They reached the place where the waves thinned to a shining fringe before curling back upon themselves. The horizon lay in aclean line; above it the sky rose pale and cloudless; below it the sea darkened by degrees into blue. Mr. Darcy stopped.
“Miss Bennet.”
Her name, spoken very quietly, had never sounded so deliberate. She halted and looked at him. He stood before her, his hat in his hand, his eyes fixed, not in boldness, but in a collected earnestness.
"You must allow me to say what I have long wished to say. I would not speak while my acquaintance with your family was imperfect; I would not speak while I could still suspect myself of a passing gratitude for attentions shown me here; I would not even speak until I had examined, as far as I was able, whether I might offer you a home in which you could be safe and honoured. But I have done with testing my own heart; it has been too long decided. I love you, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth stood in astonishment. She had thought herself prepared for much; she discovered she had not been prepared for this.
“I love you,” he continued, more steadily. “I cannot fix the hour, or the look, or the word which began it. Perhaps it was when I saw you upon this shore; perhaps when I first heard you speak with such gentleness of those who had not deserved it; perhaps when I perceived how much you had borne, and how little you had allowed yourself to think of it. But from the time I knew you here, my regard has been growing into something which governs all my hopes of happiness. You have taught me to hope in a way I had thought gone from me. You have made me wish to be a better man than I have yet shown myself. I can no longer be silent without being false.”
He paused a moment; his gaze never left her face.
“If you can feel for me a regard in any degree answering to my own; if you can imagine that a life shared with me at Pemberley, and wherever duty calls us, would not be a sacrifice; if you can trust that, whatever troubles may arise, I would stand between you and every needless pain that my care can avert; then I entreat you to make me the happiest of men and to accept my hand.”
For a moment she could not speak. Though she had long ceased to be indifferent to him, and though his attentions had often encouraged hopes she scarcely dared acknowledge even to herself, the reality exceeded every anticipation. She stood looking at him, scarcely knowing what she felt, except that the happiness of the moment was almost beyond her power to bear.
“Mr. Darcy,” she began, and stopped.
He saw her agitation and, misreading it, drew back a little in spirit, though his countenance remained composed. “I have distressed you,” he said. “Forgive me. If my declaration has only brought you pain, I would not for the world press you to answer soon. Say nothing now, if silence is easier. I had only to assure you of my attachment. I shall think myself not wholly unhappy, even if it is refused, since I have been permitted to love you openly for this one hour.”
The humility of this last sentence restored her at once. “You mistake me,” she cried. “You can scarcely suppose that what you have said could give me pain.” Her colour deepened, but she forced herself to continue. “I am only unused to such happiness. It comes too suddenly. If I seem ungrateful, it is because I do not yet understand how I can deserve what you offer.”
“Deserve,” he repeated, with an emotion that altered his whole countenance. “If there is any question of deserving between us, I have nothing to answer for myself. You knowenough of my temper to be aware that I have much to amend, much to learn. But if you will accept me, I can promise you this; that whatever I was before I knew you, I shall never be content again to be less than the man you believe me.”
Elizabeth could not immediately answer. The waves reached the shore and retreated again.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said at last, “I have learned, in these weeks, to value your judgment, to trust your honour, and to depend upon your kindness. I have seen you with my aunt and uncle. I have seen you with those who could do nothing for you. I know that wherever you are, you will be just and generous. I could not hear what you have now said and be indifferent. I love you, very dearly, and if you still wish it, I shall be most happy to become your wife.”
For a moment he did not move. It was as if he must hear the words again in his own recollection before he could believe them. Then the change in his expression was such as she had rarely seen; all the habitual reserve gave way to a look of gratitude and joy which touched her more deeply than any eloquence.
“Still wish it,” he repeated. “There is nothing upon earth I have wished so much.”
He took a step nearer and, with all the deliberation of a man anxious rather to honour than presume, held out his hand. She placed hers in it, and he closed his fingers around it as though accepting a trust. For an instant he bent his head and pressed his lips to her glove. The touch was light, yet she felt it throughout her whole frame. When he looked up again, the happiness of his countenance was beyond disguise. “I shall speak with Mr. Gardiner today,” he said. “I owe him more than I can easilyexpress. It is from his judgment that I first learned to hope I might be worthy of your esteem.”
Elizabeth could not help smiling then. “You need not fear their reception. My aunt and uncle have long been your friends.”
Chapter Nineteen
Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy did not linger upon the path, though neither hurried. The sea lay bright behind them; the morning was clear; and there was in both their countenances something too settled to be mistaken for mere pleasure in the air.
The parlour door stood open. Within, Mrs. Gardiner sat near the small table where tea had been laid, though not yet cleared, while Mr. Gardiner stood at the window looking down into the yard where the carriage waited for the morrow. “If we are to make good progress before the heat rises,” he was saying, “we must be earlier than usual. The road beyond the ridge grows heavy after noon.”
“Then we shall not linger at breakfast,” replied Mrs. Gardiner. “I will have the trunks brought down before seven.”
Their entrance interrupted no more than the conversation. Mr. Gardiner turned from the window as Elizabeth came in and said, “You are punctual.”
“The tide waits for no one,” she answered.
“And neither does breakfast,” returned Mrs. Gardiner, rising. “Come, before the eggs decide to grow cold in protest.”
Mr. Gardiner offered his wife his arm, and together they led the way into the breakfast room. Elizabeth followed with Mr. Darcy, as she had done so many mornings before; yet to her thesimple procession seemed altered, as though the familiar order of the household had acquired a new significance.
Darcy crossed the threshold with Elizabeth. Seats were taken, cups filled, and the small offices of the breakfast table resumed. For a few moments nothing was said beyond what the meal required. Mrs. Gardiner poured the tea; Mr. Gardiner helped himself to toast and glanced once or twice toward the window, though his attention was plainly elsewhere.
At length Mrs. Gardiner looked from Elizabeth to Darcy and back again.
“Well?”
