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Reports of Jane’s worsened condition reproved Darcy’s internal criticism of Elizabeth’s having ranged so far alone for no good cause.
As he retired, he reflected upon her diligent care, her arch rebuttals of Miss Bingley’s criticisms and her peerless eyes.
Never had he encountered such spirit, and to find it in the form of a pleasing young woman — one, moreover, who did not chase him like a deerhound — was eminently intriguing.
As he lay, he heard sounds from down the hall — servants passing to and fro to help Miss Elizabeth tend to Miss Bennet. He found himself desiring to watch her, to look upon the loving care she lavished on her sister. It didn’t bear thinking of, naturally, but the impulse nagged at him. He would later remember this feeling as the first trickle in a raging torrent, but for now, it was a pleasing pain in its novelty.
He drifted to sleep, waking later, groggy but consumed with curiosity how Miss Elizabeth and her patient fared. As if in a dream, he donned slippers and dressing gown and peered out his door. Seeing all quiet, the candles burned low in their sconces, he gazed down the hall at the door to Miss Bennet’s room. It stood ajar and candlelight spilled from the opening.
He moved down the hall, intending to glance in passing only, but as he drew near he saw Miss Elizabeth sat at her sister’s side, speaking low what sounded like words of gentle encouragement. He stood entranced by the sight.
Visions sprang unbidden of her sitting at Georgiana’s bedside when she suffered a cold.
Or his own.
Quickly this latter gave way to occasions of her in his bed that made him start with guilt, suddenly ashamed of his spying. He hastily retreated to his own room.
The following day he found himself drawn into the idea of her studying his character. He felt at once desirous of her so focused upon him, but singularly self-conscious of her doing so.
He found himself unaccountably jealous of Bingley. Her arch observations upon him were not such as he wanted her to levy against himself, but he nonetheless resented that they were Bingley’s portion. He feared he had made a fool of himself in his display for Miss Elizabeth’s benefit, attempting to match her playfulness, much against his own habit.
He wondered that she did not accept his offer to dance. The vision of half-an-hour spent thus with her had appealed to him greatly, and he had taken it for granted that she would delight in his attention. That she seemed so disposed to dispense with him only made her more appealing.
Miss Bingley did not know what service she did him in allowing him to speak of his marrying with Miss Elizabeth, even in jest. It was a compelling vision and he delighted indulging in it.
When he retired, he slowly passed Jane’s room, seeing in passing Elizabeth tending her sister. He had paused, unthinking, and for a moment he thought she had seen him. He hastened on, concerned to give her such a broad hint of his private feelings. To give her such hopes, which could not be fulfilled, would be cruel. His thoughts of marrying with her must all be closeted within his own breast.
When he lay down to rest, the visions came easily: Elizabeth, grateful to receive his assurances of strong affection. Elizabeth in the simple bridal attire that surely would be her choice. Elizabeth greeting his aunt, providing much-needed sympathy and companionship during his visits of duty to Rosings. Elizabeth at Pemberley, treading the grounds with him, reckless of her petticoat, conferring with Mrs. Reynolds, tincturing his days with her wit. He need not fear any Sunday afternoon drawing overlong with her by his side.
And, ever and again, the vision of her lying in his bed, her eyes sparkling as they beheld him, her arms welcoming him. The trickle of longing strengthened, and again he found delight in its power — still, of course, firmly within his power to direct as he willed.