether anyone might hear it.
She returned to the parsonage garden, determined to hide herself from any indiscreet eye as she opened the letter with trembling fingers.
She had hoped for a gentler tone, but at the very first lines, tears filled her eyes, making it difficult to read.
His tone was the same as the day before—cold and distant; he offered no excuse.
On the contrary, he repeated everything he had said of her family and of his influence on Bingley’s decision.
He still believed he had only protected his friend from an imprudent attachment.
But the latter part of the letter affected her still more deeply.
Mr Wickham, whom she had once liked, was revealed as a man without honour, who had nearly imposed himself upon Mr Darcy’s young sister.
The letter in her hands—she could not read it again.
It had been painful enough at first; her only wish was to reflect, to bring some order to the confusion that troubled both her heart and her mind.
As his account of his conduct settled in her thoughts, it seemed less objectionable.
His aversion to her family still made her despise him.
Still, in all else, her feelings began to change, and she found herself seeking justifications for his words.
He had judged too quickly, and had read Jane’s character too lightly.
Still, he was not a man intent on harm. Rather, he had acted as a friend, attempting to rescue Bingley from what he believed to be a dangerous situation.
She began to understand his manner of thinking, and her anger lessened with every passing moment.
Sadness and regret slowly took their place.
He was proud and hasty, but not a bad man.
A better course would have been to show him, calmly and kindly, that he had mistaken her family. That was what she had intended to do that evening, still hoping he remained at Rosings. She walked again along the now familiar paths that afternoon, but neither Darcy nor the colonel appeared.
And at dinner, there were only Lady Catherine’s usual guests.
“My nephews left for London early this morning. I cannot say I am not annoyed by their departure, but you know young men nowadays. They said they had urgent business, and it must be important indeed for them to leave in such haste. Darcy has considerable personal wealth, and only poor people imagine that the rich do no work.”
Mr Collins nodded his approval of every word Lady Catherine uttered. He looked at her as though she were a goddess descended among mortals.