Chapter Eighteen #2
You are a fool, she wanted to shout. I know you preferred Jane to be, as any sensible man ought.
Do not seek to win me over with false flattery!
How difficult it was to hold her tongue as he continued, “But before I am run away with by my feelings on this subject, perhaps it will be advisable for me to state my reasons for marrying—and moreover for coming into Hertfordshire with the design of selecting a wife, as I certainly did.”
What followed was a recitation, almost by the number, of a variety of reasons why the parson wished to marry, not a single one of which involved her happiness.
It seemed that his desire to please his patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, far exceeded his desire to please his future wife. She must stop him now.
“Accept my thanks for the compliment you are paying me—I am very sensible of the honour of your proposals—but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than decline them.”
He stared at her agape. The idea that she might refuse had clearly never occurred to him.
Mr. Darcy, too, had stated his desire to wed without phrasing it as a question for her to answer.
Were men as a species so arrogant as to assume that their particular charms were too great for any woman to resist?
“I am not so green as not to know,” replied Mr. Collins with a formal wave of the hand, “that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second or even a third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.”
She rolled her eyes heavenward. Mr. Darcy, at least, had accepted her refusal, albeit with a plea to hear him out. Mr. Collins merely expected her to make him ask again.
He gave her no time to respond, but added immediately, “When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on this subject I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given me.”
“When you do yourself the honour?” she cried. “I believe the honour ought to be to your wife and not yourself. If it is otherwise, it hardly speaks to your attractiveness as a husband, for I can never marry where there is not love, or at the least, respect. You must accept my refusal.”
“You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your refusal of my addresses is merely words of course. You should take it into further consideration that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you.” And on he spoke about the unlikeliness of her ever receiving another offer, all the while she cast her mind back to the very superior man who had offered for her, and whom she had rejected, only days before.
“Mr. Collins,” she stated at last, “please believe that I will not marry you, for it would make neither one of us happy. Now please excuse me.” And she hurried from the room before he could convince himself that her avowed denials of his suit were evidence of her admiration.
The very nerve of the man, she fumed as she sat awaiting the carriage.
Could he have insulted her any more than by insisting that his was the last offer she was likely to receive?
Could he not understand that she might have so superior an offer at hand?
She steamed and fumed over his impertinence, and then, with a sense of horror, began to see the truth of it.
Had she not met the inestimable Mr. Darcy, his might be the best offer she would receive.
Mr. Collins offered her everything a woman was said to want: stability, a home and family, respect, status, and the patronage of the owner of a grand and wealthy estate.
Had not the man himself been so objectionable, it would be a very difficult proposal for any sensible woman to turn down.
As she allowed this to settle in her mind, she returned to the great honour that Mr. Darcy had bestowed upon her with his own proposal.
How superior he was to Mr. Collins in every way!
She did not require wealth, but she did desire security, and when Mr. Darcy offered for her, he knowingly offered security not only to her, with her inconsequential dowry and no fortune, but to her mother and sisters as well.
He had spoken in pride, but he had behaved with a generosity that was almost beyond her comprehension.
He had claimed to love her, despite the troubles their union would bring upon him and his sister; now she saw the truth of it.
Only the deepest love would bring him to offer for a woman who could bring him nothing but herself.
She had not a penny to offset the cost of his sister’s thirty thousand pounds; she had no particular skills or talents with which to amaze the ton.
Nor had she any particular or exalted connections with which to counter any sotto voce aspersions on the character of his sister, Georgiana.
She could offer him nothing, and he wanted her anyway.
That was the sort of love she hoped for; that, she now realised, was the sort of love she held for him.
His wealth was meaningless to her, his relatives a hindrance rather than an incentive.
But he was devoted to his family, he was kind and interesting, and his character suited her exactly, and she realised now what a fool she had been to refuse him.
Perhaps she had allowed her own pride too much sway in her response to his offer.
She had been determined not to trust him, and then not to like him.
When in the heat of his speech he had offended her, it merely fed those old notions and gave her first impressions strength.
But she had been wrong before, and just might be wrong again.
She pushed these thoughts aside as the Gardiners’ carriage rattled along London’s busy street and at long last arrived at their elegant house.
As she stretched and readied herself for her family after the long afternoon’s drive, she wondered what she might do should he do her the honour of asking her once more for her hand.