Author's Note: I haven't had anything at all to say until chapter 19! Imagine that. Anyway, this (or rather, the last chapter) marks where the story takes a bit of a turn, and goes down a darker path. I've tried to keep it "light" as long as possible, but everything that has happened heretofore has just been building up to this. It has been like water filling up a dam; and now the dam is beginning to burst. Okay, bad analogy. But this chapter probably won't be as—happy.

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Chapter Nineteen: The Heart Asks Pleasure First

The heart asks pleasure first,

And then, excuse from pain…

Emily Dickinson

"Really?" cried Jane, on having communicated to her by Elizabeth all of the events of the previous day. She had never intended to keep it a secret—that would have been impossible—but she was grateful for having the remainder of the day previous to prepare herself for such a step. Elizabeth assured her sister that what she had informed her of was all true; and though she had not mentioned those things which suggested Mr. Darcy having an ulterior motive for staying at Rosings; it was all very astonishing in its own.

"But, Jane, I must ask you for advice. What is to be done now? I cannot possibly face Lady Catherine; surely, we cannot stay here?"

"Indeed! Oh, poor Lizzy! This is all very vexing. But it is actually Lady Catherine who has been in error; there is no need for resentment on her part. If anger should remain, it can justly be only your own. Is this so bad that we must suspend the pleasures of all our family?"

"I am afraid that I must not allow you to make light of this situation. I have found the answer to my own question; we must go. But how is this important communication to be made to Mama and Papa? How shall I ever explain it?"

"I do not think there is any way," replied Jane sadly, "to evade explaining it in any manner more delicate than you have just explained to me. But so it must be done! Oh! I cannot bear to think of you suffering. I will accompany you; I will help. I know how Mama can be when such news is to be communicated; I may help soothe her. Her nervous disorders are not suited to such distress."

"Of course, you are right, Jane. Though you must not help—no—this is something, I feel, I must do alone. It has been through my folly that these misunderstandings have occurred; and it must be through my actions that they are resolved. I have pitied myself till I spoke these very words; but it has become very clear that now I must reap the consequences of what I have done."

"Do not speak in such a way! It savors greatly of despair. But if you feel that justice may only be brought to the situation by your acting alone, then so it must be. Do not, however, be too hasty in letting this be known; allow for Mama to enjoy herself a day longer. She has been quite anticipating this day in Westerham for some time; it cannot be to anyone's disadvantage to delay."

"Upon my word, I shall not speak a syllable of it till the morrow. Haste has been my demise; and so I shall not try to mend its misfortunes with the same poison with which it was brought about."

"Oh, take care, Lizzy!"

"I must not go to Westerham today, however. I know that I have been shut up in this little room for some time now; but so my solitude must continue. I will be much more contented to have this day to myself. Will you tell Mama that I am ill with a headache, and must not go? But do not allow anybody to stay behind; I would very much wish to be alone."

"I shall do your bidding with all my heart!" cried Jane. She stood from the little chair by the window, gave her sister an affectionate embrace, and kissed her forehead.

Elizabeth watched her sister quit the room with some regret, though she found that she was glad to be once more alone after a while. She situated herself upon the seat in which Jane had previously sat, so that she might observe through the window the occurrences in the front of the cottage. After some odd minutes, she saw her family gather round the drive—was relieved to see them all present—and then, set off down the road in the direction of Westerham. She sighed as she watched them all go, thankful and melancholy in the same moment. Never more had she regretted those words that had escaped her mouth one fateful November night! It was not so much Lady Catherine's disapproval which vexed her; but it was that the rumor which she had supplied the foundation for had spread with no boundaries. She had deceived her own family, who in turn deceived others! And even Mr. Darcy must have been suspicious; suspicious of what had been intelligence of her mother and the Collinses; suspicious of what Elizabeth herself had told them. And so they must all leave—leave being scorned by all their acquaintance in Kent! How Mary and Mr. Collins must suffer for her own mistakes!

She soon wandered off into the parlor. The instrument had not been closed; it invited her to play, but her fingers felt as if they were made of lead. The day was uncannily bright, and offered her a walk; but it would not suit her! There laid Fordyce's Sermons on the mantelpiece; but no advice did she want from words in a book. She could only console herself; she could only choose what amends had to be made; she only could will herself to inform her relations of what she had brought upon herself. She could not avoid the truth; she saw the consequences of lies!

And so she sat on the sofa, watching the embers of the fire die, with a very pensive expression. She thought nothing could disturb her reverie; yet she then heard the click of a door, the sound of approaching footsteps. Little did she know of the time, but it could not be that her family had returned so soon! She stood, and was prepared to dash off into a neighboring room, when the door was opened, and the servant announced,

"Mr. Darcy, miss."

And so the gentleman entered. He did not look easy; there was everything formal in his stance and his dress; but the unkemptness in his expression could not be concealed. Elizabeth was not in any humor to entertain, but she felt she could not spurn the man whom she had inadvertently caused distress. Certainly he would be more affected by the words of his aunt than she! Yet, she could not help but recall his abhorrence for his friends! For Mr. Wickham, who had been acquainted with him since infancy; and Mr. Bingley, whom he must have known was easily led! There arose a twinge of enmity; perhaps he deserved this! Perhaps fate would have it that though she would be burdened, he in turn would suffer for his unforgivable actions!

"I apologize if I have intruded on your privacy," he began, observing that she was quite alone.

"Apology is futile. Do be seated. I shall call for some tea."

"No, no thank you," he murmured, pacing the length of the room continually.

"I believe I can guess the purpose of your coming here," said Elizabeth.

"Can you?" replied he, stopping to look up at her with a hopeful expression.

"Perhaps; though I have never read you as well as I have others—but consider it a compliment. But I will tell you that I am humbled, I am grieved. Indeed, I do not blame you for demanding an explanation. Certainly you have wondered how it was your aunt ever had such a supposition planted in her mind; and I am ashamed to admit to be its source! You see, Mr. Darcy, when I have wronged somebody—and in this instance more than one—I am willing to make amends."

After this speech, she looked to see how he would bear it. Once again, however, when she made such comments, he did not seem to notice what it implied. He did, however, look rather surprised; as if this was not what the information he had come to seek. Elizabeth feared now what he had come to seek; and, realizing that she could not cease her explanation now, continued with a deep breath,

"In order to enlighten you, we must go back to the 26th of November. I explain to you now the story which only my dearest sister, Jane, knows in full. But as you may recall, the day which I refer to is that of the Netherfield Ball. I had only returned home when I was thus accosted by my mother. I hope that you will not mind my frankness when I say the speech which she gave me was not to my liking. It was through her intelligence I learned of Mr. Collins having his designs in matrimony on me."

Mr. Darcy looked extremely shocked by this, but Elizabeth continued on.

"My reaction was not unlike your own. But out of desperation, I was eager to escape receiving his addresses. My mother offered me only one alternative—if I were to be in love with somebody else. Now, my mother is a very good sort of woman, I assure you, and wants the best for us all; and I am aware that by the best, she means through consequence and salary. I was not in the right mind, I assure you. But now I must communicate the part which will give you the most pain. I lied. I said—I said that I was in love with—with—you."

Elizabeth had not realized how extremely difficult revealing the truth to Mr. Darcy would be; but she knew that it was the only correct thing to do. His astonishment yet heightened. She could see some pain in his expression; yet this did not discourage her. Ah, he was perhaps not worthy of an explanation! Yet still she gave it!

"It is true; that is what I said. I assure you that I am thoroughly ashamed of it, and that it was a gross falsehood. But it is best that you hear the truth from me. I see now the danger of keeping such things hidden. It did, however, have the desired effect at that time; and it was enough to persuade my mother to have Mr. Collins' affections take a new direction—as you can see. I thought myself uncannily clever. It was then that my mother began to—if I may be so blunt—become a matchmaker. I am afraid that this has not escaped your notice, as much as I have tried to redirect her behavior. And so it became circulated through my well-meaning mother; and so your aunt supposed what she did. I said yesterday that her suppositions were wholly without foundation; but again, I lied. I knew very well that it was through my actions that this came upon me. So, Mr. Darcy, believe me when say I have suffered for my deceit, and I hope that that will give you consolation."

Mr. Darcy did not seem able to speak. He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again; searching for words. So she had not loved him then; those were the only words which had any consequence. But did she love him now? He cared not what pain had been caused to himself, what deception had occurred among others; his attention was only fixed on where Elizabeth's affections laid. He had no choice but to leave; but he could not bear to leave without her. He had determined the day before that he should never see her again; but his heart forbade it. Dearer to him than his duty and honor was Elizabeth. There had to be something said of her honesty; surely she would not have communicated such a secret that had been burdening her to someone for whom she cared nothing! He had never doubted as to his being her object; yet now his convictions faltered, and hope in its stead. Hope is a very uncertain thing; if fortune is merciful, hopes are fulfilled; but hopes are also fragile things, and even having tightest hold on them does not make them any less prone to shattering. And so Mr. Darcy, hoped, doubted, and hoped again; and was not certain if speaking was in his power.

"Your suffering does not give me consolation," he said finally; "it makes me wretched. I care not of the pain you have caused me, I care not—excuse me—of the pain you have caused your family. I care only for you."

It was now Elizabeth's turn to be astonished. Never could she have anticipated such a speech from a man whom she believed to be in every manner unfeeling! She knew not whether to be flattered or offended! She was beyond expression; she stared, colored, doubted, and was silent.

"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."

Elizabeth did not reply. He seemed to find this sufficient encouragement to continue, and thus avowed all that he had felt and long felt for her. As he continued, his courage seemed to rise; and he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. Her sense of inferiority was made evident; that he had always opposed his inclination due to family obstacles; and this he lingered on as if it were something profoundly in his favor. Elizabeth's heart hardened with the words; and she supposed she should not have expected any more from such a man! As he concluded his speech, she felt that she could no longer pity wounding him; and was fully prepared to give a ruthless account of her deeply-rooted hatred. But once again, there was the click of a door, the sound of footsteps, which deferred it all…