Author's Note: I swear I haven't been purposely keeping you all in suspense. It's just that this chapter is very pivotal, and I had to get it right. I kept allowing myself to run away with my fancy so I had to rewrite this about three times. I am a naughty, naughty writer. Also, I truly hope Jedi x-man Serena Kenobi doesn't die.
Chapter Twenty: Pain
Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there was
A time when it was not.
It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.
—Emily Dickinson
Mrs. Bennet's glance was fixed on her jade green gloves as she hastily pulled them off. Her face was flushed from the exercise of walking, and Elizabeth, on the sight of her mother, was immediately paralyzed. She could not blink, move, think, breathe; and she was certain that if the sight of her mother did not end up being a mirage, she would instantaneously expire. However, her mother was no mirage, and there was no expiration of Elizabeth; though she would have infinitely preferred that alternative.
"Ah! Lizzy! You shall be extremely disappointed in me when I tell you what has happened. We were all the way to Westerham, and were beginning to walk about, when (careless me), I realized I had forgotten my—"
It was at this moment Mrs. Bennet set her gloves aside, looked up, and saw Mr. Darcy standing before her second daughter, at an alarmingly close proximity. However alarming this proximity may have been, it was anything but alarming to Mrs. Bennet. Ah! Her sly little Lizzy! She had faked a headache so that she might meet with Mr. Darcy! She had been so humble, so shy concerning the gentleman; but who could doubt the attachment now? A wide smile spread across her face, and it took all of her nerves to keep from laughing, as she exclaimed,
"Oh! Mr. Darcy! What a pleasure!" Mrs. Bennet curtseyed, and continued, "I have not interrupted anything, have I? Dear me! I should not want to interrupt. If you are in need of privacy, just say the word!"
Elizabeth was silent. What would he say? Lie, Mr. Darcy, lie! However, as she had no magnificent telepathic powers, she required a stroke of good fortune for the message to reach him.
"Int—interrupted?" stuttered Mr. Darcy, slowly stepping away from Elizabeth and seeming quite discomposed, "Why—" He paused. He recalled Elizabeth's speech in her mother being a well-meaning matchmaker, and the look of sheer terror enveloping Elizabeth's face could not be mistaken.
"—No," he finished, though coloring slightly as he said so. Elizabeth was suddenly able to shift her glance, and she now looked at Mr. Darcy. What an excellent mind reader! She could have stood up and thrown her arms around him just then, for having saved her from her mother—but in such cases all love must be vain.
Mrs. Bennet did not seem entirely convinced, and she was not at all discouraged. Of course they should be embarrassed! She smiled, as she viewed this as a personal victory; she would look into wedding clothes at Westerham, and be certain of Mr. Bennet giving his consent! Joy, joy, joy! But she had to get them alone! She glanced about the room, quite forgetting what it was that she had forgotten, for it was all replaced with sheer and utter joy! Her dear Elizabeth; always doing what was best for her family! She would have more fine carriages than could be counted; and always able to provide for her dear Mama! How many new pieces of furniture she would be able to furnish Longbourn with!
There is a phrase which is generally well known—"Don't count your chickens before they hatch." Mrs. Bennet was directly violating this rule; but as these were her own private thoughts, and quite unheard by others (as none of whom in the room were telepathic), there was not a soul who could give this good advice to her. So after several moments of awkward silence (though it was not awkward for Mrs. Bennet, for she was wondering if they would be married with a special license), she abruptly cried,
"Well! I do believe that what I have left is in the dining parlor! I shall go and fetch it, but I am afraid that I must then beg leave, Mr. Darcy. You will understand. The others are all expecting me, and I cannot keep them waiting. Lizzy! Do oblige Mr. Darcy—it is very kind of you to come here, sir—though I am sure that you will! Good little Lizzy! Now, I will be off!"
And with those parting words, Mrs. Bennet happily made her way out of the room, entirely forgetting the gloves which she had laid atop the pianoforte, and after recalling and fetching the cursed item which had been the cause of such a scene, left. Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth both carefully listened, neither speaking a word to the other, for the sounds of Mrs. Bennet leaving. Once it was safely determined that she was out of sight, Mr. Darcy turned to Elizabeth, and clutched her hand tightly in his, eagerly awaiting her words.
Elizabeth was, unfortunately for Mr. Darcy, still not in a state able to speak. Oh! What would her mother think? But it had not been said—she would not know—she could say he had come only to take his leave. But where was he going? Oh, but the truth was implied in everything! Even her mother was not so wretchedly blind. Her mother would demand every little detail, and how then could she avoid the truth? But to accept him!—Impossible!—She would despise herself for the rest of her days.
And so, through these distraught thoughts, a question was formed. Would she rather despise herself, or have everyone else despise her? It seemed an impossible question to answer! What worse, torturous decision could she have possibly been forced to choose to make? The abominable Mr. Darcy! How dare he force her to make the decision! She was very glad that she had allowed her momentary gush of gratitude go unseen, for it had sunk as quickly into hatred as it had risen. In her newfound rage, the answer was clear. With a deep breath, she said,
"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. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation."
"And this is all the reply which I am to have the honor of expecting!" cried Mr. Darcy, though clearly shocked; "I might, perhaps, wished to be informed why, with so little endeavor at civility, I am thus rejected. I have faced the disapproval of my family, which has been so openly demonstrated; yet you feel I am at least, am not owed any sign of respect! But it is of small importance."
"I might as well enquire," hissed she, pulling her hand away, "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? 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 favorable, 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?"
She then continued to explain the extensive history of her dislike; how he had betrayed Mr. Wickham, and destroyed her sister's prospects. The latter he did not attempt to deny, which only infuriated Elizabeth further; and he spoke with disdain and sarcasm of the former! It was appalling; and she could no longer feel the least bit sorry for having to pain him.
Had she produced a dagger and driven it into Mr. Darcy's heart, it would have felt like a gentle caress compared to the torture which he now endured! He was angry; teasing, teasing Elizabeth! The very pronunciation of the name 'Wickham' injected venom into his veins. Ah, the abominable man! He could not meet her eye; it was impossible to do so. He realized her sentiments, and was no longer going to bear it. He quickly stood and left with only apologizing, sardonically, for having taken up so much of her time. His pain blotted out his surroundings and his anger, his thoughts. He leapt upon his black stallion that had been so patiently waiting for him, and rode off as was within his power; the wind whipped his hair against his face, but he hardly noticed. It was convenient that it was only a desolate country lane, for he surely would not have taken care had others been on the road.
Elizabeth was relieved when he left at last. She thought that she could be happy—could at least have that long, interrupted period of reflection which had been all she had ever wanted—but found that no such blitheness was to be found. She was disappointed, somehow; its reason was buried deep within her heart, and beyond her comprehension. She did not regret her decision, yet there was an acute stinging in her soul that seemed to only grow more powerful.
The pianoforte looked as inviting as ever, and now Elizabeth was immediately drawn to it. She began to play—it was a simple, mournful tune, with a little delicate melody. Slowly, tears formed in her eyes; she tried to blink them away, but soon they increased fifty-fold. They rolled down her cheeks, with her continuing to play, her fingers softly touching the ivory keys, sobbing quietly and the tears splashing against her fingers. Soon she had no reserves in her weeping; she laid her head against the keys, and began to sob violently, her chest heaving, her breaths shallow.
Mr. Darcy was beginning to become slightly more conscious. It was not that his pain had decreased, but that he was now more able to tolerate it. If he had only left it at what it had been the day before! Her sweet, surprised girlish glance was so much more becoming than her contemptuous glares and words designed to hurt. As he walked into Hunsford, he had been dizzy with anticipation; not anticipation for her refusal, but for her acceptance. It had hardly ever occurred to him before then that she would deny him. Yet so she had! Why had he not considered the possibility? He felt like such a fool.
The door to the drawing room flew open, with Mrs. Bennet rushing in as if she were a mother bear coming to protect her young.
"What did he say? What did he say? Oh, my Lizzy!" she cried, throwing her arms around her wailing daughter.
Elizabeth cried harder.
"Dear me! Dear me! Oh, love, tell me!"
"I can't say," replied Elizabeth at length in a weak, strained voice. She struggled free from her mother's embrace and stood from the piano stool, striding away quickly, though not composedly. Mrs. Bennet was no scholar on human behavior, but she was insightful enough to not follow her daughter and nag her. Mrs. Bennet was crestfallen, though for an entirely different reason than Elizabeth; no wedding, no carriages, no engagement! Oh! Why had she ever given Mr. Darcy a second chance with her daughter? It was clear that he did not want to marry her.
Elizabeth had realized the perverseness of her mother appearing just then; and she became angry with her. Of course, Mrs. Bennet had been eagerly awaiting happy news, and had probably meandered about the garden till she heard Mr. Darcy leave. How dare she meddle! Elizabeth bore every terrible feeling all at once; it was overwhelming. Her head pulsated, her heart pounded; as if her mind could no longer bear it, so it had become physical pain. Her subconscious led her to her favorite trail through the wood; she knew that there she could be alone.
As she stared up towards the sky, the sun shone in her eyes, and she quickly looked down. As her eyes refocused to the dimmer light in the shade of the wood, a tree materialized before her; a large, handsome weeping willow. She was drawn towards it. There was something very melancholy about it—in its drooping branches and subdued colors—and she immediately comprehended why its name was suitable. She settled herself beneath it, burying her head into the skirt of her dress, so that she might muffle her cries.
