Darcy slept little, and woke early to direct the loading of his carriage. Bingley woke with him to keep his friend company, and silently stood next to Darcy. They watched as the footmen carried one trunk out after another, and tightly fastened them onto Darcy's large chaise. Though it did not rain, the sky was gray and the drive still muddy.
The rejection hurt. What about him made Elizabeth flee? Had he misunderstood her feelings entirely?
The sound of quick footsteps turned Darcy's head, and he saw Elizabeth rapidly walk up the drive. She was disheveled: when she'd fastened up her pelisse one of the buttons had been placed in the wrong hole. Her dark hair was wound tight into a bun which pulled the skin of her forehead painfully back. Several locks of hair had been missed, and hung down her neck. When she came near Darcy saw she had received no more sleep than he: her eyes were red from tears and had large bags under them. She stared at him with painfully sad eyes, held out a letter, and tonelessly asked "Would you do me the honor of reading this."
Without thought Darcy took it from her. Elizabeth gave a very brief curtsy and turned to walk rapidly away. Darcy called after her, "Elizabeth." She started at his voice and redoubled her pace. Pain and loneliness radiated through Darcy's chest as he watched her disappear around a corner. Then he looked in confusion at the front of the letter.
Bingley spoke from his side, "Darcy, she is to be my sister — you had best tell me what you two are about."
Darcy looked at his friend's firm expression and thought, he'd already told Lydia — how could it matter if one more person knew his humiliation? And Bingley was correct: it was his business. "I offered her my hand, and she refused me."
"Oh." Bingley's face fell, "Jane thought your interest might have turned towards her. But I never believed you would lower yourself so."
Darcy replied automatically, "It would not be lowering myself, Elizabeth is an excellent woman, there's nothing the matter with her." As his mind caught up to his words the intense sadness swelled again and choked off further speech.
With a sad expression Bingley clapped Darcy on the shoulder, "You need not convince me — I am to marry her sister. Do not take it so hard, Jane said enough for me to know Elizabeth's first husband was bad in a way far beyond the usual. Jane believed she might refuse a man who she'd otherwise accept due to those memories."
At Bingley's words Darcy felt a surge of shame. Despite what he knew about Mr. Collins, Darcy had only considered how he had been rejected. He was suddenly certain Elizabeth's behavior the previous night had very little to do with how she saw him, and very much to do with memories of Mr. Collins. Darcy felt sick, his self-centered vanity had governed his behavior and thoughts again.
As the carriage began its long journey to Pemberley Darcy opened the letter from Elizabeth with some apprehension and the strongest curiosity. The letter was dated from 8 o'clock at Longbourn and proceeded as follows:
I beg you to let me explain my abominable treatment of you tonight, the pain my refusal must have given you hurts me terribly. My only desire now is to do anything I can to reduce it. Though I might wish otherwise, I now believe it impossible for me ever to marry. The cause goes back many years to my first marriage.
At the time of my father's death I was barely 15 years of age. I had always believed my father to be a good man, and he had been a loving father for me, encouraging me in whatever pursuits I wished. I believe he saw something of himself in my wit and intelligence, and often thought of me as the son he never had. He was a clever man who delighted in making sport of the characters of others. He never attempted to force me to act and think as a proper young lady ought, and always encouraged me to think and debate — as you know. Whatever his failings, and they were serious, I loved him dearly.
Our estate was entailed away from the female line and on a distant cousin. My father knew this, but though he had nothing but daughters, habits of economy neither appealed to him nor to my mother, and upon his death the only fortune left to the family was the five thousand pounds settled upon my mother. It would not have been pleasant, but we could have survived on that sum with the aid my uncle Gardiner might have given us. However, such was not what my mother wished and upon the arrival of the heir to the estate it fast became apparent it would not be necessary to do so.
Mr. Collins was a young man, of only 20 and one, whose father had died less than six months before my own. His father was an illiterate and unpleasant man, who delighted in demanding complete obedience from his wife and son. The deficiencies of this upbringing gave Mr. Collins very poor manners. To add to this, he was a most unhandsome man, with a heavy face.
When he arrived to take possession of Longbourn he immediately showed he was not opposed to marrying Jane. You have seen my sister, her beauty is exceptional, and was not less when she was 16.
Jane and I had promised each other we would only marry when the deepest affection was present. However, I soon saw that when faced with the prospect of, as my mother repeatedly cried out, "destitution," which would affect not only herself, but her mother and sisters, Jane would not stand on principle.
In the manner with which Mr. Collins treated our servants I already had reason to suspect his character was not the best. I tried to convince Jane she ought to refuse him when Mr. Collins made his offer. However, as she told me when we cried together one night, were she to marry for the sake of her family, she would marry where the deepest affection was present. Further, Jane has always believed the best of those around her, and thought my concerns about Mr. Collins's character were specious. She was convinced he could hardly be so poor of a husband as I thought.
After this conversation I determined I could not allow my dear Jane to marry such a man, and seized upon the only expedient which promised to stop her. I chose to convince Mr. Collins to marry me instead. I rated Jane's claims to happiness higher than my own, and with the arrogance of youth believed my temper was such that I could laugh off being tied to a stupid gentleman far better than she.
Mr. Collins was not unaware of my true motives when I begged him the next morning to choose me out of my sisters. Initially he laughed in my face, "Why," he asked, "should I take the uglier sister when I can have the prettiest."
I am not ashamed to say, since I acted out of love for my sister, that I dropped to my knees and begged him to reconsider. Remember Mr. Collins had been raised by an abominable father, who in fact often forced him to kneel and beg for what he wished. I believe Mr. Collins found the experience of being shown similar deference thrilling. For whatever reason he agreed to marry me, however he said, "Remember, Elizabeth you owe me for this — you will always owe me for this."
So I married him. Mr. Collins immediately demanded I change my behavior to please him. He ordered I visit my friends only if he was present, he required me to curtail my walks, and he demanded I cease to play music. For the first weeks I followed his dictates — I considered them almost amusing, and expected his concern would fade with time. Further, I had married him and thought it my duty as a wife to follow my husband's commands.
However, those commands grew increasingly ridiculous and intrusive. He was of a religious turn, and had intended to take orders before my father's death left him a landowner. One afternoon Mr. Collins returned from his ride to find me in laughter at a scene from a novel — I believe it was one of Fanny Burney's. Upon inquiring at the source of my amusement he declared novel reading to be improper, and demanded I cease to read anything but improving sermons, the Bible or other religious works.
At this point I chose to rebel. This demand, with its implication that I ought never laugh, was too ridiculous for me to treat seriously. I continued to read as I pleased, though with some effort to hide it from my husband, and in mornings when he was out I began to take my walks again, and I visited Charlotte. Upon my return from such a visit I was called into Mr. Collins's study.
What I speak of now — it is shocking, but with God as my witness I assure you it is true. I was quite anxious when I entered the study, but did not intend to allow Mr. Collins to dictate my every behavior. I do not recall the exact words we spoke, but when Mr. Collins accused me of disobedience I laughed at him and told him his rules were silly and said I would not subject myself to them anymore.
Mr. Collins shouted back at me, "You owe me, Elizabeth — you owe me obedience." Mr. Collins then raised his fist and stepped towards me and I feared he would strike me.
He did not. Instead Mr. Collins called for my sister Lydia, who was but ten at the time, to be brought to join us. Then once the three of us were alone he turned to me with a diabolical light in his eyes and said, "You owe me Elizabeth! You will become a proper wife!" He struck my sister several times with his fist; I cried out for him to stop. With each blow he shouted, "You owe me, you owe me."
Almost immediately I threw myself in front of him and, again falling to my knees, swore I would never disobey him in anything, and would always act as he wished me to.
At this he smiled, and accepted my promise, "I am happy to see you are not so morally depraved as to be insensible to the well-being of your sisters."
You can well imagine that I never again acted against his wishes. For the remaining months of my marriage I strove to be exactly as he wished in outer behavior. Inside my sole hope was for Jane to marry a good man who could take in my family, so they would no longer be hostages for my good behavior. And, though it was unchristian, upon his death in a drunken nighttime ride I felt nothing but pleasure and relief.
Now I come to the present, when you asked me to marry you, all I could see in my mind was Mr. Collins, and his actions. I am not some foolish woman who thinks because one man was a brute every man must be. I do not believe that because a first marriage was unhappy, any marriage must be. I know you are a good man; I know you would never act so. That I cannot reply to your offer as a rational creature shows me to be a womanly coward.
But when you spoke tonight, my stomach tightened, my fears rose and I felt terribly sick: I could do nothing but reject you. It was emotional, it was irrational, but I am too much a fool and coward to act otherwise.
Even were I able to respond rationally and think on your proposal without these stupid fears controlling me, it is impossible we should marry, for you see I may be going mad. When you ask for me to explain myself, you said "you owe me Elizabeth" — those were his favorite words. He repeated them to me again and again, and when you spoke them I no longer knew where I was. I felt as if I was back in that very room all those years ago as he struck my sister. I smelled the alcohol on his breath once more, I heard the force of his fist again, when I looked at you I saw his features and cried out as I had then.
So you see it is impossible. I regret the necessity of my refusal. I never had thought you might make me such an offer, but you are the man of all I have known I would most wish to marry if I could. I do hope — I very much hope you have all possible happiness in your future life; I very much hope the pain I have given you will not be of long duration. God bless you.
Elizabeth
Darcy saw she had begun to write her last name, but stopped and scratched it out such that the Co was completely unintelligible.
The letter finished and reread Darcy's hands put it aside, but his mind could not. He had no desire to think of anything but Elizabeth. The letter and Elizabeth's evident pain extinguished any resentment he felt. Which occasioned some anger at himself.
He had let his pride run away with him during the conversation, despite his prior commitment to only think of her feelings. "You owe me Elizabeth," he hated himself for those words: had he not been suffused with a sense of his own injured merit; had he paid attention to the woman he claimed to love, perhaps — his case was hopeless— but perhaps he would not have caused her such pain.
His pride and resentment had hurt the woman he loved. He hoped never to forget this. But with his own failings settled upon Darcy's mind returned to Elizabeth's sad story. He could not expect her to act differently than she had. He had known for some time her first marriage had been very bad; he had known memories of it still stuck with her; he had known that this might make her hesitate to attempt the state again.
But, when she rejected him, he only felt his own pain and did not see her fear. Indeed, he had yet again shown no consideration for her feelings. If he had, he would have been kinder. His thoughtless failure to pay attention to Elizabeth's feelings was abhorrent, and showed him to really be selfish.
What sort of horrid creature had Mr. Collins been? How could he treat a woman, any woman, but especially his wife and sister-in-law so? And when he had a wife so excellent as Elizabeth. In a flash of anger Darcy wished to tap his cane on the roof to stop the carriage so he could turn back to find Mr. Collins's grave and desecrate it.
An alteration of hedges, market towns, and open fields ran past Darcy's window, but he noted none of them. That night, Darcy settled down at his inn and looked at papers related to the business which called him to Pemberley. But his mind refused to leave Elizabeth and eventually he stopped trying to read and went to bed early.
His case was hopeless. Elizabeth's fears were too sensible given her situation for him to expect them to be overcome. He knew how an unscrupulous husband could harm his wife. The laws were wrong, but they were real. Elizabeth was right to be scared, it was rational not cowardly.
The lump in his throat returned. Tears attacked Darcy, and though he did not sob some water escaped his eyes as he lay in bed. A future with Elizabeth would never happen.
Elizabeth's eyes blurred with tears as she walked from Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley. For a bright instant before she handed Darcy the letter she thought she might speak, she could beg him to let her explain, and say she did wish to accept him and just needed time. Then anxiety exploded in her stomach, and words would not come, and she handed him her letter.
Foolish, foolish girl. Why, why could she not control these irrational emotions? It was not rational, it was stupid to refuse a good honorable man, a man she greatly liked, because her first husband had been a brute.
Elizabeth did not return to Longbourn, and instead kept to solitary paths and rambles. Human company was the last thing she wished. Her thoughts were dark, especially when they turned to Mr. Darcy. She went over their acquaintance, and images of his handsome noble face flashed one after another. Every thought of Darcy raised him in her estimation.
Anxiety and the awareness she would refuse him prevented Elizabeth from thinking on his words the previous night, but her intense emotion left them etched upon her mind. The manner and fact of Darcy's proposal showed his worth. He could see and acknowledge his own faults and strive to correct them. He was a man who had listened to her and indeed changed his opinions in response to her words.
And his words of affection and admiration for her. The memory of his intense emotion filled eyes as he spoke brought unhappy tears to Elizabeth's eyes. She yearned to respond likewise to him.
Each fresh realization of his worth and the depth of his affection depressed Elizabeth further. Oh! How she wished the circumstances had been different.
He truly was a man more than any other she had met she would have wished to marry.
Elizabeth remembered the confusion and pain in his eyes when she ran. She hurt him, and she despised herself for it. Foolish, weak, emotional girl.
When Elizabeth became fatigued she found a sheltered spot to sit and sulk. No business was transacted all day, instead Elizabeth devoted herself to the melancholy task of feeling as miserable and unhappy with herself as possible.
It was late afternoon when Elizabeth woke from a doze caused by her lack of sleep the previous night. She was hungry, which propelled her to return to Longbourn. Mr. Bingley had already returned to Netherfield when Elizabeth returned home, and Jane quickly found Elizabeth and pulled her into the gardens for a private conversation.
Once they were alone Jane embraced Elizabeth and said sadly, "My dear Lizzy you look so unhappy. Bingley said you refused Mr. Darcy."
At this Elizabeth began to sob again, Jane pulled her into her arms. Elizabeth cried into her sister's shoulder. Jane rubbed her back slowly, and murmured comforting words. The warmth of her sisters presence made Elizabeth feel comforted and calm when she ceased to cry.
The two sat on a cold wooden bench in silence for some minutes more before Elizabeth said, "I did not wish to refuse him, not truly — but, the thought of marriage, and the memory of Mr. Collins frightened me. I could not say anything else"
"Oh, Lizzy."
"I hate how these memories control me — I hate his memory, I hate that I still can't escape him. I believed I was free of him when he died. But no. It seems he must remain. Mr. Darcy — the more I think on him, the more I really like him."
Elizabeth looked away from her sister to stare at the gaunt stick of a tree which had shed all of its leaves, it was maudlin and a foolish sentiment, but her life felt like that — as if the winter Mr. Collins had brought to her had stripped off all growth from her. She was young, but her spring and summer were already past and winter come. "I am a foolish, foolish, cowardly girl to act as I did."
"Lizzy," Jane snapped with a far sharper tone than her usual, "do not let me hear you speak such of yourself. You are no coward. You are the bravest, best woman I know."
Elizabeth opened her mouth, "But —"
Jane cut her off, "I will not hear you abuse yourself. It was not cowardly. You are not cowardly. I will not permit you to think otherwise. You are brave and you are good. Indeed no reasonable creature could expect or wish you to have acted differently."
Elizabeth settled against the dark wood of the bench, Jane's confidence comforted her. "I suppose I can rely upon my Jane to think well of me when I cannot." Elizabeth smiled warmly at her sister.
Jane grasped her hand, "Always."
They sat in silence for several minutes before Jane said with a hesitant manner, "I am sensible your fears are no minor thing, but," Jane paused here, and Elizabeth saw where her line of thought tended.
"I see what you mean to say, you think I might on sober reflection learn to overcome those fears and choose to marry if I really wish to." The simple statement of the words, 'to marry' gave Elizabeth an unpleasant feel in the pit of her stomach, so she hurriedly said, "it is of no moment, no rational man would make a second offer to a woman who shouted nonsense at him, and ran from his first."
Jane pondered this, and squeezed Elizabeth's hand "I hardly think the case is so irretrievable as you think. Mr. Darcy is not a man to propose marriage on a whim, his affection for you must be quite serious — were an explanation of your actions to be made." Jane caught Elizabeth's eye, "just what, dear sister, was in that letter you handed Mr. Darcy this morning?"
"I felt — I wished him to feel no more pain than necessary at my refusal and to think no worse of me than he must: I told him the whole of my history with Mr. Collins, and my reasons for my actions last night." At Jane's pleased expression Elizabeth added, "Oh, you must understand, it really is hopeless — I think I may be going mad. I — last night I lost my sense of where I was, and shouted at him as though he were Mr. Collins. What if that were to happen often? Even should he wish it I could not give him a mad wife."
Jane's manner as she gripped Elizabeth's hand tightly, and contemplated her words was quite serious. But then Jane brightened, "it is merely memory. You are not mad. Any person can lose themselves in their memories. Your memories are merely more intense, and the emotion of the moment triggered it. I — we've never spoken of it, as you and Lydia tried to hide what happened, but — it was a horrible time for us all — I could not bear to see how you suffered due to the sacrifice you made for me. There was so little I could do to help and you never wished to pain me by showing how unhappy you were."
"I deduced he hurt Lydia to ensure your obedience. It was," Jane looked away, "till then I had never believed in human depravity. I always chose to think the best of everyone, I still wish to think well of those around me, but Mr. Collins was an abominable man. The intensity of such a moment; it is natural your mind would return to it when reminded so. Neither you nor Mr. Darcy have anything to fear from that."
Without Jane, without her dear, dear Jane Elizabeth knew her life would be far emptier. Those words, the conviction she was not mad and not a coward touched Elizabeth. Jane was right. A tight fear that she would lose herself, and become nothing but those memories had lingered in the back of her mind all day. It now dissolved. "Jane, you always know what to say. Your words have relieved much of my fear." Elizabeth gave a half laugh, and asked "I had not known you knew what happened?"
"I do not really know the details, but I know enough. And Lizzy," Jane tightened her grip on Elizabeth's hand, "you are no coward. I know this. I saw the manner in which you behaved then; 'tis not some idle flattery when I say you are the bravest woman I know. It is straight fact. Whatever fears, whatever memories you have, you can face them."
Jane's confidence in Elizabeth gave her an elated confidence in herself. She could face Mr. Collins's memory, just as she had faced the man himself. She would not allow her mind to make a hell of a possible heaven. What if, as Jane thought likely, Darcy renewed his proposals? The anxiety was still there, and if she imagined herself married to him it intensified — the image of Mr. Collins — but, Elizabeth now felt it from more of a distance. She was scared. She might always be scared. But, Jane spoke right: she was no coward. And — "If I never marry again because of what he did, why then Mr. Collins will have won. I'll not allow that to happen."
"Why Lizzy, it is quite unchristian to speak so of the dead." But Jane's smile showed she was sensible of the sentiment herself.
The smile was infectious, and while Elizabeth could not yet feel really happy she smiled back, "It is hardly certain Mr. Darcy will ever renew his proposals, and though I like him a great deal, I am not at all sure I should wish him to — marriage is a serious, a very serious state to enter upon and I ought think carefully before I do. But, though I am certain I will be anxious, I think I could rationally respond should he — or another desirable gentleman — offer for me in the future. However, I may need to borrow your comforting presence, and confidence in me again should the case occur."
A sharp breeze reminded the two that it was too cold at this time of year to sit outside late in the afternoon, so they stood to walk inside. Jane embraced Elizabeth again and said, "I always, always believe in you."