Yet there was no remedy. Lady Elizabeth was not a woman whom he could forsake. Perhaps, had it been Lady Amelie, some resolution might have been found. But with the gentle and sweet-tempered Lady Elizabeth, he could not break the engagement.
He did not doubt that in time he would regain composure. Yet that profound happiness, that ardent passion and longing which Elizabeth Bennet had awakened in him, he would never feel again. The truth burst upon him with cruel suddenness—he loved Miss Elizabeth with all the strength of his soul. Nevertheless, he was to marry Lady Elizabeth…and nothing could be done.
He resolved to speak of this revelation to no one; to let all, even the colonel, believe that he still felt the most profound resentment towards Miss Elizabeth for her refusal, and to persuade the world that he looked forward to his approachingmarriage with benevolence, if not with passion. What he felt within his heart was his own secret, and it must remain so.
Chapter 20
Though he had resolved how he ought to behave towards his future wife, Darcy could not help but secretly rejoice that he did not find her in London. Lady Elizabeth had gone home, declaring that her father required her presence—or at least, so it had been said.
The colonel received him with great warmth, observing him keenly for any trace of uneasiness or regret, and then, almost by force, carried him off to the theatre.
“In earnest, are you quite certain that you will proceed with this…marriage?” he asked in the carriage, in a tone Darcy found somewhat strange; yet when he looked at his cousin’s face, he perceived only concern.
“What are you speaking of? Such an engagement is impossible to break, nor have I any reason to wish it.” His manner was composed; during the three days of his journey, he had at least learnt to conceal his pain, if not to conquer it.
“Have you been to see Georgiana?” The colonel glanced towards him, for Tuesday was the day on which the family might visit the young ladies, and Darcy had arrived on a Monday.
“No. I have had a multitude of matters to arrange.” Yet, fearing he might appear reserved, he added more openly, “Besides, it would hardly be wise for me to see Miss Elizabeth now, least of all in Georgiana’s presence.”
“You are right. I own that I have not been either, for the same reason. Though I suppose it is not essential that Miss Elizabeth should be present; there are many other ladies to attend the pupils.”
They then turned to the subject of Bingley, which was not less delicate. The colonel had met him at the club, where Bingley had announced his great news. Yet Mr Bingley’s marriage to Miss Elizabeth’s sister was not welcome tidings to Darcy, for it ensured that within their circle there would ever remain the danger of meeting Miss Elizabeth again.
“I shall survive,” he said with a short laugh, to quiet his cousin’s anxiety. “We shall go to the church—”
“He told me he wishes you to be his witness; yet I could stand for him, if you find it too difficult,” offered the colonel.
“I do not think we ought to trouble the waters. It is nothing extraordinary that I should be his witness and afterwards attend a breakfast. I am not an agitated young man. The story with Miss Elizabeth is closed, and we may meet hereafter as mere acquaintances. I see no reason for your concern.”
“Still, I am concerned for you. I would not have you suffer or feel discomfort.”
“There will be neither. On the other hand, Miss Elizabeth herself might feel uneasy, for I am certain that, if she has not already heard of my engagement, she soon will. She is far toointelligent not to perceive that little time separated one proposal from the other…these are delicate matters.”
“Even though she refused you?”
“Even though she refused me.” His tone was firm—more to calm his cousin than from any true knowledge of how ladies might react to such events.
The colonel nodded and smiled. Darcy appeared composed, as he had ever been, and the episode at the Parsonage—if not forgotten—was at least relegated to something less painful.
They ascended the theatre steps briskly, greeting acquaintances to right and left. The crowd, the lights, the cheerful murmur—all invigorated him; it was precisely what he required. He answered a few questions regarding the weather in Derbyshire, promised to attend several dinners, and upon reaching the lobby of the boxes, found himself alone, for the colonel lingered below the staircase, engaged in conversation with friends. Darcy looked after him, made a sign, but the colonel, absorbed in his stories, did not respond; so he turned towards his uncle’s box.
At that very moment, the door of an adjacent box opened, and from it stepped Elizabeth.
They stood face to face, unable to avoid one another, scarcely four feet apart. For an instant, they were motionless, gazing in astonishment. Then the inevitable occurred: as he bowed and she curtsied, their eyes met, and the brief seconds of that silent encounter sufficed for both to perceive the truth. Love was between them—mutual, unmistakable—as though written in characters which each could read in the other. Elizabeth loved him; Darcy had never ceased to love her; and, strange as it seemed, that was the first moment they truly met. Not the ballroom at Meryton, but that narrow corridor of the theatrewitnessed their real acquaintance—each meeting, at last, the love of the other.
It lasted only a moment—or perhaps more—until the colonel reached them, and two of the Academy pupils emerged from their box; yet it was enough. Darcy excused himself and withdrew with his cousin. At the same time, Elizabeth, beckoning to one of the girls she sought, returned to her seat, and the play began.
Neither of them could afterwards recall, or even see, what passed upon the stage.
Darcy realised, with a burning pain in his heart, that never until that evening had he seen love in her eyes. It was now clear to him. The looks of the past had expressed admiration, approval, esteem—but not love. And he, blind to that distinction, had asked her to marry him. Only there, in that crowded theatre, did he understand that he had proposed without ever being certain that she loved him. At the Parsonage, he had acted, in truth, with the confidence that she would accept him, indifferent to her feelings. The man he was now could scarcely comprehend the man he had been but two months before. On that dreadful day, even if she had loved him, the anger he provoked had darkened every tender sentiment. But there, in the theatre corridor, taken unawares, Elizabeth revealed what he learned too late…she loved him.
Elizabeth, on her part, beheld in his eyes what she ought to have discerned at the Parsonage, and which he had offered only in words—love, passion. It was but a moment, yet what a moment!—a flash of intensity in which all barriers were forgotten and love stood revealed in its full power. Darcy still loved her, though in a different way from before. He finally loved her without hesitation—but he was betrothed to another.
She was angry with him. How could he have become engaged if he still loved her? Yet the answer eluded her, forDarcy and the Colonel did not appear again that evening. Surrounded by a few pupils, Elizabeth relied upon their cheerful spirits to carry her through. She was thankful that Mary was not among them, for she would surely have guessed the truth. Thus, the secret remained between them.
“Well, how was it?” asked the colonel as they walked home, having left after the first act. The night was dark, and Darcy could conceal his agitation. “It was not easy…but as I told you, I shall survive.”
Yet alone in his library, a glass of brandy before him, he wondered earnestly whether he genuinely would.
