[Lydia Bennet has eloped with the worthless rake Wickham, who has no
intention of marrying her.]
Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes'
conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected: with
tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous
conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own suffering and
ill-usage;--blaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judging
indulgence the errors of her daughter must be principally owing.
"If I had been able," said she, "to carry my point in going to Brighton
with all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but poor, dear Lydia
had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out
of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their
side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing, if she had
been well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have
the charge of her; but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor, dear
child! And now here's Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight
Wickham, wherever he meets him, and then he will be killed, and what is
to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out, before he is cold
in his grave; and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what
we shall do."
They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after
general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her
that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr.
Bennet in every endeavor for recovering Lydia.
"Do not give way to useless alarm," added he: "though it is right to be
prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain.
It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more, we
may gain some news of them; and till we know that they are not married,
and have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as
lost. As soon as I get to town, I shall go to my brother, and make him
come home with me, to Grace-church-street, and then we may consult
together as to what is to be done."
"Oh! my dear brother," replied Mrs. Bennet, "that is exactly what I
could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out,
wherever they may be; and if they are not married already, _make_ them
marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but
tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them,
after they are married. And above all things, keep Mr. Bennet from
fighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in--that I am frightened
out of my wits; and have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me,
such spasms in my side, and pains in my head, and such beatings at
heart, that I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear
Lydia not to give any directions about her clothes till she has seen me,
for she does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh! brother, how
kind you are! I know you will contrive it all."
But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavors
in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well in
her hopes as her fears; and after talking with her in this manner till
dinner was on the table, they left her to vent all her feelings on the
housekeeper, who attended, in the absence of her daughters.
Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real
occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to
oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her
tongue before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged it
better that one only of the household, and the one whom they could most
trust, should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the subject.
In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been
too busily engaged in their separate apartments to make their appearance
before. One came from her books, and the other from her toilette. The
faces of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change was visible
in either, except that the loss of her favorite sister, or the anger
which she had herself incurred in the business, had given something more
of fretfulness than usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was
mistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance
of grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table:--
"This is a most unfortunate affair; and will probably be much talked of.
But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of
each other the balm of sisterly consolation."
Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added,
"Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful
lesson: that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable--that one false
step involves her in endless ruin--that her reputation is no less
brittle than it is beautiful--and that she cannot be too much guarded in
her behavior towards the undeserving of the other sex."
Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed to
make any reply.