CHAPTER XI.

When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as

much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the

examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her

being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any

revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering.

But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that

cheerfulness which had been used to characterize her style, and which,

proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself, and kindly

disposed towards every one, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth

noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an

attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's

shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict, gave her a

keener sense of her sister's sufferings. It was some consolation to

think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next,

and a still greater, that in less than a fortnight she should herself be

with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her

spirits, by all that affection could do.

She could not think of Darcy's leaving Kent, without remembering that

his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear

that he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not

mean to be unhappy about him.

While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the

door bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its

being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in

the evening, and might now come to enquire particularly after her. But

this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently

affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the

room. In an hurried manner he immediately began an enquiry after her

health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better.

She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and

then getting up walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but said

not a word. After a silence of several minutes he came towards her in an

agitated manner, and thus began,

"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's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured,

doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement,

and the avowal of all that he felt and had long felt for her,

immediately followed. He spoke well, but there were feelings besides

those of the heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the

subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority--of

its being a degradation--of the family obstacles which judgment had

always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed

due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to

recommend his suit.

In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to

the compliment of such a man's affection, and though her intentions did

not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to

receive; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost

all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to

answer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with

representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite of

all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with

expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of

his hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt of

a favourable answer. He _spoke_ of apprehension and anxiety, but his

countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only

exasperate farther, and when he ceased, the colour rose into her

cheeks, and 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."

Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantle-piece with his eyes fixed

on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than

surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of

his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the

appearance of composure, and would not open his lips, till he believed

himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's feelings

dreadful. At length, in a voice of forced calmness, he said,

"And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I

might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little _endeavour_ at

civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance."

"I might as well enquire," replied she, "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

favourable, 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?"

As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion

was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she

continued.

"I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can

excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You dare not,

you cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not the only means

of dividing them from each other, of exposing one to the censure of the

world for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for

disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest

kind."

She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening

with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse.

He even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.

"Can you deny that you have done it?" she repeated.

With assumed tranquillity he then replied, "I have no wish of denying

that I did every thing in my power to separate my friend from your

sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_ I have been

kinder than towards myself."

Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection,

but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her.

"But it is not merely this affair," she continued, "on which my dislike

is founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was

decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received

many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to

say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself?

or under what misrepresentation, can you here impose upon others?"

"You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns," said Darcy in

a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.

"Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an

interest in him?"

"His misfortunes!" repeated Darcy contemptuously; "yes, his misfortunes

have been great indeed."

"And of your infliction," cried Elizabeth with energy. "You have reduced

him to his present state of poverty, comparative poverty. You have

withheld the advantages, which you must know to have been designed for

him. You have deprived the best years of his life, of that independence

which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! and

yet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with contempt and

ridicule."

"And this," cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room,

"is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I

thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this

calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps," added he, stopping in his

walk, and turning towards her, "these offences might have been

overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the

scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These

bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I with greater policy

concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being

impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by

reflection, by every thing. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.

Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just.

Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections?

To congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life

is so decidedly beneath my own?"

Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to

the utmost to speak with composure when she said,

"You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your

declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the

concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a

more gentleman-like manner."

She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued,

"You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way

that would have tempted me to accept it."

Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an

expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on.

"From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my

acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest

belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the

feelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of

disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a

dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the

last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry."

"You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your

feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been.

Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best

wishes for your health and happiness."

And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him

the next moment open the front door and quit the house.

The tumult of her mind was now painfully great. She knew not how to

support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for half an

hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was

increased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of

marriage from Mr. Darcy! that he should have been in love with her for

so many months! so much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all

the objections which had made him prevent his friend's marrying her

sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his own case,

was almost incredible! it was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously

so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride, his

shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane, his

unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not justify it,

and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his

cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon overcame the

pity which the consideration of his attachment had for a moment excited.

She continued in very agitating reflections till the sound of Lady

Catherine's carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter

Charlotte's observation, and hurried her away to her room.