at Hunsford, as she was feeling unwell. His aunt seemed to be indifferent to this news, although his cousin Fitzwilliam expressed his regret.
Darcy however determined to have some excuse to leave the company, and did so, making the reason his need to write a letter to his sister.
His feelings of anxiety as he slipped out of the house that afternoon were not based on any apprehensions that his application to Miss Bennet might be rejected.
They related, first, to the fact that she might not be well enough to receive him.
Secondly, Darcy had never flattered himself that he had the ease of manner and happy address of his friend Bingley, or indeed his cousin Fitzwilliam.
He had therefore considered carefully the manner in which he would make clear the force of his affections, and that they had overcome all the obstacles of his position that indicated that he should look elsewhere for his wife.
16
On arriving at the parsonage, he was told that Miss Bennet was in the parlour, and he entered to find her sitting by the window. In an hurried manner he immediately began an enquiry after her health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she was better.
She answered him briefly.
Darcy sat down for a few moments at her invitation, but could not feel easy thus, and so rose and walked about the room for several minutes, seeking as he did so for the right way to begin.
Finally he turned towards her, and was still conscious of his agitation as he spoke.
“In vain have I 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.”
The colour ran from her face and as quickly returned, as she remained silent.
This was not the reaction that he had expected, for he assumed that she had been aware of the special attentions he had been paying to her during his stay in Kent. However, he considered her silence sufficient encouragement to continue, and went on to avow all the affection and attachment in his heart, which he had long felt for her.
However, in fairness to himself, he went on to add his sense of her inferiority, of its being a degradation, of the family obstacles that his judgement had always opposed to inclination.
He concluded with representing to her the strength of that attachment that, 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.
He then confidently awaited her answer.
The effect of his words was quite contrary to what he had expected. The colour rose into her cheeks, and she began to speak in terms of angry emotion.
“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 any one. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration.”
Darcy looked at her with disbelief as she continued.
“The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgement of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation.”
Darcy struggled to retain his composure, although his complexion became pale with anger. He tried not to speak until he felt that he was in control of what he should reply, although the disturbance of his mind was visible in every feature.
At length, when he had mastered himself, 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.”
He added, although indeed with little truth, “But it is of small importance.”
“I might as well enquire,” replied she, “why with so evident a design 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?”
For a moment he thought that she had done, but she then continued on quite a different subject.
“But I have other provocations. You know I have. Had not my own 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?”
Darcy was aware that he changed colour as she spoke, for she obviously referred to his influence on Bingley after they had returned from Hertfordshire the previous November. But the reaction 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, the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind.”
She paused; he was silent.
“Can you deny that you have done it?” she repeated.
He took a deep breath before saying, with assumed tranquillity,
“I have no wish of denying that I did every thing in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success.”
After a moment’s reflection, he went on, “Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself.”
She ignored this, as she continued on to another subject much more sensitive as far as he was concerned,
“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.”
Darcy listened with increasing dismay, as she said,
“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?”
Darcy could not help replying angrily,
“You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns.”
She came back at him immediately,
“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 Miss Bennet. “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 misfortunes with contempt and ridicule.”
Her remarks confirmed Darcy’s worst fears of her partiality for Wickham, which he had hoped to have misinterpreted at the ball at Netherfield. “And this,” he cried, beginning to lose control over his temper 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!”
Then a thought occurred to him and, pausing before he crossed the room again in his agitation, he said as he turned towards her, “But perhaps these offences 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.”
