Confrontation
Elizabeth Bennet sat staring at the man before her in a state of abject perplexity.What had she just heard?It was the oddest and most unexpected thing. Mr Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire had delivered a speech using love and matrimony as bookends on a shelf otherwise filled with insult and derision practically to the ceiling.
Was it possible for the lone little affectionate bookends to support the insults without the entire edifice crashing down in ruin? Was the parsonage floor even sufficient for the task once the shelf collapsed into rubble?It seemed unlikely.
Was the proposal even worse than Mr Collins’? At least the parson had stupidity in his favour, so he knew no better; but Mr Darcy was a man of sense and education.
Was she supposed to justignorethat he had interfered in her most beloved sister’s affections; or did he believe she did not know and never would? Was she supposed toenjoybeing a degradation? How exactly did begrudgingly accepting a degradation advance his suit?
Elizabeth tried to say something… anything… anything at all… but every time she opened her mouth, an astonishingly realistic vision of her mother rose beside Mr Darcy, shaking the infamous Fanny Bennet finger, while giving her yet another bit ofmotherly advice.
She was eminently familiar with both the finger and the sentiments, as they had been directed at her nearly constantly for much of the past decade.
In times of stress, people sometimes advised her, and the conversations played out as if they were happening right before her eyes. She had no idea if they were visions, remembrances,hallucinations, or incipient madness; but since the advice was sometimes useful, she at least listened.
If you cannot say something nice, say nothing at all!
Of course, she never discussed her potential madness with anybody, except very occasionally Jane. People were carted off to Bedlam for less, and she could not imagine what her mother would have to say—to the entire neighbourhood.
Her mother’s censure was quite familiar but rarely applied to her sisters. Jane was too serene, beautiful, and perfect; Lydia was so much like her mother she could do no wrong; and Elizabeth doubted the matron was even aware Kitty and Mary were her daughters, in anything other than a vague fashion.
Despite Mrs Bennet’s lack of propriety in her own habits, she delighted in endlessly instructing her most recalcitrant daughter on the subject.
Mrs Bennet had been vexed indeed when her second daughter turned down a most eligible match with Mr Collins four months earlier, and she had also persuadedherself Elizabeth was responsible for Mr Bingley’s defection—somehow. Her precise fault in the matter was never explicit, and the vague accusations varied by the day, but the matron was utterly convinced of her guilt.
The young lady’s conundrum was unfathomable. To be entirely bereft of words was unprecedented. Replaying her mother’s words over and over, only slightly less so. Indeed, she rarely paid the slightest attention to Mrs Bennet’s ramblings, as ignoring the matron’s effusions was a basic survival skill at Longbourn.
Better to keep silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.
She wondered if her father ever had anything remotely sensible to say, since his advice now mirrored her mother’s.
She tried once again to speak, yet nothing emerged.
Once, twice, thrice—she tried again and again—but every time she opened her mouth, her mother chastised her yet again, while Mr Darcy looked on in breathless anticipation.
Mrs Bennet’s earlier threats had been empty, as the matron had chastised her constantly during the four months since the rejection of her first insulting proposal. Apparently, the phrase ‘never speak to you again’ was more figurative than literal.
Once again, she opened her mouth to speak a polite refusal but recalled that scheme had not gone well in herfirstinsulting proposal.
With Mr Darcy, she did not even have the dubious protection of her father—being under the authority of her odious cousin, whose head might burst if forced to contend with a difference of opinion between the formidable Mr Darcy and his esteemed patroness. There was little doubt where Elizabeth’s opinion on this, or any other subject, would count for Mr Collins or anyone else in Kent, should they enter a dispute.
The young lady would be of age in six weeks and wanted no complications—and most reasonable people would agree thatbeing engagedwould most certainly count as acomplication.
She had no strong belief that Mr Collins or her father would try to force her into a marriage, but neither did she want to bet the rest of her life on that blithe assumption, considering how consistently unreliable and arbitrary both men were.
Moreover, Mr Darcy’s unchaperoned presence in the parsonage could become a compromise, which could be yet another tool to force her into an unwanted union.
She had no desire to be on the end of Lady Catherine’s tongue or substantial wrath, should the notion take hold! She could not even fathom being introduced as a niece at Rosings, not to mention how either an acceptance or rejection would affect her dear friend, Charlotte. The whole idea was inconceivable! Utterly preposterous!
Mr Darcy was cleverer than Mr Collins, as were most men. He even occasionally spoke in complete and comprehensible English sentences. He truly was a man of sense and education ineverything except manners, and agreeableness, and amiability, and kindness, and generosity, and basic good sense. Even those had occasionally been displayed at Netherfield, so he at least understood the rudiments—though he rarely bothered.
He did, however, bear a look of stubbornness, and according to the colonel, he was a man who liked to arrange his affairs to his liking. He had already delayed his departure twice, and she had the sinking feeling she knew why.
Mr Darcy had also told her he was a man of implacable resentment. In his own words, his temper was too little yielding, and his good opinion once lost was lost forever. He was clearly unaccustomed to being denied anything and seemed capable of at least as much stubborn wilfulness as Mr Collins. However, his stubbornness would be much harder to counter. Instead of four sisters listening at the door, the nearest assistance was half a mile away at Rosings; and given Charlotte’s marital standards, she doubted she would be all that useful.
Think of your mother! Think of your sisters!
It is your duty to save us from the hedgerows!
