That was not entirely true. She had been enraged by the manner of his proposal. He had briefly declared his love, but insisted upon presenting it as a struggle against his own inclination.
Though she had done what she believed was right, she loathed the manner in which she had refused him. Her anger and her uncivil words had been intended to wound him—because he had wounded Jane. But at the end of the night, with no tears left, she had drawn herself beneath the bedclothes, as she used to do as a child, and admitted that she loved him too. The realisation was so unexpected that it took her some time to understand that the pain she felt could only be explained by the depth of her feelings for him.
How it was possible to love a man she had always believed she hated was a mystery indeed. Yet her proud nature made it difficult for her to understand what lay before her. She quarrelled with him offended by his haughtiness and by his apparent contempt for the people he had found in Meryton and, finally, in her family.
She might, perhaps, have accepted a declaration of love, and would have reflected upon a proper proposal, such as any woman might wish for. In that case, it was possible that her better feelings would have prevailed and found their way into the affection that did exist in her heart, though it had been overshadowed by his past conduct. As for the present—it was a disaster. Faced with his morose and discontented manner, she had replied with fury, ready to dispute every word.
∞∞∞
As the dawn broke at her window, Elizabeth had resolved to do what, at another time, she would have thought impossible: tell Mr Darcy plainly what was in her mind. She was angry with him, yet she also bitterly regretted her hasty decision. If he were to advise Mr Bingley to reconsider his feelings for Jane, then her own reluctance would be greatly diminished, and in time she might accept him.
Even in the light of day, it still seemed the proper course. Soon after breakfast, she went directly to her favourite walk, remembering that Mr Darcy sometimes appeared there in the morning, and hoping to meet him and tell him what she had to say.
Tempted by the pleasantness of the morning, she paused for a moment at the gates and looked into the park. The five weeks she had spent in Kent had greatly changed the country, and each day added to the fresh verdure of the early trees.
On the point of continuing her walk, she suddenly caught sight of the gentleman in question within the small grove that bordered the park. She did not advance; a strange stillness held her in place as she tried to delay the moment of meeting, hoping she was prepared to say all that was in her mind. But he approached quickly and reached her within moments.
He held out a letter, which she instinctively took, and said, with a look of composed hauteur,
“I have been walking in the grove for some time, in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?”
Then, with a slight bow, he turned and walked away.
With the letter in her hand, Elizabeth watched him as he went. She had neither the time nor the presence of mind to stop him; it was already too late. As swiftly as he had come, Mr Darcy disappeared, and a moment later she saw him enter the house without once looking back.
Once more, her world fell into confusion. He had come only to give her a letter. Her heart beat so violently that she glanced about her, wondering whether anyone might hear it.
She returned to the parsonage garden, determined to hide herself from any indiscreet eye as she opened the letter with trembling fingers.
She had hoped for a gentler tone, but at the very first lines, tears filled her eyes, making it difficult to read. His tone was the same as the day before—cold and distant; he offered no excuse. On the contrary, he repeated everything he had said of her family and of his influence on Bingley’s decision. He still believed he had only protected his friend from an imprudent attachment. But the latter part of the letter affected her still more deeply. Mr Wickham, whom she had once liked, was revealed as a man without honour, who had nearly imposed himself upon Mr Darcy’s young sister.
The letter in her hands—she could not read it again. It had been painful enough at first; her only wish was to reflect, to bring some order to the confusion that troubled both her heart and her mind. As his account of his conduct settled in her thoughts, it seemed less objectionable. His aversion to her family still made her despise him. Still, in all else, her feelings began to change, and she found herself seeking justifications for his words. He had judged too quickly, and had read Jane’s character too lightly. Still, he was not a man intent on harm. Rather, he had acted as a friend, attempting to rescue Bingley from what he believed to be a dangerous situation. She began to understand his manner of thinking, and her anger lessenedwith every passing moment. Sadness and regret slowly took their place. He was proud and hasty, but not a bad man.
A better course would have been to show him, calmly and kindly, that he had mistaken her family. That was what she had intended to do that evening, still hoping he remained at Rosings. She walked again along the now familiar paths that afternoon, but neither Darcy nor the colonel appeared.
And at dinner, there were only Lady Catherine’s usual guests.
“My nephews left for London early this morning. I cannot say I am not annoyed by their departure, but you know young men nowadays. They said they had urgent business, and it must be important indeed for them to leave in such haste. Darcy has considerable personal wealth, and only poor people imagine that the rich do no work.”
Mr Collins nodded his approval of every word Lady Catherine uttered. He looked at her as though she were a goddess descended among mortals.
Elizabeth was in pain once more, almost to tears. She kept her eyes lowered to her plate, unable to take part in any conversation and longing only to be alone in her room. She needed to write a long letter to her aunt about all that had passed in the last few days. She also wished Uncle Gardiner to send a servant to accompany her to London. In the best of circumstances, she might be there in three or four days.
She would have left that very night, would even have walked to London, to avoid having to face the people around that table.
“I hope you intend to remain another month, Miss Bennet,” Lady Catherine said.
“Unfortunately, Lady Catherine, I shall leave in a few days. My father requires my presence.”
She scarcely attended to the old lady’s speech, imagining instead how different the evening might have been had she stood there on Darcy’s arm, their engagement announced.
But Lady Catherine was far from finished. In a cheerful tone, she declared that there would soon be at least one wedding in the family. When Mr Collins glanced curiously at Miss de Bourgh, Lady Catherine shook her head. “It concerns my nephews—they both intend to marry, and I am certain that the ton contains exactly the wives they deserve. I cannot imagine a member of my family marrying beneath the daughter of a peer of England.”
∞∞∞
Later that evening, Elizabeth wrote a long letter to her aunt. The facts exactly as they had occurred, her fears, and her perplexities, were all laid open without reserve. She needed advice, and her aunt was the only one who could understand the situation and help her find a remedy.
The days before her departure were difficult for both Elizabeth and her hosts. Though nothing was openly said, a strange discomfort lingered in the air. Mr Collins came home only for dinner and scarcely spoke a word—except to repeat what Lady Catherine had said that day—while Charlotte and Maria, in Elizabeth’s presence, tried to confine their conversation to household matters. It was settled that Maria would remain at Hunsford, for the two sisters were delighted to be together.
