Page 34 of Bitterness of Spirit & The Painting

He had entered the Parsonage, his soul filled with the anticipation of overwhelming happiness. And he left carrying the weight of astonishing and heart-breaking failure.

She rejected him. She told him how much she hated and despised him; she showed him what a fool he had been for months. She had loathed him since the beginning of their acquaintance. She abhorred his mere presence. She detested him as the lowest and most despicable of men. He was the last man in the world to her—simple and clear.

He could scarcely recollect their fight. So many terrible things had been said that he dared not remember them. She rejected him with the same passion that had always charmed him. She passionately hated him, and thus she repudiated him. She accused him so harshly and blamed him for so many faults that it was not worth retaining them. She put all the blame and all the flaws of the world on his shoulders.

How had he ever imagined she understood his admiration when she said he only looked at her to criticize and offend her? When had he done that? She called his proposal a charade and wondered whether he was mocking her. No indeed. He was mocking himself!

He had been so close to complete bliss, and losing it left him empty, devastated. Nothing could ever fill his hollow soul. He had passed close to felicity but missed it completely. He had been wrong about everything related to her, just as he had likely been wrong about many other things in his life—something that, in his arrogance, he had never considered before.

Of all she accused him, he was not certain she had been right. She was unjust and unfair. She knew nothing but had the boldness to judge him. She was partial to Wickham; that was the reason. But did that not speak clearly of her shallow nature? Had he been wrong in admiring her character and wit too? Was she only one of the countless weak-minded girls charmed by Wickham? Had their relationship been more than he knew?

All was useless now. Everything ended before it even started. She was further from him than she had ever been. And he would likely never see her again—to the benefit of his sanity, but he could not bear to live in the same world and allow her to think so poorly of him. Though he could not strive for her love nor even make her hate him less, he could at least abolish some of her accusations and show her he was not so worthy of contempt. He determined to defend himself. But he must put everything on paper as he could not bear her disdainful glare ever again.

∞∞∞

Sitting by the window in Maria’s chamber, Elizabeth absently heard her friend chatting without meaning. The tumult of her mind grew every instant and was now painfully great. Her hands trembled, and she clasped them together.

She spotted the Collinses as they returned, and panic engulfed her at the thought of being caught up in another conversation.

“Maria dear, I shall go to my room now. If Charlotte returns, please tell her I have a terrible headache and I shall retire for the night before dinner. I shall see you all tomorrow morning.”

“Lizzy, are you well?”

“Yes, dear. And please—not a word about Mr Darcy.”

“Of course.”

Once in the hall with Maria’s door closed behind her and in the first moment of privacy since the most devastating argument of her life, tears flowed down her face. She moved hesitantly to her room, unsteady on her feet. From actual weakness, she sat down on the bed and cried, hoping tears would also wash away the burden on her chest.

She had to wipe her face and lie down on the bed, pulling the sheet over her as she heard footsteps. She knew Charlotte would come to speak to her. She also knew that she could not deny Darcy’s visit as one of the servants certainly had seen him. Even more, she could not count on Maria’s discretion for more than a day.

As she expected, her friend entered with a gentle knock on the door.

“Lizzy, how are you feeling, dear? I checked on Maria, and she is better.”

“I am fine; thank you for asking. In fact, I have a bit of news. Mr Darcy was here earlier.”

“Mr Darcy? Why on earth?” Charlotte‘s puzzlement was equalled by her surprise.

“He just called, and we began a rather delicate conversation. I must warn you that it became rather heated. I hope he will not reveal anything to Lady Catherine.” Elizabeth attempted to smile.

“But, Lizzy, what did you discuss? Were you alone? But…he left us suddenly, saying he had some business that required his attention.”

“We spoke about Mr Bingley, Jane, and Mr Wickham. As I said, we argued for some time. I hope it is at an end. It helps that he will leave Rosings very soon and we shall also return home in a few days. Hopefully, I shall not see Mr Darcy again for a long while, if ever.”

“That is truly astonishing,” Charlotte uttered.

“Yes, I was quite shocked by his visit too,” Elizabeth confessed honestly.” But it is ended now. If you do not mind, I would like to sleep as I still have a terrible headache.”

“Very well, rest and get well soon. Lady Catherine wants us for another tea tomorrow afternoon, and you are expected to attend,” her friend said, and Elizabeth laughed nervously.

Tea at Rosings? Would Mr Darcy be there? Or would he leave the next day to avoid seeing her? But what if he does not? How could she face him so soon?

Charlotte’s departure brought the blessed privacy she longed for. The silence in the room was a counterpoint to the storm inside her. She returned to bed, fully dressed, and lay down, fearing the next day’s schedule and reflecting constantly on what had passed. Every review of the events increased her torment and deepened her distress.

That she should receive an offer of marriage from Mr Darcy! That he should have been in love with her for so many months—so much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all the objections that had made him prevent his friend’s marrying her sister—was almost incredible.

In spite of her deeply rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to the compliment of such a man’s regard.