Overhearings Less to the Purpose by Timothy Underwood

Author:Timothy Underwood [Underwood, Timothy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-02-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

When Elizabeth at last, thankfully, escaped Colonel Fitzwilliam at the door to the parsonage, she was alone.

She rushed up to her room in the upper floor of the parsonage and huddled in bed, breaking into sobs. She could not even understand why it hurt. She knew that Darcy considered there as being great objections to her and her family. This should not hurt so greatly.

But he had destroyed Jane.

While making a pretense of friendship, and she believed admiration.

All this time, he had destroyed the happiness, perhaps forever, of the sweetest, kindest, and loveliest woman. The most beloved of sisters.

There were some very strong objections against the lady.

Chief, of course, amongst them were Mr. Phillips, the uncle who was a country attorney and Mr. Gardiner, the uncle who was in trade in London.

Elizabeth’s uncles.

If Jane’s family was not good enough for Mr. Bingley, certainly Elizabeth’s family, being the same, could not possibly be good enough for Mr. Darcy.

Charlotte had been wrong in the end.

But perhaps he likes you so very much, that he will forget those objections that were so persuasive in the case of his friend.

And that surge of hope that Elizabeth felt in her mind, as if the chief matter in this was whether Darcy still might make her an offer of marriage, disgusted her.

Well I hate him. I despise him. I hate him with everything in me. How could he despise Jane so much. How could he despise me so much. If he asks me to marry him, I will be delighted, that I can throw with scorn, his awful offer back in his face, and lacerate his heart as he lacerated Jane’s.

Elizabeth had an odd sense of disorientation.

Those were not the sorts of thoughts she usually thought. That sort of viciousness was not how she liked to think of herself as thinking. She did not hate people. Not even when they deserved it. She laughed at them.

Elizabeth heartily cried herself into a headache, and she began to feel quite nauseous.

When Charlotte called up to her, upon her return to the parsonage from some visits she had made as the parson’s wife on poorer tenants of Rosings, Elizabeth had called down, almost angrily, that she did not want to speak, and that she would be at home to no one, absolutely no one if they called.

Instead, as if determined to torture herself, Elizabeth drew from her drawers the letters that Jane had sent her during the duration of her stay here in Rosings, and she dwelt, with increasing passion and anger at Mr. Darcy upon every passage, each and every line, which showed that Jane lacked the usual cheerfulness that would once have characterized her style of writing.

And Mr. Darcy had boasted of it.

Mr. Darcy had bragged, proudly, arrogantly, vainly as he did everything he ever did. He had boasted of hurting Jane.

How could he have done this to her? Make her fall in love with him, and then torment her with this betrayal?

The tears came again, dripping onto Jane’s sad letters.

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