He met the colonel in the hall, and the latter drew him into the library, clearly agitated.
“What is it?” Darcy asked.
“What is it?” almost cried the colonel, wholly unlike the calm, composed man he usually appeared to be within the family. “I saw you last night…I saw you both.”
“And?” Darcy said, not understanding.
“Never once did you tell me that Miss Elizabeth also harboured such feelings for you.”
Darcy sank into a chair. From outside came the noises of carriages arriving and departing, voices calling, the bustle that always preceded a wedding; yet neither of them felt inclined to join in the general cheer.
“So it was visible then,” Darcy said, yet with unease.
“Visible? Certainly. Fortunately, no one was attending to you, or the scene might have been remarked upon. It was only after a while that I began to perceive clearly what was passing between you. I had thought she did not love you…so deeply—”
“You saw us also at the Hampstead ball,” Darcy said.
“But it was not so plain there as it was last night. By the fire, you seemed to inhabit a world of your own, and you both looked so happy.”
Darcy could not bear the conversation. The evening before had felt as though seeing one another might fill them with enough love to last a lifetime…so that they could part. Yet that was folly, a delusion. Love was like a drug; the more he felt it, the more he desired it—recklessly, painfully, almost beyond control.
“If you mean to go to the church with that expression, we had better depart for London at once,” the colonel said, setting right Darcy’s cravat, which was unusually disordered that morning. He had seen Darcy prostrate with grief at the death of his parents, yet never before had his appearance betrayed such disorder. The morning had undone him.
“Come, let us go,” cried a voice, as someone opened the library door to see whether any gentleman remained within.
“We walk,” the colonel decided, hoping the air might do him good. Only then did he fully comprehend the depth of his cousin’s anguish. It was not merely wounded pride, nor even the sorrow of being refused by the woman he loved; it was something infinitely more profound. Miss Elizabeth had begun—or discovered—that she loved him too; and grief had become despair.
With great effort, they managed to master themselves as they approached the church. Still, nothing could dispel the dreadful heaviness that oppressed them both.
“You must not look so desolate,” Darcy whispered, perceiving his cousin’s torment. He had meant his tone to retaina hint of irony, but failed. Instead, he took the colonel’s arm, wishing to express his gratitude for such extraordinary concern—a concern so great that his cousin suffered with him.
“You will feel better far away from here. This day is the last of such trials,” the colonel said.
But he doubted it. Life, marriage—none of it could begin in such desolation. He could not conceive how Darcy might recover even a degree of peace, much less contentment, when his own wedding was to take place so soon. He needed months to heal, not mere weeks; yet it was evident that the ceremony could no longer be delayed.
They entered the church among the last, and Darcy was led to the front, for he was one of the witnesses. He found his seat beside Bingley’s sisters, who whispered together and tried to draw him into their talk. But he took no part, instead moving to a place farther away, almost discourteously distant, placing Mr Hurst between himself and the ladies.
It was better so, for he was also removed from the row where Elizabeth soon took her place. He saw her only from the corner of his eye, and she, too, appeared as though she had not observed him.
The ceremony began, and fortunately, they could not see one another; yet every word was a torment, for all he could imagine was that it should have been their own wedding.
At the close, he signed the register, and though Elizabeth was in the same room, they did not exchange a glance. He had the distinct impression that she suffered equally, and he pitied her; for while the event meant little to him, to her it was the marriage of her beloved sister, now Mrs Bingley.
The colonel waited for him outside.
“We are leaving,” he said, leading him with determination towards the carriages. “I have spoken with Mr Bennet and made our excuses—an urgent summons asks for me to go to London.”
“I ought at least to offer my congratulations to Bingley.”
But the colonel restrained him, for Darcy’s distress was too evident to be concealed.
“You may congratulate him in London,” he said quietly.
To Darcy’s relief, in the next moment, they were seated in the carriage, already on their way home.
“You were right,” Darcy said. “I feel better. Now it is truly over.”
And even if it was not entirely what he felt only the notion of saying that aloud was a step forward.
