Without intending it, both thought at once of Mr Darcy, yet neither spoke; for the colonel loved his cousin as a brother,and Elizabeth had resolved that all persons possessed faults which might be overlooked—provided they were not mortal sins.
“I do not think you are right,” he remarked after a pause. “I know many wealthy men who are not arrogant. After all, every man has his faults and his virtues.”
“I agree!” Elizabeth nodded, for it was precisely her own opinion…newly formed.
“But sometimes, beneath a manner of pride or prejudice, lie qualities of such value as to outweigh the defect that first strikes the eye and clouds one’s judgment. Consider...Darcy. Since his father’s death, he has been wholly devoted to the upbringing of his sister, Georgiana. He manages an estate thrice the size of Rosings with uncommon success, and, besides all this, he is a friend the like of whom there is none. No later than last winter, he saved one of his companions from an unsuitable attachment to a woman who sought only his fortune.”
“And when did that happen?” Elizabeth managed to ask, striving to preserve the ease of their talk that he might not perceive the agitation which had already seized her.
“Last November,” replied the colonel carelessly, suspecting nothing; had he looked at her, he could not have missed how every trace of joy faded from her face.
Mr Darcy had not liked the society of Hertfordshire, yet to suspect Jane of such mercenary design was beyond all reason. Suddenly all was made clear—she recalled a scene she had forgotten, the evening of the Netherfield ball: Mr Darcy and the Miss Bingleys in earnest conversation, casting glances towards Jane as she danced with Mr Bingley.
The next day, he was gone...without a word.
By chance, they were already approaching the Parsonage, and she found it easy to part from the colonel. She hurried up the steps to her chamber, determined not to stop even should Charlotte speak to her. Fortunately, the way was clear. Shewept bitterly upon the bed, for, in one way or another, all the pleasure of her visit had dissolved into this dreadful revelation. Men like Mr Darcy were insufferable, unworthy of pardon, and undeserving of any effort to discover redeeming virtues that might excuse their pride or soften their offence.
She resolved not to dine at Rosings that evening. Charlotte found her so overcome by the fatigue of an afternoon spent in tears that she supposed her to be unwell.
“A slight chill,” murmured Elizabeth, and Charlotte, fearful of taking the disorder herself, withdrew in haste.
Elizabeth now wished to see herself seated in her uncle’s carriage, bound for London. Yet she still did not know whether she should possess the courage to tell Jane the truth…or whether it were worth the pain. The news from town was somewhat improved; Mrs Gardiner wrote that her dear sister had begun to smile again, and even to take pleasure in the company of their acquaintances. Perhaps it would be better to forget all that concerned Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy, and to move forward as though such gentlemen had never existed in their lives. For her own part, it was easy enough as she did not nurture feelings for Mr Darcy; yet she could not help wondering whether Jane was ready to move on and look around to find a new love and even a husband.
∞∞∞
The next day, she awoke in better spirits. After all, it no longer mattered who had played the greater or lesser part in Jane’s unhappiness. She was persuaded that his sisters had done all in their power to separate them, and, in concert with Mr Darcy, had succeeded with unexpected swiftness…a singleday only after the ball at Netherfield, where Jane had, in all probability, hoped to be declared his betrothed.
She reflected with pleasure that but a few days remained to be spent at Charlotte’s house, and she was resolved never to return there again. In scarcely two months of marriage, Charlotte had altered greatly. In another two or three months, the cheerful, witty girl of Elizabeth’s youth would be gone for ever, leaving behind only Mr Collins’s wife—a person whom Elizabeth might encounter in future years, yet merely as an acquaintance.
She regretted the loss of her friend, yet within the past year—indeed, since September, when Mr Bingley had leased Netherfield—they had matured with uncommon rapidity. For suddenly, in their tranquil neighbourhood, events had begun to proceed at a wholly different pace. New acquaintances had appeared, new trials had arisen, and new affections and disappointments had followed—not solely of the heart, but also from the discovery of certain individuals who proved far other than she had imagined. Mr Wickham, who had shown himself a libertine; Mr Darcy, who, besides his pride, had seemed incapable of discerning the true worth of those around him; the Miss Bingleys, ever smiling and insincere; and, lastly, Mr Bingley himself, who, though he had appeared a man of integrity, revealed himself weak and easily led. Charlotte was but the final drop, the surest proof that even those one knows most intimately may change and disappoint. Yet, after all, she was glad of everything that happened, for their experience of life had been enriched. They were now, beyond doubt, more cautious, less likely to be deceived—and that was a gain.
At breakfast, little was required of her in conversation, for the talk revolved, as ever, around the last evening’s dinner at Rosings. She was, however, surprised to learn that Mr Darcy had inquired after her and expressed concern at her illness.
Perhaps that was why, when Mr Darcy was announced, she supposed he had come to ascertain whether she was recovered. She meant to inform him that the mistress of the house and her sister were abroad, and to excuse herself on the plea of an engagement. Still, Mr Darcy’s visit had quite another purpose.
Chapter 8
Nothing could have prepared her for what followed. The thirty minutes of Mr Darcy’s visit passed as in a dreadful dream. Even when he was gone, and she heard the sound of the front door closing behind him, she could not believe the scene had truly taken place. She sank again upon the sofa, still trembling with indignation, and only when her heart began to regain its usual pace did the recollection of all that had passed return to her mind with even greater vividness than at the moment itself.
Mr Darcy had proposed to her! Mr Darcy had declared his love! But—horror—every word that followed his avowal had been an insult beyond endurance to every member of her family, whom he evidently considered far beneath his own.
“It cannot be…the horrible man…” she cried, but stopped short at the sight of Charlotte’s terrified countenance, for her friend had entered that instant, evidently in haste, having most likely seen Mr Darcy depart.
“Elizabeth, what has happened?” cried Charlotte, but for several moments, Elizabeth, overwhelmed by passion, wasincapable of replying. Maria, who had followed her sister, closed the door, for the cook and the housemaid had already appeared in the passage, alarmed by the sound of raised voices.
Charlotte stood torn between her concern for her friend’s apparent disturbance and the evident truth that Elizabeth’s anger was directed at Mr Darcy. She was, for a moment, relieved that her husband was not at home, though the anxiety did not leave her. Any quarrel with those at Rosings was dangerous, for its consequences might fall upon them as well. Although she loved Elizabeth dearly, her own family must come first.
“What has happened?” she asked again, more calmly, perceiving that Elizabeth’s agitation must first be soothed before she could make sense of it. “Have you quarrelled with Mr Darcy?”
Elizabeth gave a short, bitter laugh that froze her friend’s blood. Never had Charlotte seen her so moved, so shaken, nor with such violence in her manner.
“Mr Darcy has proposed to me!” Her tone dripped with sarcasm. Charlotte sank upon a chair, overwhelmed alike by the weight of those words and the manner in which they were spoken.
“How could he have proposed to you?”
She had jested in the past that Mr Darcy might admire her friend; yet it had been only a pleasantry, meant to explain his strange conduct towards Elizabeth of late. Never had she imagined that Lady Catherine’s nephew could offer his hand to any one of them.
Then the truth struck her like lightning—Elizabeth had refused him.
