CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
When he had received the information that Miss Elizabeth was not to be in attendance, Darcy leaped at the opportunity to speak to her alone, startling his aunt with his haste in departing Rosings.
He had not slept all night, overcome with shame, regret, and even lust. There was no moment with her that he did not relive—and savour.
His conscience could not mar the exquisiteness of how it had felt to hold her, but the full meaning of bittersweet came to bear upon him.
He had thought better of himself, expected better, but if ever he had felt the shortcomings of being a mortal man, Miss Elizabeth had proven his weakness beyond the shadow of doubt.
How he had wanted to beg her forgiveness, but he had resolved not to alarm her or cause her greater sorrow with his regrets.
She would require some time to comprehend the events.
If there should be a chance for her to enjoy the moment, however brief, he wanted it for her.
Morning brought with it further clarity as to his obligation.
He knew better than to fool himself into thinking he acted out of noblesse oblige alone, for he had tried time and again, unsuccessfully, to conquer his feelings for her.
That he was the one to have compromised her only added to the urgency.
By seeking her hand, he would satisfy his attachment and preserve her honour.
He could not appeal to the latter without divulging the confidence of Trenwith House and his own deception.
He would be putting her in an embarrassing, even mortifying, situation if he did.
But given his circumstance in life vis-à-vis hers, no case need be made.
She would be flattered and grateful for his offer.
Though he was not a practiced suitor, he knew he could not begin with the proposal itself, and spent the better part of the day contemplating the preamble.
The articulation of feelings had never been his forte.
He had expressed his love only once before, and his awkward delivery had proven a source of amusement for the Duchess.
Not having the standing of the Duchess, Miss Elizabeth must possess more modesty and gratitude.
That she no longer was in possession of her honour must make her further indebted to him.
Nonetheless, he hoped for a short duration to the meeting and that she would not seek to prolong the conference, as only a woman would wish to do.
Upon entering and finding Miss Elizabeth, he immediately began, in a hurried manner, an inquiry after her health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better.
Too agitated to acknowledge the coldness of her answer, he sat down for a few moments, and then getting up, walked about the room.
After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her, and began, "In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."
She stared at him, coloured, and was silent. He was prepared for her possible surprise and continued his avowal of all that he felt.
“You may be astonished to know that I have long had tender feelings for you. At the risk of inflating your vanity, I took quick notice of your intelligence and articulation. Your manners are civil and the compassion you have shown your sister admirable. You may wonder why I made no overt effort to court you, but you are surely aware of the difference in our stations. Despite the intensity of my affection, which has refused to diminish with time or distance, I could not easily surrender to emotion and cast aside all responsibility to my position and family. Your inferior place in society implores opposition. No one in my family has ever lowered themselves in such a manner before. There are few, if any, who would recommend our attachment, but the strength of my feelings persist in the face of such obstacles. In spite of all my endeavours, I have found my feelings for you impossible to conquer. Thus, I find myself in a rare state of apprehension and anxiety but hope that you will reward my devotion with an acceptance of my hand.”
Having finished his speech, he leaned against a mantelpiece and awaited her response.
The blush rising in her cheeks, she answered him, “In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot—I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation.”
Darcy felt the blood drain from his face.
Her response, wholly unexpected, stunned him.
The set of her countenance, the manner in which she returned his steadfast gaze, confirmed the earnestness of her words.
If I could feel gratitude… But I cannot, she had said.
How could she not? Surely she could not have the audacity to think herself equal to him?
He was almost tempted to point out to her that, were it discovered she was not a woman of virtue, she should never expect an offer of marriage.
From anyone. Did she not appreciate her compromised state?
That she may even, heaven forbid, be with child?
At length, he forced his voice to calm. "And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting? I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance."
"I might as well inquire," replied she, "why with so evident a desire of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character?
Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil?
But I have other provocations. You know I have.
Had not my feelings decided against you—had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps forever, the happiness of a most beloved sister? "
As she pronounced these words, he flushed but allowed her to continue uninterrupted.
"I have every reason in the world to think ill of you.
No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted there.
You dare not, you cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other—of exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, and the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind. "
She paused, then appeared vexed at his response, or lack thereof.
"Can you deny that you have done it?" she repeated.
He replied, "I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself."
"But it is not merely this affair," she continued, "on which my dislike is founded.
Long before it had taken place my opinion of you was decided.
Your character was unfolded in the recital, which I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham.
On this subject, what can you have to say?
In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself?
Or under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others? "
His colour heightened. "You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns.”
"Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an interest in him?"
"His misfortunes!" repeated Darcy, unable to keep the contempt from his voice. “Yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed."
"And of your infliction," she cried with energy.
"You have reduced him to his present state of poverty—comparative poverty.
You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for him.
You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence, which was no less his due than his desert.
You have done all this! And yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and ridicule. "
“And this,” he responded with quick steps across the room, “is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed!
“But perhaps," added he, stopping in his walk, and turning towards her, "these offenses might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design.
These bitter accusations might have been suppressed had I, with greater policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by reflection, by everything.
But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.
Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related.
They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections?
To congratulate myself on the hope of relations whose conditions in life are so decidedly beneath my own? "
He could see her struggle between anger and composure. "You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner."
He started at this rejoinder as if she had slapped him forcefully across the face.
"You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it."
Too astonished, he could not mask his expression of incredulity and mortification and listened in silence at her continuance.
"From the very beginning—from the first moment, I may almost say—of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry. "
Recovering his senses at last, he replied, "You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness."
And with these words, he hastily left the room.