Pride and Prejudice (The Wild and Wanton Edition) (40 page)

I
NSTEAD OF RECEIVING ANY LETTER of excuse from his friend, as Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy with him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine’s visit. The gentlemen arrived early. Before Mrs. Bennet had time to tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the habit of walking, and Mary could never spare time, but the remaining five set off together. Bingley and Jane soon allowed the others to outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either. Kitty was too much afraid of him to talk.

Elizabeth was secretly forming a desperate resolution, and perhaps he might be doing the same.

They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon Maria. As Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern, when Kitty left them she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the moment for her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was high, she immediately said, “Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature. For the sake of giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding yours. I can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.”

“I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,” replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise and emotion, “that you have ever been informed of what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardiner was so little to be trusted.”

“You must not blame my aunt. Lydia’s thoughtlessness first betrayed to me that you had been concerned in the matter. Of course, I could not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again, in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of discovering them.”

“If you will thank me,” he replied, not pausing in their walk, “let it be for yourself alone.”

His words were soft, but she heard them perfectly. Her mind raced with thoughts, urging her to pay close attention to everything he said, to cherish this moment that they could be alone, to speak well and clear, and to give no hint — by accident or mistake — that she was contrary to being in his company.

He continued, not lifting his eyes to meet hers as he stared into the distance. “That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your family owes me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of you.”

Elizabeth could not take another step. She stopped on the worn path and watched his back before he was forced to turn and look at her. She was too much embarrassed to say a word, and too struck by the way the sunlight hit upon his face to draw a deep breath. For a moment, she was content to look into his blue eyes, letting the familiar tingle of longing and anticipation fill her body. She could look into those eyes forever and be perfectly contented. How could she have ever thought to hate him? What a silly fool she had been. Even now, she might have been his wife — with all the rights of a wife to touch her husband. Finally, she glanced away.

Darcy took a step towards her to close the small distance and, as if mustering some inner courage, said, “You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever.”

Elizabeth, feeling all the common awkwardness and anxiety of his situation, now forced herself to speak, though not very fluently, saying, “I do not wish for your silence. Since you did honor me with your proposal and corrected so many errors, which I was wont to shamefully and regretfully believe, my sentiments have undergone a drastic and material change.”

His mouth opened as if he would speak, but his eyes said he hardly believed what his ears had heard. And, for all her assurances that she would have him speak, he could not give her an answer.

Elizabeth, knowing it should rightfully fall to her to express that which he had freely given to her in the past, continued, “Perhaps saying my sentiments have undergone a material change will not do.” When his expression fell, she hurried on. “What I mean to say is, though my logical thoughts of you were mistaken and led my mind to choose which my heart would have otherwise done, such an explanation is not sufficient.” Her hand shook as she lifted it to take his. She lifted his fingers before her, holding his hand in both of her own. “I was struck by you the first moment I saw you, but I was too proud and your manners too stubborn for me to admit to it. I fancy I was too proud to like a man with your wealth and position, just for the sake of such materialistic things, and this, along with my general misconceptions of your character, caused my stubbornness to know no bounds. You see, I always determined I would not love someone simply because they were rich or titled. I prided myself on my strength of heart and determination of fine character to not do as was expected simply because it was expected. As you went through the struggle you first described to me, I determined that I could not love you for I had very strong notions about marriage and love which those sentiments you so truthfully expressed did not fit into. So, I hid my initial feelings from you in what I determined to be practical matters.”

“And am I not to take it you have changed your views?” An expression of heartfelt delight diffused over his face, tinged with hope and pleasure.

“As difficult as it may seem,” she laughed lightly, “yes, I admit that I was mistaken in my views — even as such admissions go against my stubborn nature. I will speak bluntly, for I know not else how I should wish to talk to you. My parents set a very poor example as to what a marriage could be, and though it pains me to admit it, and though I dread doing so for fear it will alter your opinion of matters by mentioning such a grievous subject, I feel it must be openly said between us. Their example hindered me in ways I had not realized before meeting you. I feared ending up as they have. I will say no more, for it would only be to state the obvious to the discomfort of yourself, and the embarrassment of myself.”

Darcy’s head had angled down towards hers, and she naturally gravitated closer to him.

“You see, Mr. Darcy,” she whispered, “what I am trying to tell you, though very longwindedly done, is that I am struck by you still. You are everything that I never knew to want in a man, and the greatest pain of my life has been thinking that I threw it all away on foolishness and pride.” Her eyes held his. “I love you, sir, more than I have ever loved anything. It is with gratitude and pleasure that I have heard your present assurances, for my feelings for you are now openly acknowledged if not so much changed. However, to be fair, one word from you will silence me on this subject forever.”

His smile was fast in coming and she was sure she had never seen such a happy look upon his face. Elizabeth was not mindful of where they were, or who might see. Instinctively, she tugged his hands towards herself and lifted up on her toes. Their lips met and it was like nothing her imaginings of such a moment might produce. The warm, silky texture of his mouth greeted hers and she sighed against him.

The happiness which this reply produced was unlike anything Darcy had felt before. That he was madly and violently in love with Elizabeth he had no doubt. He had carried her in his heart for many months now, and to hear her own struggle in coming to admit a love for him only strengthened his resolve to make her his wife. Every happiness he could imagine contained at its center his dear Elizabeth and he would not let her slip from him again. Her soft lips offered themselves to him so easily and surely. He felt her love in that kiss, the openness in which she gave herself to him. His body stirred and he had to pull away before he disgraced both of them with his passion.

Taking her face in his hands, he smiled at her. “I cannot express how happy you have made me. I have longed to hear you say half as much to me and never dared to hope there could be more. I have understood for some time that every happiness I might have in life is tied to you.”

Elizabeth listened joyously as he continued to tell her of his feelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his affection every moment more valuable. She soon learned that they were indebted for their present good understanding to the efforts of his aunt, who did call on him in her return through London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the substance of her conversation with Elizabeth. Believing such a relation must assist her endeavors to obtain a promise from her nephew which Elizabeth had refused to give, Lady Catherine dwelled emphatically on every expression of the young lady which, in her ladyship’s apprehension, peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance. But, unluckily for her ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.

“It taught me to hope,” said he, stroking her cheek, “as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain that, had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have acknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly.”

Elizabeth colored and laughed, as she replied, “Yes, you know enough of my frankness to believe me capable of
that
.” They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. “After abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all your relations.”

“What did you say of me that I did not deserve? For, though your accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behavior to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.”

“We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that evening,” said Elizabeth, affectionately taking his arm. “The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable. But such being the case, we have both, I hope, improved in civility.”

“I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget. ‘Had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.’ Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me. Though, I confess, it was some time before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.”

“I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a way.”

“I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible way that would induce you to accept me.”

“Oh, do not repeat what I said. These recollections will not do at all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it.”

Darcy slid his hand over hers, holding it to his arm. “And what of the letter I wrote you? Did it soon make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?”

She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her former prejudices had been removed.

“I knew what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary,” he said. “I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly make you hate me.”

“The letter shall certainly be burned, if you believe it essential to the preservation of my regard, but, though we have both reason to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that implies.”

“When I wrote that letter,” replied Darcy, “I believed myself perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit.”

“The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now so widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure.”

“I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. Your retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment arising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is much better, of innocence. But with me, it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude which cannot, which ought not, to be repelled. I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. Unfortunately an only son and for many years an only child, I was spoiled by my parents, who, though good themselves — my father, particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable — allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing; to care for none beyond my own family circle; to think meanly of all the rest of the world; to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I was, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth. What I owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.”