When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself
as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the
examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her
being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any
revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering.
But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that
cheerfulness which had been used to characterise her style, and which,
proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself and kindly
disposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth
noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an
attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's
shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict, gave her a
keener sense of her sister's sufferings. It was some consolation to
think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the
next--and, a still greater, that in less than a fortnight she should
herself be with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of
her spirits, by all that affection could do.
She could not think
of Darcy's leaving Kent without remembering that his cousin was to go
with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear that he had no
intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not mean to be
unhappy about him.
While settling this point, she was suddenly
roused by the sound of the door-bell, and her spirits were a little
fluttered by the idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had
once before called late in the evening, and might now come to inquire
particularly after her. But this idea was soon banished, and her spirits
were very differently affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw
Mr. Darcy walk into the room. In an hurried manner he immediately began
an inquiry after her health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing
that she were better. She answered him with cold civility. He sat down
for a few moments, and then getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth
was surprised, but said not a word. After a silence of several minutes,
he came towards her in an agitated manner, and thus began:
"In
vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be
repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love
you."
Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared,
coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient
encouragement; and the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for
her, immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings
besides those of the heart to be detailed; and he was not more eloquent
on the subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her
inferiority--of its being a degradation--of the family obstacles which
had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which
seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to
recommend his suit.
In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she
could not be insensible to the compliment of such a man's affection, and
though her intentions did not vary for an instant, she was at first
sorry for the pain he was to receive; till, roused to resentment by his
subsequent language, she lost all compassion in anger. She tried,
however, to compose herself to answer him with patience, when he should
have done. He concluded with representing to her the strength of that
attachment which, in spite of all his endeavours, he had found
impossible to conquer; and with expressing his hope that it would now be
rewarded by her acceptance of his hand. As he said this, she could
easily see that he had no doubt of a favourable answer. He _spoke_ of
apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real security.
Such a circumstance could only exasperate farther, and, when he ceased,
the colour rose into her cheeks, and she said:
"In such cases as
this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of
obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be
returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could
_feel_ gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot--I have never
desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most
unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been
most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration.
The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment
of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this
explanation."
Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece
with his eyes fixed on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less
resentment than surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the
disturbance of his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling
for the appearance of composure, and would not open his lips till he
believed himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's
feelings dreadful. At length, with a voice of forced calmness, he said:
"And
this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I
might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little _endeavour_ at
civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance."
"I
might as well inquire," replied she, "why with so evident a desire of
offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me
against your will, against your reason, and even against your character?
Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I _was_ uncivil? But I have
other provocations. You know I have. Had not my feelings decided
against you--had they been indifferent, or had they even been
favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept
the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the
happiness of a most beloved sister?"
As she pronounced these
words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion was short, and he
listened without attempting to interrupt her while she continued:
"I
have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can
excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You dare not,
you cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if not the only means
of dividing them from each other--of exposing one to the censure of the
world for caprice and instability, and the other to its derision for
disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest
kind."
She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was
listening with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of
remorse. He even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.
"Can you deny that you have done it?" she repeated.
With
assumed tranquillity he then replied: "I have no wish of denying that I
did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or
that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_ I have been kinder than
towards myself."
Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing
this civil reflection, but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely
to conciliate her.
"But it is not merely this affair," she
continued, "on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken
place my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the
recital which I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this
subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship
can you here defend yourself? or under what misrepresentation can you
here impose upon others?"
"You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns," said Darcy, in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.
"Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an interest in him?"
"His misfortunes!" repeated Darcy contemptuously; "yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed."
"And
of your infliction," cried Elizabeth with energy. "You have reduced him
to his present state of poverty--comparative poverty. You have withheld
the advantages which you must know to have been designed for him. You
have deprived the best years of his life of that independence which was
no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! and yet you can
treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and ridicule."
"And
this," cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room, "is
your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank
you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this
calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps," added he, stopping in his
walk, and turning towards her, "these offenses might have been
overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the
scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These
bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater
policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my
being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by
reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.
Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just.
Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your
connections?--to congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose
condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?"
Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to the utmost to speak with composure when she said:
"You
are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your
declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared the concern
which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more
gentlemanlike manner."
She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued:
"You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it."
Again
his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an expression
of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on:
"From the
very beginning--from the first moment, I may almost say--of my
acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest
belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the
feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of
disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a
dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the
last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry."
"You
have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings,
and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for
having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for
your health and happiness."
And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him the next moment open the front door and quit the house.
The
tumult of her mind, was now painfully great. She knew not how to
support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for
half-an-hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was
increased by every review of it. 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 which had made him prevent his friend's marrying her
sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his own
case--was almost incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired
unconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable
pride--his shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to
Jane--his unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not
justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr.
Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon
overcame the pity which the consideration of his attachment had for a
moment excited. She continued in very agitated reflections till the
sound of Lady Catherine's carriage made her feel how unequal she was to
encounter Charlotte's observation, and hurried her away to her room. _