"To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub, for in this sleep of death what dreams may come."
That Dane had the right of it. Darcy started to wonder if a person could actually die from lack of sleep. He felt the counterpane. He looked up at the drapings of the bedstead. Perhaps they could fall, wrap around him and crush him until he drifted off into actual sleep. Instead, they only form another part of what swirls in his head from lack of sleep. The source of his unrest was, of course, his own mouth. Well, at least, what his own mouth utters in response to the presence of to the wicked imp Elizabeth Bennet. She runs around like Puck with those eyes, those lips, those hips, that voice raised in song. Presently, he felt chuckleheaded. He shook his head and blinked his eyes, but the feeling refused to dissipate. Instead, it settled in him, rested there, first behind his eyes, then in his sighs.
Lud! Deliver me.
It was bad enough that after his admission to his feelings about Miss Elizabeth in the devil's parlor, Caroline Bingley had taken to torturing him with witty little quips about his future happiness with the lady with the fine eyes. She would point out little things that would be part of their wedded bliss. Her wit flowed long. Again, he felt it in his gut, that shabbiness that become so familiar to him—he goaded Caroline Bingley with his true admission because she was irritating, because he was tired, because he wanted her out of his line of sight, so he could continue to admire Miss Elizabeth's form in peace. He continued to goad her by not ceasing her quips with a well-spoken locution. He hoped that her settling into the idea of Elizabeth, and not Caroline Bingley herself being his, in his life, in his home, in his… He had to stop these thoughts. If Caroline Bingley could only see that he had nary an interest in her person, she would desist. He knew in his heart of hearts, she would never acknowledge his subtle, polite coolness toward her. Wait, when did I start thinking of Miss Elizabeth by her Christian name only.
To think what would have happened to his reputation as a gentlemen should Miss Bingley or Miss Elizabeth have seen the evidence of his admiration of Miss Elizabeth's cheeks, reddened with exercise, eyes, glowing with exertion as she came to care for her sister. Tender mercies, indeed! Perhaps the torture of this experience will make him more pious. He would bow to God to make it stop.
In a continuous loop, he replays the interactions of the prior day. Her arrival, her disappearance, the talk and tittering of the Bingley/Hurst harpies, her reappearance, her disappearance, the venom and barbs of the Bingley/Hurst harpies, his comments about the prospects for marriage for ladies such as Miss Bennett and Miss Elizabeth, her reappearance, their discussion about accomplishments in women, her disappearance, the venomous jealousy of Miss Bingley's barbs. That replay, again and again, is so torturous, he almost longs for the prior unrest inspired by the wicked imp. At least those thoughts, in the comfort of his room, however temporary, provided some relief, even if followed by horrible, debilitating guilt. Those are not the thoughts of a gentleman! This torture is far, far worse. The nearness, yet distance; the interaction, yet substance-less conversation. His efforts to demonstrate to Miss Bingley that she is not what he considers to be an ideal woman and that Miss Elizabeth is such. Miss Elizabeth's stubborn refusal to understand him. It was all too much. Again, these thoughts swirled in a confusing miasma of missed cues, unspoken declarations, mixed with feelings of guilt, lust, amusement, and more guilt.
Darcy turned over onto his stomach, punched his pillow once, then again, and then repeated the action. He felt energized all of a sudden. He did Constantine press ups and then Hindustani push ups until his arms burned and his back hurt. At last, he was tired. Exhausted, he fell asleep only to be awakened by what seemed to be an otherworldly sound. Her voice lifted in song, whispering to her sister. How can he hear that? "Good morning, sir," said his valet. It was morning again, and he had imagined that voice.
You have robbed me of my heart, and you have robbed me of my sleep. You will not rob me of my mind. With that thought and his remembrance of the need for piety, Darcy resolutely began his day.