Pride and Prejudice (The Wild and Wanton Edition) (26 page)

“Darcy,” she gasped, opening her legs and pressing her feet to the bed. She rubbed her sex against her hand, seeking an end to the torment. In that second between torture and ecstasy, she considered she should have said yes if only to fulfill this one desire. Her base attraction to him was only enhanced by knowing he was attracted to her. She always supposed him indifferent to her charms, but if a man like Darcy asked for her hand, he who could have his pick of beautiful women, it must mean he felt for her the same need she sometimes felt for him.

Finally, release came, and a flood of trembling emotion followed the gratification of such a moment. Instantly, she knew it was wrong. She had rejected his suit and rightly so. This gave her no right to use him in such an intimate way, even if the gentleman would never know of the service he had just done her. Gasping, and more than a little embarrassed by the way she had allowed herself to get carried away without thought to her surroundings, she quickly righted her clothing.

At length, when her breath began to steady and her temperature to cool, she suffered herself to once again consider the recent events. In her own past behavior, there was a constant source of vexation and regret; and in the unhappy defects of her family, a subject of yet heavier chagrin. They were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at them, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his youngest daughters; and her mother, with manners so far from right herself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently united with Jane in an endeavor to check the imprudence of Catherine and Lydia. But while the young girls were supported by their mother’s indulgence, what chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited, irritable, and completely under Lydia’s guidance, had been always affronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless, would scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While there was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt with him; and while Meryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they would be going there forever. It was no wonder Mr. Darcy expressed concern. And, whereas she could not forgive his delivery out a sense of family principle, she could hardly wish him burdened with such a family as hers.

Anxiety on Jane’s behalf was another prevailing apprehension. Mr. Darcy’s explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good opinion, heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was proved to have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame, unless any could attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his friend. How grievous then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had been deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family!

When to these recollections was added the development of Wickham’s character, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had seldom been depressed before, were now so much affected as to make it almost impossible for Elizabeth to appear tolerably cheerful.

O
N SATURDAY MORNING Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few minutes before the others appeared. He took the opportunity of paying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary.

“I know not, Miss Elizabeth, whether Mrs. Collins has yet expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us, but I am very certain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks. The favor of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We know how little there is to tempt anyone to our humble abode. Our plain manner of living, our small rooms and few domestics, and the little we see of the world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like yourself. I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension, and that we have done everything in our power to prevent your spending your time unpleasantly.”

Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. “I assure you, I have spent six weeks with great enjoyment.”

Mr. Collins was gratified, and with a more smiling solemnity replied, “It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have passed your time agreeably. We have certainly done our best, and count it most fortunate to have it in our power to introduce you to very superior society. From our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of varying the humble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that your Hunsford visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation with regard to Lady Catherine’s family is indeed the sort of extraordinary advantage and blessing which few can boast.”

Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings. He walked about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility and truth in a few short sentences. “The pleasure of being with my dear friend, and the kind attentions I have received from all, make me feel obliged. I will have nothing but fond stories to tell my sisters upon my return.”

“You may, in fact, carry a very favorable report of us into Hertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself that you will be able to do so. You have been a daily witness to Lady Catherine’s great attentions to Mrs. Collins. Altogether I trust it does not appear your friend has drawn an unfortunate — but on this point it will be as well to be silent. Only let me assure you, that I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in marriage. My Charlotte and I have but one way of thinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each other.”

Elizabeth was not sorry to have his words interrupted by the lady of the house. Poor Charlotte! It was melancholy to leave her to such society, but she had chosen it with her eyes open. Though evidently regretting that her visitors were to go, she did not seem to ask for compassion. Her home and her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and all their dependent concerns, had not yet lost their charms.

At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate parting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by Mr. Collins, and as they walked down the garden he was commissioning her with his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his thanks for the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her in, Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed, when he suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies at Rosings.

“But,” he added, “you will of course wish to have your humble respects delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you while you have been here.”

Elizabeth made no objection. The door was then allowed to be shut, and the carriage drove off.

“Good gracious,” exclaimed Maria, after a few minutes’ silence, “It seems but a day or two since we first came and yet how many things have happened!”

“A great many indeed,” said her companion with a sigh.

“We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there twice. How much I shall have to tell!”

Elizabeth added privately, “And how much I shall have to conceal.”

Their journey was performed without much conversation. Within four hours of their leaving Hunsford they reached Mr. Gardiner’s house, where they were to remain a few days.

Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her spirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her aunt had reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at Longbourn there would be leisure enough for observation.

Meanwhile, she determined to wait until Longbourn before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy’s proposal. The news would undoubtedly astonish Jane, and must at the same time gratify whatever of her own vanity Elizabeth had not yet been able to reason away. She was tempted at almost every moment to openly tell everything. However, in her state of indecision over what she should communicate, and her fear of being hurried into repeating something of Bingley which might only grieve her sister further, kept her silent.

The days passed quickly in Mr. Gardiner’s house and with little events beyond visiting and news. It was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies set out together from Gracechurch Street for the appointed Hertfordshire inn where Mr. Bennet’s carriage was to meet them. From there they traveled directly to Longbourn. Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane in undiminished beauty, and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet say voluntarily to Elizabeth, “I am glad you are back, Lizzy.”

In the afternoon Lydia wanted her sisters to walk to Meryton, to see how everybody went on. Elizabeth steadily opposed the scheme. It should not be said that the Miss Bennets could not be at home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was another reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Mr. Wickham again, and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. She took comfort in the regiment’s approaching removal. In a fortnight they were to go — and once gone, she hoped there could be nothing more to plague her on his account.

“What has happened? Why have you not written me?” Georgiana Darcy demanded of her brother, nearly bouncing with her excitement. “Am I to have a sister?”

Darcy looked at his sister, not answering. The expression on his face conveyed the full depths of his pain, for hers instantly fell. Confusion filled her eyes, as if she could not believe any woman capable of refusing her brother. Instead, she reasoned, her brother must not have asked her. It was the only explanation her mind could accept.

E
LIZABETH’S IMPATIENCE to acquaint Jane with what had happened could no longer be overcome. At length, resolving to suppress every particular in which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be surprised, she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene between Mr. Darcy and herself.

Jane’s astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly partiality, which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly natural, and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. “I am sorry that Mr. Darcy delivered his sentiments in a manner so little suited to recommend them, but still more am I grieved for the unhappiness which your refusal must have given him. His being so sure of succeeding was wrong, and certainly ought to have been better concealed, but consider how much it must increase his disappointment.”

“Indeed,” replied Elizabeth. “I am heartily sorry for him, but he has other feelings, which will probably soon drive away his regard for me. You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?”

“Blame you? Oh, no.”

“But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?”

“No, I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.”

“Wait till I tell you what happened the very next day.”

Elizabeth told Jane of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far as they concerned George Wickham. Jane would have willingly gone through her whole life without believing wickedness existed in all of mankind, as was here collected in one individual. Nor was Darcy’s vindication capable of consoling her for such a discovery. She tried, most earnestly, to establish the probability of error and seek to clear the one without involving the other.

“This will not do,” said Elizabeth. “You will never be able to make them both good. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied with only one. For my part, I am inclined to believe Darcy, but you shall do as you choose.”

However, it was some time before a smile could be extorted from Jane. “I do not know when I have been more shocked. Wickham so very bad — it is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! Dear Lizzy, only consider what he must have suffered. He must have felt such a disappointment and with the knowledge of your ill opinion, too. Then having to relate such a thing about his sister. It is really too distressing. I am sure you must agree.”

“Oh, no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so full of both. I know you will do his feelings ample justice that I am growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent.”

Jane sighed, refusing to be cheered by Elizabeth’s jesting. “Poor Wickham, there is such an expression of goodness in his countenance and such an openness and gentleness in his manner.”

“There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those two young men.” Elizabeth could not help but think of Darcy’s stern countenance. “One has got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it.”

“I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the appearance of it as you used to.”

“I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike to him, without any reason. Then I read his letter. With no one to speak to about what I felt, no Jane to comfort me and say that I had not been so very weak and vain and nonsensical as I knew I had. Oh, how I wanted you! You would have known just what I should have done to make it right.”

“It is unfortunate that you used such very strong expressions in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they do appear wholly undeserved.”

“The misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. I do feel as if I ought to make our acquaintances understand Wickham’s character. Though, I will not. Mr. Darcy has not authorized me to make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to myself. Besides, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in Meryton to attempt to place him in an amiable light. Yet, I feel there is little justice in not redeeming his character.”

“It would be an injustice to Mr. Darcy to reveal what he told you in confidence, even to hint at it. If he wishes to redeem his character, then I think he must be the one to do it — or at least charge the care to a friend.”

“Thankfully, Wickham will soon be gone. It will be glad to forget him.”

“To have Wickham’s errors made public might ruin him forever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and anxious to re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate.”

Elizabeth was not sure she wholly agreed with Jane’s assessment. The fact that he tried to re-establish his character at the expense of a man who did not deserve it proved he was not sorry for what he had done. However, the tumult of her mind was allayed by their conversation. She had gotten rid of the two secrets that had weighed on her for a fortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Jane whenever she might wish to talk again of either. But there were still a few things lurking in the back of her mind, both of which prudence forbade the disclosure. The first was that she dare not relate the other half of Mr. Darcy’s letter. The second was she dare not relate the unmentionable feelings she had for Mr. Darcy. The first would only bring pain. The second was not worth discussing for the feelings had nothing to do with considering marriage and everything to do with desiring an affair; and she could not bear to tell Jane she wanted Mr. Darcy in body only. Jane was kindness and good, and would only consider such happy desires as springing from marriage. Elizabeth knew such desires could spring from lust, but that marriage between Mr. Darcy and herself would be a mistake. They were both too proud, too stubborn, and would most likely argue until the end of time. And, lest she forget, he had ruined Jane’s happiness — a most unforgivable offense.

Now, being settled at home and at leisure to observe the real state of her sister’s spirits, Elizabeth determined Jane was not happy. Her sister still cherished a very tender affection for Bingley. Having never fancied herself in love before, Jane’s regard had all the warmth of first attachment and, from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than most first attachments often boast. So fervently did she remember him and prefer him to every other man.

“Well, Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet one day. “What is your opinion of this sad business of Jane’s? For my part, I am determined never to speak of it again to anybody. I told my sister Philips so the other day. But I cannot find out if Jane saw him in London. Has she mentioned it to you? Well, he is a very undeserving young man, and I do not suppose there’s the least chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his coming to Netherfield in the summer. I have inquired of everybody, too, who is likely to know.”

“I do not believe he will ever again live at Netherfield,” Elizabeth said.

“Oh well, it is as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. I shall always say he used my daughter extremely ill. I am sure Jane will die of a broken heart and then he will be sorry for what he has done.”

As Elizabeth could not find comfort in such expectation, she made no answer.

“Well, Lizzy,” continued her mother, “and so the Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it will last. Charlotte is an excellent manager, I daresay. If she is half as sharp as her mother, she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in their housekeeping?”

“No, not at all.”

“A great deal of good management, depend upon it. They will never be distressed for money. I suppose, they often talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead.”

“It was a subject they did not mention before me.”

“No, it would have been strange if they had. I do not doubt they often discuss it between themselves.” Mrs. Bennet continued to talk, supposing that Elizabeth should have been the current Mrs. Collins so that the entail would have been settled to their favor. Elizabeth did her best not to hear her and could not help but think of how her mother would react if she knew her daughter had refused a man with ten thousand a year. Prudence kept her from saying a word.