Chapter Twenty-Five: Discarding the Veil

Once she had cried all of her tears away, Elizabeth was obliged to explain the circumstances which had been described to her by Mr. Newbury: and so she did. The shock of her family and friends was nearly as great as her own had been, and their disbelief actually surpassing it. They would not, could not believe that Mr. Clough would do such a thing: not after he had simpered, wooed, and made love to them all. A week had gone by without any whisper of Mr. Clough before the rest of the Bennet family would believe it; and then they had to satisfy themselves with doting on poor Elizabeth, and consoling her when she inevitably fell into a glum mood. Even Lydia was sweet and sympathetic; even Mary could set aside her book to pour her sister's tea; even Herbert could dismiss all of his assumptions about the horrors of marriage and be sorry that his sister's had fallen through.

Sympathy, however, was not what Elizabeth wanted. She could not very well tell her family so, for it was all they could do. What she wanted was change; what she wanted was a new beginning; what she wanted was to close this chapter of her life and begin anew.

It was about a fortnight since that horrible day. Horrible, at least, it was called by everybody. But let us not forget that on that horrible day Elizabeth was properly humbled; on that horrible day Mr. Darcy realized how vain and selfish he had been; on that horrible day the men who had cheated and deceived Elizabeth ceased their cheating and undeceived her. Why is the day that a dam bursts any worse than the days beforehand where the water was building up, where the wall was losing its strength, where the architects drew up a poor design? Every cloud has a silver lining—or is it that every silver lining has a cloud?

Anyway, it was a fortnight since that memorable day: whether it can be deemed "horrible" or not is all a matter of perspective. Elizabeth was having one of those rare moments where she was alone: where she was not being waited on hand and foot by her loving family, or receiving calls from neighbors where they expressed their sorrow for Elizabeth's predicament (though this does not mean that their intentions were any purer than Mr. Clough's). She was sitting on a bench in the garden, and looking out at the curve of the hill upon which the apple orchard was situated. Orange sunlight dappled through the leafless branches of apple trees; dead leaves carpeted the ground. Elizabeth was suddenly arrested by the recollection of a day when young Miss Darcy sobbed on her brother's shoulder on the bench on which she sat, and when she wandered off and away to the field beyond the orchard, wondering what it was that had upset Georgiana. Oh, how she did understand what had upset Georgiana now! What sort of a feeling it was to be deceived in love!

She picked up a twig beside her, idly brandishing it about. She didn't know how much longer she was going to be able to bear her life, the way it had turned out now. She would be forever known as "the poor girl whose fiancé stood her up at the altar"; and it was not a label which she was entirely willing to wear. Mr. Newbury had indeed done well. A slap or a punch, the pain is only temporary: the stain of a memory, not only in Elizabeth's own mind but in the minds of everybody in Wearham, however, does not so easily fade.

The rustling of the garden's leafy rug caught Elizabeth's attention, and she saw Lady and Lord Fitzwilliam approaching her. Her solitude was short-lived, but she was not entirely sorry to see her friends. It had been upon Amelia's insistence that they stay to console Elizabeth; but Leicestershire was no longer her home: she belonged with her husband in London. Elizabeth stood, tossing the twig away.

"Oh Lizzy, I was just hoping that we would find you here!" said Amelia, flying into her friend's arms and hugging her tightly.

"I suppose you are leaving soon?" asked Elizabeth sadly, stepping away from Amelia's embrace after several moments.

"My dear, we must. But I was hoping that this would not mean good-bye between me and you, for Frederick and I would very much like your coming to stay with us in London."

"You are most welcome, being such a close friend of Amelia's," seconded the affable Lord Fitzwilliam. "I am sure that a change of scene would be very beneficial."

"Yes! It would do you a world of good!" cried Amelia. Elizabeth, however, did not need such encouragement: she immediately accepted. She could think of nothing better than going away to London, where hardly anybody knew of her quandary, and where she could stay till the gossiping died down. Scandal is delighted in by everyone except those who are involved in it.

Elizabeth had been spending her time pleasantly in London, what with all its diversions and great size. It wasn't necessarily the best place to take long morning walks, which was something she enjoyed in the country, but nobody went to London for that. She had seen what seemed dozens of plays—at least, enough so that she could hardly keep track of them—and had met many of Amelia's new friends and Lord Fitzwilliam's relatives who lived nearby. Yet, there was one relative of Lord Fitzwilliam's whom she constantly expected to see, but she did not. She wasn't quite sure why she wanted to see him, as it hardly seemed it would do her any good at all; fools don't very often want to cross paths, for it reminds the other that they are a fool themselves.

In Elizabeth's case, however, it was an exception to the rule. It was the first of April; the sunlight melted in through her east-facing bedroom window: and Elizabeth had an irresistible impulse. She immediately got up, dressing herself with unnecessary haste—was her dress green or yellow? She hardly knew. She said good morning to her friends, and ate her breakfast at not a dissimilar pace from how she had dressed.

"I am going to be gone for a while to-day, since we have no engagements," announced Elizabeth; "whether I will be twenty minutes or five hours, I haven't any idea. So you needn't be alarmed."

Amelia and Lord Fitzwilliam begged to know where it was that she would be going, but she would tell them nothing. It was not because she was sworn to secrecy, or determined to keep it: it was because she wasn't quite certain where she was going herself. Before she knew it, she was in the center of a busy London street, with throngs of people, horse, and mule alike about her: what direction she was headed to, she could not have told any of these people; she may as well have been walking with her eyes closed, for all the attention she was paying as to location.

With a bored sigh, Mr. Darcy dipped his pen into the ink once more. Writing out his bills was a tedious but necessary task; and he could not delegate all responsibility to his steward. Though, he confessed to himself, it was no more tedious or monotonous than was going to smart parties with Miss Bingley. He was not so great a blockhead so as to not have noticed that Caroline Bingley was set on making herself especially agreeable to him. With her being Mr. Bingley's sister, he felt that he ought to have been sorry to not be more appreciative of her endeavors: but he was neither sorry nor appreciative. The only thing it succeeded in doing was grating on his nerves. He really could not imagine her as the mistress of Pemberley; he could only imagine one woman in that position: and he could not even be certain if he would even see her again.

Where were his thoughts wandering! He shook his head and made quick strokes with his pen. The sooner he concluded his business, the sooner he could return to Pemberley and Georgiana: return to his constant companions, and those who would remain constant. He looked up from his overwhelmed desk at the opening of a door. His footman stepped in.

"A young lady has come to see you, sir," he said. Mr. Darcy was immediately annoyed, supposing it to be Miss Bingley or one of her cronies. The servant detected this emotion, and suggested that he advise her to come back at some other time.

"Did she give her name?" he asked, setting his pen aside.

"No, sir; she seemed rather surprised to learn you were at home at all."

"Tell her to wait for me in the parlor."

"Very good, sir," said the footman with a bow, though betraying through his expression that he would not have agreed to see the mysterious lady himself. Mr. Darcy was not quite sure what to expect, but he was not averse to anything that would help break up the monotony of his day. His footman had not recognized her, so he could at least be assured that it was not Miss Bingley.

He descended the stairs of his London townhouse, his curiosity persuading him to take a slightly faster than leisurely pace. The door to the wainscoted parlor was opened—and almost all was at it should have been. The hearth glowed with a warm fire; the curtains were drawn open and allowed the light to pour in; a novel he had been perusing lay on the table. What was amiss, though, was the young lady sitting on the sofa. Elizabeth! He was certain of its being a hallucination at first. There was no earthly reason why she would will herself into his house, into his company: not after how he had behaved, not after how she had treated him with such angry disdain. She stood and curtseyed. He could discern the uneasiness in her countenance, the lack of audacity and sauciness in her glances. But despite all of this, she was still Elizabeth: he had seen her adorning the plain yellow frock she wore now only too many times; her dark curls still accented her fair olive complexion; she was still the artless creature he had fallen in love with.

Elizabeth was indeed uneasy. She had only been driven by some mad impulse to see the place—she had only wanted to look at it, and not its owner. She was too ashamed of herself to desire his presence! She was unworthy to behold it! She noticed now, however, his involuntary smile, and likewise involuntarily turned three shades of red.

"I would not have come, had I known you were here," she explained hesitantly after being entreated to sit down. She hadn't meant it as an insult, nor was it received as one: it was received only with the most interested curiosity.

"I wonder you came here at all, then," was the reply that was given. This was a question whose answer even Elizabeth herself was not quite certain of. She pulled off her white gloves, which had rather faded to a yellowish-gray, and began to absently toss and twist them about in her hands. She was beginning to burn with the fever that had infected her the day of his proposal two months prior, even though she had since so carefully guarded herself from it.

"I wanted to see the house," she said simply, as if that ought to have been explanation enough.

"Would you like some tea?" he asked awkwardly, discerning that she wasn't much in the way of explaining herself.

"Oh, no thank you." Their conversation seemed to have come to a halt for the next minute or so, where Mr. Darcy employed this time in studying Elizabeth's hands while Elizabeth examined a watch resting on the mantelpiece that glimmered in the sunlight. Why had she come?—or, a better question, how had she come?

"I suppose Georgiana gave you the address?" asked Mr. Darcy. Elizabeth shook her head.

"Ah—then—my cousin, it must have been."

"No, sir, nobody told me the address. And don't ask me which way I came here, either, for I may as well have been blindfolded."

"You—walked?" Mr. Darcy was beginning to have a vague understanding of what motives had brought Elizabeth to Grosvenor Street. She replied in the affirmative, and then, becoming conscious of nearly tearing her gloves to shreds, threw them aside with unnecessary violence.

"So you sort of knew the way, as you knew where the dining parlor in Pemberley is."

Elizabeth blushed even more. "Yes, sort of like that." Silence enveloped the two once more, Elizabeth contemplating whether she wished herself a thousand miles away from Mr. Darcy, or a few feet closer to him. Mr. Darcy was probably thinking something rather similar; but when Elizabeth could not decide upon an answer, she asked him a question which had been weighing upon her mind for some time.

"You knew what Mr. Clough was about, didn't you?" It had not escaped her notice that Mr. Darcy had avoided this subject, which was brought up quite unceremoniously by the rest of her acquaintance, and she was grateful for it. Now, however, she actually had some desire to speak of it.

"I had my suspicions, I confess, but knew nothing for certain. I made some inquiries about Lambton, and learnt that he had been involved in some risky speculation which, not surprisingly, failed, leaving him in a bit of debt. The idea popped into my head that his designs might have been mercenary, but then I realized, well—"

"I understand." Elizabeth could feel her cheeks burning now, as she acknowledged that her dowry was not very much, and would certainly make very few men significantly richer than they were beforehand. If it was a fortune Mr. Clough was looking for, he might have been able to woo many other, more eligible young ladies. She was glad for Mr. Darcy's delicacy, however.

"I then dismissed any thought of his intentions being insincere."

"But you were going to show me the documents anyway," Elizabeth reminded him. It was now Mr. Darcy's turn to blush.

"Yes," he confessed; "I had resolved on not speaking a word of it; that is, until about five minutes after meeting with you again. I couldn't bear the thought of your being the least bit deceived."

Elizabeth felt that this somehow confirmed her suspicions that Mr. Darcy, in spite of everything, did not wish her ill. She was ashamed to think how she had treated him, when it was only his wish to save her from being deceived and mistreated, which had undoubtedly occurred! Mr. Clough had never mentioned anything of having debts to her; she had never, out of delicacy, asked him about it, supposing that these were things which he would discuss with her father, and bearing in mind his distaste for discussing "business matters". Had she only been not so blinded by love!—but was love really her folly? Or was she, rather, in love with the idea of being in love with Mr. Clough? She did not feel those feelings which abandoned lovers typically feel; in fact, she did not miss him at all! She felt more repentant of having offended Mr. Darcy than she did of having been offended by Mr. Clough.

At length, Elizabeth looked up at Mr. Darcy, who was sitting across from her. As she gazed into his crystal blue eyes, as she stared into the "windows of his soul", she was struck, like a tree is struck by an unexpected bolt of lightning and stripped of its bark; she had unveiled the true nature of her acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She was no better than was Sarah in her vain endeavors to hide her affection from Mr. Bennet. She had wept bitter tears after rejecting Mr. Darcy, she had avoided him and spoken his name in a growling tone, and she had refused to listen to him or to look at him, because she could not bear the thought of Mr. Darcy being somewhere, alive, in this world and not thinking of her. She was jealous of the idea of his being happy when she was not! How silly, how vain! She spoke of him as if it gave her misery because she wished that he would be miserable without her. Of course—how had she been so blind? How had she not realized that she loved him on the day that her love had made its beginning? How had she not realized that in his outpour of love, she had drunk and absorbed that love herself?

Apparently Mr. Darcy noticed her altered expression, and it was certainly an expression which only the Elizabeth in his dreams had displayed: an expression which he had never witnessed upon the Elizabeth that resided in the realm of reality. It was tender, thoughtful—dare he say loving? Could it really be that despite their constant misunderstandings, their constant reading of one feeling as another, their constant misconstruing of circumstances—could it really be that they now had a perfect understanding of each other? Mr. Darcy had a slight fear to learn the answer to this question—but fear is more often than not coupled with hope.

"Elizabeth?" was the question he asked her. She, however, would not allow herself to hope as he had, and did not look up.

"Elizabeth," he said now, no longer a question, but spoken in a tone one uses when begging for the other to listen to the words that were spoken. He now stood from his chair and sat next to her on the sofa.

He repeated her name again; and when she did not respond again, he lifted her chin by cupping it in his hand. She was forced to look at him now; her eyes spoke of her hope and her even greater fear. She inhaled unsteadily, and then asked:

"Yes?"

Now tears formed in her eyes and began to roll down her cheek.

"Why do you cry?"

"I cry because I am afraid," was the only explanation she was able to give. It seemed to take all of her willpower to form the syllables, for she gasped for air between each word. He brought his other hand to her cheek and wiped away the trails of tears with this thumb.

"What are you afraid of?"

Elizabeth was on the verge of saying, "you"—she had parted her lips to form the syllable—but then she realized that he was not of whom she was afraid. She closed her mouth, and then, opening it again, said instead:

"Myself."

Mr. Darcy wrapt his arms around her, hugging her to himself tightly. Elizabeth was ashamed that she had ever allowed his love to pass her by; ashamed that he had had to love her for so long in spite of circumstances, in spite of sense. She could do no more than put her arms around his neck and accept his caresses and kisses on her cheek; close her eyes and, for the first time in a long time, be perfectly happy.

"Elizabeth," he said at length, "You torture me. I have not, for one moment, ever stopped loving you once I had begun. I thought that I had lost you forever, and with you my heart. I can go on without you, but I will never be the same, I will never be what I once was. Take me, all of me, or take only my soul: but I assure you that you will not leave here today empty-handed. Marry me, and I will be complete, I will be more than I ever was: or leave me, and be only the mistress of my soul and nothing more. I would not and cannot love you less, regardless of what you do or say next: but I beg you to not leave me to wallow in my insanity."

"Don't say such things," whispered Elizabeth, now looking into his eyes.

"You mean that you will not have me?" he asked, momentarily fearing that all of his attempts were once more in vain. She, however, only laughed.

"You misunderstand my meaning," she said, now smiling despite the tears still drenching her face; "You are the only man I will ever love or marry from this day forth. Speak not of despairing for me, speak not of your insanity or your sorrow, for these sentiments you shall never have the privilege of experiencing as long as I am able to prevent its being so."

Well, there you have it, your sappy "hopeless romantic"-type ending. I kept rewriting it, and I'm not completely satisfied with it, but it'll do. I still think the epilogue is a bit "blah" and sort of spoils the sappy abrupt-ish ending, but since people seem to want it, I'll post it soon.