took occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of the rest,
whether _all_ her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the
question, nor in the preceding remark, but there was a look and a manner
which gave them meaning.
It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself; but,
whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an expression of general
complaisance, and in all that he said, she heard an accent so far
removed from hauteur or disdain of his companions, as convinced her that
the improvement of manners which she had yesterday witnessed, however
temporary its existence might prove, had at least outlived one day. When
she saw him thus seeking the acquaintance, and courting the good opinion
of people, with whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a
disgrace; when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to the
very relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected their last
lively scene in Hunsford Parsonage, the difference, the change was so
great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she could hardly
restrain her astonishment from being visible. Never, even in the company
of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations at
Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please, so free from
self-consequence, or unbending reserve as now, when no importance could
result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the
acquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed, would draw
down the ridicule and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and
Rosings.
Their visitors staid with them above half an hour, and when they arose
to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing
their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner
at Pemberley, before they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a
diffidence which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations,
readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing
how _she_, whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its
acceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming, however,
that this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment, than
any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of
society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for
her attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on.
Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Elizabeth
again, having still a great deal to say to her, and many enquiries to
make after all their Hertfordshire friends. Elizabeth, construing all
this into a wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was pleased; and on
this account, as well as some others, found herself, when their visitors
left them, capable of considering the last half hour with some
satisfaction, though while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been
little. Eager to be alone, and fearful of enquiries or hints from her
uncle and aunt, she staid with them only long enough to hear their
favourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress.
But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's curiosity; it was
not their wish to force her communication. It was evident that she was
much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had before any idea of;
it was evident that he was very much in love with her. They saw much to
interest, but nothing to justify enquiry.
Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far
as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They could
not be untouched by his politeness, and had they drawn his character
from their own feelings, and his servant's report, without any reference
to any other account, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known,
would not have recognised it for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest,
however, in believing the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible,
that the authority of a servant who had known him since he was four
years old, and whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be
hastily rejected. Neither had any thing occurred in the intelligence of
their Lambton friends, that could materially lessen its weight. They
had nothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably had, and if
not, it would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants of a small
market-town, where the family did not visit. It was acknowledged,
however, that he was a liberal man, and did much good among the poor.
With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was not held
there in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns, with the
son of his patron, were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well known
fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind
him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged.
As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening more than
the last; and the evening, though as it passed it seemed long, was not
long enough to determine her feelings towards _one_ in that mansion; and
she lay awake two whole hours, endeavouring to make them out. She
certainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she
had almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him,
that could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his
valuable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some
time ceased to be repugnant to her feelings; and it was now heightened
into somewhat of a friendlier nature, by the testimony so highly in his
favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light,
which yesterday had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem,
there was a motive within her of good will which could not be
overlooked. It was gratitude.--Gratitude, not merely for having once
loved her, but for loving her still well enough, to forgive all the
petulance and acrimony of her manner in rejecting him, and all the
unjust accusations accompanying her rejection. He who, she had been
persuaded, would avoid her as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this
accidental meeting, most eager to preserve the acquaintance, and without
any indelicate display of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where
their two selves only were concerned, was soliciting the good opinion
of her friends, and bent on making her known to his sister. Such a
change in a man of so much pride, excited not only astonishment but
gratitude--for to love, ardent love, it must be attributed; and as such
its impression on her was of a sort to be encouraged, as by no means
unpleasing, though it could not be exactly defined. She respected, she
esteemed, she was grateful to him, she felt a real interest in his
welfare; and she only wanted to know how far she wished that welfare to
depend upon herself, and how far it would be for the happiness of both
that she should employ the power, which her fancy told her she still
possessed, of bringing on the renewal of his addresses.
It had been settled in the evening, between the aunt and niece, that
such a striking civility as Miss Darcy's, in coming to them on the very
day of her arrival at Pemberley, for she had reached it only to a late
breakfast, ought to be imitated, though it could not be equalled, by
some exertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that it
would be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following
morning. They were, therefore, to go.--Elizabeth was pleased, though,
when she asked herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply.
Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme had been
renewed the day before, and a positive engagement made of his meeting
some of the gentlemen at Pemberley by noon.
CHAPTER III.
Convinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley's dislike of her had
originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how very unwelcome
her appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know with
how much civility on that lady's side, the acquaintance would now be
renewed.
On reaching the house, they were shewn through the hall into the saloon,
whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows
opening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody
hills behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chesnuts
which were scattered over the intermediate lawn.
In this room they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting there
with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived in
London. Georgiana's reception of them was very civil; but attended with
all that embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the
fear of doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves
inferior, the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and
her niece, however, did her justice, and pitied her.
By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, they were noticed only by a curtsey; and
on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be,
succeeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a
genteel, agreeable-looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind
of discourse, proved her to be more truly well bred than either of the
others; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from
Elizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she
wished for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a
short sentence, when there was least danger of its being heard.
Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss Bingley,
and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without
calling her attention. This observation would not have prevented her
from trying to talk to the latter, had they not been seated at an
inconvenient distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity
of saying much. Her own thoughts were employing her. She expected every
moment that some of the gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she
feared that the master of the house might be amongst them; and whether
she wished or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After
sitting in this manner a quarter of an hour, without hearing Miss
Bingley's voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold
enquiry after the health of her family. She answered with equal
indifference and brevity, and the other said no more.
The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the
entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the
finest fruits in season; but this did not take place till after many a
significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been
given, to remind her of her post. There was now employment for the whole
party; for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the
beautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches, soon collected
them round the table.
While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding whether
she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by the
feelings which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but
a moment before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to
regret that he came.
He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three other
gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had left him
only on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to
Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear, than Elizabeth wisely
resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed;--a resolution the more
necessary to be made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she
saw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them,
and that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour
when he first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive
curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley's, in spite of the
smiles which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its
objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attentions
to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother's
entrance, exerted herself much more to talk; and Elizabeth saw that he
was anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded,
as much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss
Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the
first opportunity of saying, with sneering civility,
"Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ----shire militia removed from Meryton?
They must be a great loss to _your_ family."
In Darcy's presence she dared not mention Wickham's name; but Elizabeth
instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and the
various recollections connected with him gave her a moment's distress;
but, exerting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she
presently answered the question in a tolerably disengaged tone. While
she spoke, an involuntary glance shewed her Darcy with an heightened
complexion, earnestly looking at her, and his sister overcome with
confusion, and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what
pain she was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would have
refrained from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose
Elizabeth, by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she believed
her partial, to make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in
Darcy's opinion, and perhaps to remind the latter of all the follies and
absurdities, by which some part of her family were connected with that
corps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss Darcy's meditated
elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where secresy was
possible, except to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley's connections her
brother was particularly anxious to conceal it, from that very wish
which Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming
hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and without
meaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate him from Miss
Bennet, it is probable that it might add something to his lively concern
for the welfare of his friend.
Elizabeth's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion; and
as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to
Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able
to speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely
recollected her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which
had been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth, seemed to have
fixed them on her more, and more cheerfully.
Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer
above-mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their
carriage, Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on
Elizabeth's person, behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join
her. Her brother's recommendation was enough to ensure her favour: his
judgment could not err, and he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth, as
to leave Georgiana without the power of finding her otherwise than
lovely and amiable. When Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley
could not help repeating to him some part of what she had been saying to
his sister.
"How very ill Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy," she cried; "I
never in my life saw any one so much altered as she is since the winter.
She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing that we
should not have known her again."
However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented
himself with coolly replying, that he perceived no other alteration than
her being rather tanned,--no miraculous consequence of travelling in the
summer.
"For my own part," she rejoined, "I must confess that I never could see
any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no
brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose wants
character; there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are
tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes, which
have sometimes been called so fine, I never could perceive any thing
extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do not
like at all; and in her air altogether, there is a self-sufficiency
without fashion, which is intolerable."
Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not
the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always
wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the
success she expected. He was resolutely silent however; and, from a
determination of making him speak, she continued,
"I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all
were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect
your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, '_She_
a beauty!--I should as soon call her mother a wit.' But afterwards she
seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at
one time."
"Yes," replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, "but _that_
was only when I first knew her, for it is many months since I have
considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance."
He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of
having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself.
Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred, during
their visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested
them both. The looks and behaviour of every body they had seen were
discussed, except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention.
They talked of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit, of every
thing but himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner
thought of him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by
her niece's beginning the subject.
CHAPTER IV.
Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from
Jane, on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had
been renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but
on the third, her repining was over, and her sister justified by the
receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that
it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as
Jane had written the direction remarkably ill.
They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and her
uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by
themselves. The one missent must be first attended to; it had been
written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their
little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded;
but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident
agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect:
"Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of
a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming
you--be assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to
poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just as we were
all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was
gone off to Scotland with one of his officers; to own the truth,
with Wickham!--Imagine our surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not
seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry. So imprudent a
match on both sides!--But I am willing to hope the best, and that
his character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet I
can easily believe him, but this step (and let us rejoice over it)
marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least,
for he must know my father can give her nothing. Our poor mother
is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How thankful am I,
that we never let them know what has been said against him; we must
forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about twelve, as
is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at
eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must
have passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason
to expect him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife,
informing her of their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be
long from my poor mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make
it out, but I hardly know what I have written."
Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing
what she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter, instantly seized the
other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it
had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first.
"By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried
letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not
confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer
for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would
write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed.
Imprudent as a marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia
would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken place, for
there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to Scotland.
Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day
before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia's short
letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to
Gretna Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief
that W. never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which
was repeated to Colonel F. who instantly taking the alarm, set off
from B. intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to
Clapham, but no farther; for on entering that place they removed
into a hackney-coach and dismissed the chaise that brought them
from Epsom. All that is known after this is, that they were seen
to continue the London road. I know not what to think. After making
every possible enquiry on that side London, Colonel F. came on into
Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at
the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but without any success, no such
people had been seen to pass through. With the kindest concern he
came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner
most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and
Mrs. F. but no one can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my
dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the worst,
but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make it
more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to
pursue their first plan; and even if _he_ could form such a design
against a young woman of Lydia's connections, which is not likely,
can I suppose her so lost to every thing?--Impossible. I grieve to
find, however, that Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their
marriage; he shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he
feared W. was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother is really ill
and keeps her room. Could she exert herself it would be better, but
this is not to be expected; and as to my father, I never in my life
saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having concealed
their attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence one cannot
wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have been spared
something of these distressing scenes; but now as the first shock
is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not so
selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu. I
take up my pen again to do, what I have just told you I would not,
but circumstances are such, that I cannot help earnestly begging
you all to come here, as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and
aunt so well, that I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have
still something more to ask of the former. My father is going to
London with Colonel Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What
he means to do, I am sure I know not; but his excessive distress
will not allow him to pursue any measure in the best and safest
way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again
to-morrow evening. In such an exigence my uncle's advice and
assistance would be every thing in the world; he will immediately
comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness."
"Oh! where, where is my uncle?" cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat
as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing a
moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door, it was
opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous
manner made him start, and before he could recover himself enough to
speak, she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia's
situation, hastily exclaimed, "I beg your pardon, but I must leave you.
I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be
delayed; I have not an instant to lose."
"Good God! what is the matter?" cried he, with more feeling than
politeness; then recollecting himself, "I will not detain you a minute,
but let me, or let the servant, go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are
not well enough;--you cannot go yourself."
Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her, and she felt how
little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back
the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an
accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and
mistress home, instantly.
On his quitting the room, she sat down, unable to support herself, and
looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her,
or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration,
"Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take, to give you
present relief?--A glass of wine;--shall I get you one?--You are very
ill."
"No, I thank you;" she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. "There
is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well. I am only distressed by
some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn."
She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could
not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say
something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate
silence. At length, she spoke again. "I have just had a letter from
Jane, with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from any one. My
youngest sister has left all her friends--has eloped;--has thrown
herself into the power of--of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together
from Brighton. _You_ know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no
money, no connections, nothing that can tempt him to--she is lost for
ever."
Darcy was fixed in astonishment. "When I consider," she added, in a yet
more agitated voice, "that _I_ might have prevented it!--_I_ who knew
what he was. Had I but explained some part of it only--some part of what
I learnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not
have happened. But it is all, all too late now."
"I am grieved, indeed," cried Darcy; "grieved--shocked. But is it
certain, absolutely certain?"
"Oh yes!--They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced
almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to
Scotland."
"And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?"
"My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle's
immediate assistance, and we shall be off, I hope, in half an hour. But
nothing can be done; I know very well that nothing can be done. How is
such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have
not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!"
Darcy shook his head in silent acquiesence.
"When _my_ eyes were opened to his real character.--Oh! had I known what
I ought, what I dared, to do! But I knew not--I was afraid of doing too
much. Wretched, wretched, mistake!"
Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking up
and down the room in earnest meditation; his brow contracted, his air
gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. Her power
was sinking; every thing _must_ sink under such a proof of family
weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither
wonder nor condemn, but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing
consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It
was, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own
wishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved
him, as now, when all love must be vain.
But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia--the
humiliation, the misery, she was bringing on them all, soon swallowed up
every private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief,
Elizabeth was soon lost to every thing else; and, after a pause of
several minutes, was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the
voice of her companion, who, in a manner, which though it spoke
compassion, spoke likewise restraint, said, "I am afraid you have been
long desiring my absence, nor have I any thing to plead in excuse of my
stay, but real, though unavailing, concern. Would to heaven that any
thing could be either said or done on my part, that might offer
consolation to such distress.--But I will not torment you with vain
wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This
unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister's having the pleasure
of seeing you at Pemberley to-day."
"Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologize for us to Miss Darcy. Say that
urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as
long as it is possible.--I know it cannot be long."
He readily assured her of his secrecy--again expressed his sorrow for
her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present
reason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her relations, with only
one serious, parting, look, went away.
As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they
should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as had
marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a
retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of
contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those
feelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would
formerly have rejoiced in its termination.
If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth's
change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if
otherwise, if the regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or
unnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on a
first interview with its object, and even before two words have been
exchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she had given
somewhat of a trial to the latter method, in her partiality for Wickham,
and that its ill-success might perhaps authorise her to seek the other
less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go
with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia's infamy must
produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched
business. Never, since reading Jane's second letter, had she entertained
a hope of Wickham's meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought,
could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least
of her feelings on this developement. While the contents of the first
letter remained on her mind, she was all surprise--all astonishment that
Wickham should marry a girl, whom it was impossible he could marry for
money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him, had appeared
incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment
as this, she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not
suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement, without the
intention of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither
her virtue nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy
prey.
She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that
Lydia had any partiality for him, but she was convinced that Lydia had
wanted only encouragement to attach herself to any body. Sometimes one
officer, sometimes another had been her favourite, as their attentions
raised them in her opinion. Her affections had been continually
fluctuating, but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and
mistaken indulgence towards such a girl.--Oh! how acutely did she now
feel it.
She was wild to be at home--to hear, to see, to be upon the spot, to
share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a
family so deranged; a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and
requiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing
could be done for Lydia, her uncle's interference seemed of the utmost
importance, and till he entered the room, the misery of her impatience
was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing,
by the servant's account, that their niece was taken suddenly ill;--but
satisfying them instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the
cause of their summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on
the postscript of the last, with trembling energy.--Though Lydia had
never been a favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be
deeply affected. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after
the first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner readily
promised every assistance in his power.--Elizabeth, though expecting no
less, thanked him with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated
by one spirit, every thing relating to their journey was speedily
settled. They were to be off as soon as possible. "But what is to be
done about Pemberley?" cried Mrs. Gardiner. "John told us Mr. Darcy was
here when you sent for us;--was it so?"
"Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement.
_That_ is all settled."
"That is all settled;" repeated the other, as she ran into her room to
prepare. "And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real
truth! Oh, that I knew how it was!"
But wishes were vain; or at best could serve only to amuse her in the
hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure
to be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was
impossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of
business as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to
be written to all their friends in Lambton, with false excuses for their
sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr.
Gardiner meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing
remained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of
the morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could
have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.
CHAPTER V.
"I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth," said her uncle, as they
drove from the town; "and really, upon serious consideration, I am much
more inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does of the
matter. It appears to me so very unlikely, that any young man should
form such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or
friendless, and who was actually staying in his colonel's family, that I
am strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends
would not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the
regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is
not adequate to the risk."
"Do you really think so?" cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment.
"Upon my word," said Mrs. Gardiner, "I begin to be of your uncle's
opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and
interest, for him to be guilty of it. I cannot think so very ill of
Wickham. Can you, yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him up, as to believe
him capable of it?"
"Not perhaps of neglecting his own interest. But of every other neglect
I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I dare not
hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland, if that had been the
case?"
"In the first place," replied Mr. Gardiner, "there is no absolute proof
that they are not gone to Scotland."
"Oh! but their removing from the chaise into an hackney coach is such a
presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be found on the
Barnet road."
"Well, then--supposing them to be in London. They may be there, though
for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptionable purpose. It is
not likely that money should be very abundant on either side; and it
might strike them that they could be more economically, though less
expeditiously, married in London, than in Scotland."
"But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their
marriage be private? Oh! no, no, this is not likely. His most particular
friend, you see by Jane's account, was persuaded of his never intending
to marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some money. He
cannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia, what attractions has she
beyond youth, health, and good humour, that could make him for her sake,
forego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what
restraint the apprehension of disgrace in the corps might throw on a
dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I know
nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But as to your
other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Lydia has no
brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from my father's
behaviour, from his indolence and the little attention he has ever
seemed to give to what was going forward in his family, that _he_ would
do as little, and think as little about it, as any father could do, in
such a matter."
"But can you think that Lydia is so lost to every thing but love of him,
as to consent to live with him on any other terms than marriage?"
"It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed," replied Elizabeth, with
tears in her eyes, "that a sister's sense of decency and virtue in such
a point should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say.
Perhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young; she has never
been taught to think on serious subjects; and for the last half year,
nay, for a twelvemonth, she has been given up to nothing but amusement
and vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle
and frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in her way.
Since the ----shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love,
flirtation, and officers, have been in her head. She has been doing
every thing in her power by thinking and talking on the subject, to give
greater--what shall I call it? susceptibility to her feelings; which are
naturally lively enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of
person and address that can captivate a woman."
"But you see that Jane," said her aunt, "does not think so ill of
Wickham, as to believe him capable of the attempt."
"Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be
their former conduct, that she would believe capable of such an attempt,
till it were proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what
Wickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every
sense of the word. That he has neither integrity nor honour. That he is
as false and deceitful, as he is insinuating."
"And do you really know all this?" cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity
as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.
"I do, indeed," replied Elizabeth, colouring. "I told you the other day,
of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you, yourself, when last at
Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man, who had behaved
with such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other
circumstances which I am not at liberty--which it is not worth while to
relate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From
what he said of Miss Darcy, I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud,
reserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He
must know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found
her."
"But does Lydia know nothing of this? Can she be ignorant of what you
and Jane seem so well to understand?"
"Oh, yes!--that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw
so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation, Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was
ignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home, the ----shire
was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight's time. As that was the
case, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it
necessary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could it
apparently be to any one, that the good opinion which all the
neighbourhood had of him, should then be overthrown? And even when it
was settled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of
opening her eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could
be in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such a
consequence as _this_ should ensue, you may easily believe was far
enough from my thoughts."
"When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I
suppose, to believe them fond of each other."
"Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either
side; and had any thing of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware
that ours is not a family, on which it could be thrown away. When first
he entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all
were. Every girl in, or near Meryton, was out of her senses about him
for the first two months; but he never distinguished _her_ by any
particular attention, and, consequently, after a moderate period of
extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others
of the regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her
favourites."
* * * * *
It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added
to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by
its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during
the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent.
Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self reproach, she could find
no interval of ease or forgetfulness.
They travelled as expeditiously as possible; and sleeping one night on
the road, reached Longbourn by dinner-time the next day. It was a
comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied
by long expectations.
The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing
on the steps of the house, as they entered the paddock; and when the
carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their
faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of
capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome.
Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them an hasty kiss,
hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down stairs
from her mother's apartment, immediately met her.
Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the
eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether any thing had been
heard of the fugitives.
"Not yet," replied Jane. "But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope
every thing will be well."
"Is my father in town?"
"Yes, he went on Tuesday as I wrote you word."
"And have you heard from him often?"
"We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday, to say
that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I
particularly begged him to do. He merely added, that he should not write
again, till he had something of importance to mention."
"And my mother--How is she? How are you all?"
"My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly
shaken. She is up stairs, and will have great satisfaction in seeing you
all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank
Heaven! are quite well."
"But you--How are you?" cried Elizabeth. "You look pale. How much you
must have gone through!"
Her sister, however, assured her, of her being perfectly well; and their
conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were
engaged with their children, was now put an end to, by the approach of
the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and
thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears.
When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth
had already asked, were of course repeated by the others, and they soon
found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good,
however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested, had not yet
deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that
every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father,
to explain their proceedings, and perhaps announce the marriage.
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 villanous
conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill usage;
blaming every body 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 of 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 over-ruled, 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 endeavour 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 Gracechurch 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 chuses, 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 endeavours
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 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 favourite 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 behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex."
Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed to
make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such
kind of moral extractions from the evil before them.
In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for half an
hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of the
opportunity of making many enquiries, which Jane was equally eager to
satisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel
of this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss
Bennet could not assert to be wholly impossible; the former continued
the subject, by saying, "But tell me all and every thing about it, which
I have not already heard. Give me farther particulars. What did Colonel
Forster say? Had they no apprehension of any thing before the elopement
took place? They must have seen them together for ever."
"Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality,
especially on Lydia's side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so
grieved for him. His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He
_was_ coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had
any idea of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension
first got abroad, it hastened his journey."
"And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of
their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?"
"Yes; but when questioned by _him_ Denny denied knowing any thing of
their plan, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not
repeat his persuasion of their not marrying--and from _that_, I am
inclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before."
"And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a
doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?"
"How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains! I felt a
little uneasy--a little fearful of my sister's happiness with him in
marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite
right. My father and mother knew nothing of that, they only felt how
imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural
triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia's last
letter, she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems,
of their being in love with each other, many weeks."
"But not before they went to Brighton?"
"No, I believe not."
"And did Colonel Forster appear to think ill of Wickham himself? Does he
know his real character?"
"I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly
did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad
affair has taken place, it is said, that he left Meryton greatly in
debt; but I hope this may be false."
"Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him,
this could not have happened!"
"Perhaps it would have been better;" replied her sister. "But to expose
the former faults of any person, without knowing what their present
feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions."
"Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to his
wife?"
"He brought it with him for us to see."
Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These
were the contents:
"MY DEAR HARRIET,
"You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help
laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am
missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with
who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the
world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without
him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at
Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it will make the
surprise the greater, when I write to them, and sign my name Lydia
Wickham. What a good joke it will be! I can hardly write for
laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt, for not keeping my
engagement, and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I hope he will
excuse me when he knows all, and tell him I will dance with him at
the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I shall send for my
clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell Sally
to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown, before they are
packed up. Good bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster, I hope you
will drink to our good journey.
"Your affectionate friend,
"LYDIA BENNET."
"Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!" cried Elizabeth when she had
finished it. "What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment. But
at least it shews, that _she_ was serious in the object of her journey.
Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her side a
_scheme_ of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it!"
"I never saw any one so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten
minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in
such confusion!"
"Oh! Jane," cried Elizabeth, "was there a servant belonging to it, who
did not know the whole story before the end of the day?"
"I do not know.--I hope there was.--But to be guarded at such a time, is
very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I endeavoured to
give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so much
as I might have done! But the horror of what might possibly happen,
almost took from me my faculties."
"Your attendance upon her, has been too much for you. You do not look
well. Oh! that I had been with you, you have had every care and anxiety
upon yourself alone."
"Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every
fatigue, I am sure, but I did not think it right for either of them.
Kitty is slight and delicate, and Mary studies so much, that her hours
of repose should not be broken in on. My aunt Philips came to Longbourn
on Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till
Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all, and lady
Lucas has been very kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to
condole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters, if
they could be of use to us."
"She had better have stayed at home," cried Elizabeth; "perhaps she
_meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see too
little of one's neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence,
insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied."
She then proceeded to enquire into the measures which her father had
intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter.
"He meant, I believe," replied Jane, "to go to Epsom, the place where
they last changed horses, see the postilions, and try if any thing could
be made out from them. His principal object must be, to discover the
number of the hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come
with a fare from London; and as he thought the circumstance of a
gentleman and lady's removing from one carriage into another, might be
remarked, he meant to make enquiries at Clapham. If he could any how
discover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he
determined to make enquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible
to find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any
other designs that he had formed: but he was in such a hurry to be gone,
and his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had difficulty in finding
out even so much as this."
CHAPTER VI.
The whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next
morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him.
His family knew him to be on all common occasions, a most negligent and
dilatory correspondent, but at such a time, they had hoped for exertion.
They were forced to conclude, that he had no pleasing intelligence to
send, but even of _that_ they would have been glad to be certain. Mr.
Gardiner had waited only for the letters before he set off.
When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving constant
information of what was going on, and their uncle promised, at parting,
to prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to Longbourn, as soon as he could, to
the great consolation of his sister, who considered it as the only
security for her husband's not being killed in a duel.
Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few
days longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable to
her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a
great comfort to them, in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also
visited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of
cheering and heartening them up, though as she never came without
reporting some fresh instance of Wickham's extravagance or irregularity,
she seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found
them.
All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man, who, but three months
before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be in debt
to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with
the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family.
Every body declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world;
and every body began to find out, that they had always distrusted the
appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above
half of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of
her sister's ruin still more certain; and even Jane, who believed still
less of it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now
come, when if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before
entirely despaired of, they must in all probability have gained some
news of them.
Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday, his wife received a
letter from him; it told them, that on his arrival, he had immediately
found out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch street.
That Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival, but
without gaining any satisfactory information; and that he was now
determined to enquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet
thought it possible they might have gone to one of them, on their first
coming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself
did not expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was
eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added, that Mr.
Bennet seemed wholly disinclined at present, to leave London, and
promised to write again very soon. There was also a postscript to this
effect.
"I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if
possible, from some of the young man's intimates in the regiment,
whether Wickham has any relations or connections, who would be likely to
know in what part of the town he has now concealed himself. If there
were any one, that one could apply to, with a probability of gaining
such a clue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we
have nothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do every
thing in his power to satisfy us on this head. But, on second thoughts,
perhaps Lizzy could tell us, what relations he has now living, better
than any other person."
Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference for
her authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give any
information of so satisfactory a nature, as the compliment deserved.
She had never heard of his having had any relations, except a father and
mother, both of whom had been dead many years. It was possible, however,
that some of his companions in the ----shire, might be able to give more
information; and, though she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the
application was a something to look forward to.
Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious
part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters was
the first grand object of every morning's impatience. Through letters,
whatever of good or bad was to be told, would be communicated, and every
succeeding day was expected to bring some news of importance.
But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived for
their father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins; which, as Jane
had received directions to open all that came for him in his absence,
she accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his
letters always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as
follows:
"MY DEAR SIR,
"I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation
in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now
suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter
from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear Sir, that Mrs. Collins and
myself sincerely sympathise with you, and all your respectable
family, in your present distress, which must be of the bitterest
kind, because proceeding from a cause which no time can remove. No
arguments shall be wanting on my part, that can alleviate so severe
a misfortune; or that may comfort you, under a circumstance that
must be of all others most afflicting to a parent's mind. The death
of your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison of this.
And it is the more to be lamented, because there is reason to
suppose, as my dear Charlotte informs me, that this licentiousness
of behaviour in your daughter, has proceeded from a faulty degree
of indulgence, though, at the same time, for the consolation of
yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think that her own
disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be guilty of
such an enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever that may be, you
are grievously to be pitied, in which opinion I am not only joined
by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by lady Catherine and her daughter,
to whom I have related the affair. They agree with me in
apprehending that this false step in one daughter, will be
injurious to the fortunes of all the others, for who, as lady
Catherine herself condescendingly says, will connect themselves
with such a family. And this consideration leads me moreover to
reflect with augmented satisfaction on a certain event of last
November, for had it been otherwise, I must have been involved in
all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me advise you then, my dear Sir,
to console yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy
child from your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the
fruits of her own heinous offence.
"I am, dear Sir, &c. &c."
Mr. Gardiner did not write again, till he had received an answer from
Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send.
It was not known that Wickham had a single relation, with whom he kept
up any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one living.
His former acquaintance had been numerous; but since he had been in the
militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship
with any of them. There was no one therefore who could be pointed out,
as likely to give any news of him. And in the wretched state of his own
finances, there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in addition to
his fear of discovery by Lydia's relations, for it had just transpired
that he had left gaming debts behind him, to a very considerable
amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than a thousand pounds would
be necessary to clear his expences at Brighton. He owed a good deal in
the town, but his debts of honour were still more formidable. Mr.
Gardiner did not attempt to conceal these particulars from the Longbourn
family; Jane heard them with horror. "A gamester!" she cried. "This is
wholly unexpected. I had not an idea of it."
Mr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see their
father at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered
spiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours, he had yielded to
his brother-in-law's intreaty that he would return to his family, and
leave it to him to do, whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable
for continuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did
not express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering
what her anxiety for his life had been before.
"What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia!" she cried. "Sure he
will not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Wickham,
and make him marry her, if he comes away?"
As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that she
and her children should go to London, at the same time that Mr. Bennet
came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their
journey, and brought its master back to Longbourn.
Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and her
Derbyshire friend, that had attended her from that part of the world.
His name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece;
and the kind of half-expectation which Mrs. Gardiner had formed, of
their being followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing.
Elizabeth had received none since her return, that could come from
Pemberley.
The present unhappy state of the family, rendered any other excuse for
the lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore, could be
fairly conjectured from _that_, though Elizabeth, who was by this time
tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware,
that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of
Lydia's infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought,
one sleepless night out of two.
When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual
philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the
habit of saying; made no mention of the business that had taken him
away, and it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of
it.
It was not till the afternoon, when he joined them at tea, that
Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly
expressing her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, "Say
nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing,
and I ought to feel it."
"You must not be too severe upon yourself," replied Elizabeth.
"You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone to
fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have
been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression.
It will pass away soon enough."
"Do you suppose them to be in London?"
"Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?"
"And Lydia used to want to go to London," added Kitty.
"She is happy, then," said her father, drily; "and her residence there
will probably be of some duration."
Then, after a short silence, he continued, "Lizzy, I bear you no
ill-will for being justified in your advice to me last May, which,
considering the event, shews some greatness of mind."
They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her mother's
tea.
"This is a parade," cried he, "which does one good; it gives such an
elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit in
my library, in my night cap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble
as I can,--or, perhaps, I may defer it, till Kitty runs away."
"I am not going to run away, Papa," said Kitty, fretfully; "if _I_
should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia."
"_You_ go to Brighton!--I would not trust you so near it as East Bourne
for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and
you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter my house
again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be absolutely
prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters. And you are
never to stir out of doors, till you can prove, that you have spent ten
minutes of every day in a rational manner."
Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry.
"Well, well," said he, "do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good
girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of
them."
CHAPTER VII.
Two days after Mr. Bennet's return, as Jane and Elizabeth were walking
together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper
coming towards them, and, concluding that she came to call them to their
mother, went forward to meet her; but, instead of the expected summons,
when they approached her, she said to Miss Bennet, "I beg your pardon,
madam, for interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some
good news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask."
"What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town."
"Dear madam," cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, "don't you know
there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He has been here
this half hour, and master has had a letter."
Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech. They
ran through the vestibule into the breakfast room; from thence to the
library;--their father was in neither; and they were on the point of
seeking him up stairs with their mother, when they were met by the
butler, who said,
"If you are looking for my master, ma'am, he is walking towards the
little copse."
Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall once more,
and ran across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately
pursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of the paddock.
Jane, who was not so light, nor so much in the habit of running as
Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for breath,
came up with him, and eagerly cried out,
"Oh, Papa, what news? what news? have you heard from my uncle?"
"Yes, I have had a letter from him by express."
"Well, and what news does it bring? good or bad?"
"What is there of good to be expected?" said he, taking the letter from
his pocket; "but perhaps you would like to read it."
Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up.
"Read it aloud," said their father, "for I hardly know myself what it is
about."
"Gracechurch-street, Monday,
August 2.
"MY DEAR BROTHER,
"At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such
as, upon the whole, I hope will give you satisfaction. Soon after
you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what
part of London they were. The particulars, I reserve till we meet.
It is enough to know they are discovered, I have seen them
both----"
"Then it is, as I always hoped," cried Jane; "they are married!"
Elizabeth read on; "I have seen them both. They are not married,
nor can I find there was any intention of being so; but if you are
willing to perform the engagements which I have ventured to make on
your side, I hope it will not be long before they are. All that is
required of you is, to assure to your daughter, by settlement, her
equal share of the five thousand pounds, secured among your
children after the decease of yourself and my sister; and,
moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her, during your
life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions, which,
considering every thing, I had no hesitation in complying with, as
far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by
express, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You
will easily comprehend, from these particulars, that Mr. Wickham's
circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to
be. The world has been deceived in that respect; and I am happy to
say, there will be some little money, even when all his debts are
discharged, to settle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune.
If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers to act
in your name, throughout the whole of this business, I will
immediately give directions to Haggerston for preparing a proper
settlement. There will not be the smallest occasion for your coming
to town again; therefore, stay quietly at Longbourn, and depend on
my diligence and care. Send back your answer as soon as you can,
and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it best, that my
niece should be married from this house, of which I hope you will
approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as any
thing more is determined on. Your's, &c.
"EDW. GARDINER."
"Is it possible!" cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. "Can it be
possible that he will marry her?"
"Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we have thought him;" said her
sister. "My dear father, I congratulate you."
"And have you answered the letter?" said Elizabeth.
"No; but it must be done soon."
Most earnestly did she then intreat him to lose no more time before he
wrote.
"Oh! my dear father," she cried, "come back, and write immediately.
Consider how important every moment is, in such a case."
"Let me write for you," said Jane, "if you dislike the trouble
yourself."
"I dislike it very much," he replied; "but it must be done."
And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house.
"And may I ask?" said Elizabeth, "but the terms, I suppose, must be
complied with."
"Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little."
"And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man!"
"Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there
are two things that I want very much to know:--one is, how much money
your uncle has laid down, to bring it about; and the other, how I am
ever to pay him."
"Money! my uncle!" cried Jane, "what do you mean, Sir?"
"I mean, that no man in his senses, would marry Lydia on so slight a
temptation as one hundred a-year during my life, and fifty after I am
gone."
"That is very true," said Elizabeth; "though it had not occurred to me
before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh!
it must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has
distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this."
"No," said her father, "Wickham's a fool, if he takes her with a
farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so
ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship."
"Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be
repaid?"
Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued
silent till they reached the house. Their father then went to the
library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room.
"And they are really to be married!" cried Elizabeth, as soon as they
were by themselves. "How strange this is! And for _this_ we are to be
thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness,
and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice! Oh, Lydia!"
"I comfort myself with thinking," replied Jane, "that he certainly would
not marry Lydia, if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind
uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten
thousand pounds, or any thing like it, has been advanced. He has
children of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten
thousand pounds?"
"If we are ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been," said
Elizabeth, "and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall
exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has
not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be
requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal
protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage, as
years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is
actually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now,
she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she
first sees my aunt!"
"We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side," said
Jane: "I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to marry
her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of
thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself
they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in
time make their past imprudence forgotten."
"Their conduct has been such," replied Elizabeth, "as neither you, nor
I, nor any body, can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it."
It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood
perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library,
therefore, and asked their father, whether he would not wish them to
make it known to her. He was writing, and, without raising his head,
coolly replied,
"Just as you please."
"May we take my uncle's letter to read to her?"
"Take whatever you like, and get away."
Elizabeth took the letter from his writing table, and they went up
stairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one
communication would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation
for good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly
contain herself. As soon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner's hope of Lydia's
being soon married, her joy burst forth, and every following sentence
added to its exuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from
delight, as she had ever been fidgetty from alarm and vexation. To know
that her daughter would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no
fear for her felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct.
"My dear, dear Lydia!" she cried: "This is delightful indeed!--She will
be married!--I shall see her again!--She will be married at sixteen!--My
good, kind brother!--I knew how it would be--I knew he would manage
every thing. How I long to see her! and to see dear Wickham too! But the
clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardiner about
them directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him how
much he will give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell,
Kitty, for Hill. I will put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear
Lydia!--How merry we shall be together when we meet!"
Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the violence of
these transports, by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr.
Gardiner's behaviour laid them all under.
"For we must attribute this happy conclusion," she added, "in a great
measure, to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has pledged himself
to assist Mr. Wickham with money."
"Well," cried her mother, "it is all very right; who should do it but
her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my children
must have had all his money you know, and it is the first time we have
ever had any thing from him, except a few presents. Well! I am so happy.
In a short time, I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well
it sounds. And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in
such a flutter, that I am sure I can't write; so I will dictate, and you
write for me. We will settle with your father about the money
afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately."
She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and
cambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had
not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait, till her
father was at leisure to be consulted. One day's delay she observed,
would be of small importance; and her mother was too happy, to be quite
so obstinate as usual. Other schemes too came into her head.
"I will go to Meryton," said she, "as soon as I am dressed, and tell the
good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come back, I can call on
Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and order the carriage. An
airing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do any
thing for you in Meryton? Oh! here comes Hill. My dear Hill, have you
heard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be married; and you shall
all have a bowl of punch, to make merry at her wedding."
Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received her
congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this folly, took
refuge in her own room, that she might think with freedom.
Poor Lydia's situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it was no
worse, she had need to be thankful. She felt it so; and though, in
looking forward, neither rational happiness nor worldly prosperity,
could be justly expected for her sister; in looking back to what they
had feared, only two hours ago, she felt all the advantages of what they
had gained.
CHAPTER VIII.
Mr. Bennet had very often wished, before this period of his life, that,
instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an annual sum, for
the better provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived
him. He now wished it more than ever. Had he done his duty in that
respect, Lydia need not have been indebted to her uncle, for whatever of
honour or credit could now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of
prevailing on one of the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be
her husband, might then have rested in its proper place.
He was seriously concerned, that a cause of so little advantage to any
one, should be forwarded at the sole expence of his brother-in-law, and
he was determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his
assistance, and to discharge the obligation as soon as he could.
When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly
useless; for, of course, they were to have a son. This son was to join
in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age, and the widow
and younger children would by that means be provided for. Five daughters
successively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs.
Bennet, for many years after Lydia's birth, had been certain that he
would. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then too
late to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy, and her
husband's love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their
income.
Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs. Bennet and
the children. But in what proportions it should be divided amongst the
latter, depended on the will of the parents. This was one point, with
regard to Lydia at least, which was now to be settled, and Mr. Bennet
could have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him. In
terms of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother, though
expressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect
approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil the
engagements that had been made for him. He had never before supposed
that, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would be
done with so little inconvenience to himself, as by the present
arrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds a-year the loser, by the
hundred that was to be paid them; for, what with her board and pocket
allowance, and the continual presents in money, which passed to her,
through her mother's hands, Lydia's expences had been very little within
that sum.
That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was
another very welcome surprise; for his chief wish at present, was to
have as little trouble in the business as possible. When the first
transports of rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were
over, he naturally returned to all his former indolence. His letter was
soon dispatched; for though dilatory in undertaking business, he was
quick in its execution. He begged to know farther particulars of what he
was indebted to his brother; but was too angry with Lydia, to send any
message to her.
The good news quickly spread through the house; and with proportionate
speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter with decent
philosophy. To be sure it would have been more for the advantage of
conversation, had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the
happiest alternative, been secluded from the world, in some distant farm
house. But there was much to be talked of, in marrying her; and the
good-natured wishes for her well-doing, which had proceeded before, from
all the spiteful old ladies in Meryton, lost but little of their spirit
in this change of circumstances, because with such an husband, her
misery was considered certain.
It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been down stairs, but on this
happy day, she again took her seat at the head of her table, and in
spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her
triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object of
her wishes, since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of
accomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on those
attendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new carriages, and
servants. She was busily searching through the neighbourhood for a
proper situation for her daughter, and, without knowing or considering
what their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and
importance.
"Haye-Park might do," said she, "if the Gouldings would quit it, or the
great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but Ashworth is
too far off! I could not bear to have her ten miles from me; and as for
Purvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful."
Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption, while the
servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her, "Mrs.
Bennet, before you take any, or all of these houses, for your son and
daughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into _one_ house in this
neighbourhood, they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage
the impudence of either, by receiving them at Longbourn."
A long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was firm: it
soon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with amazement and horror,
that her husband would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his
daughter. He protested that she should receive from him no mark of
affection whatever, on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend
it. That his anger could be carried to such a point of inconceivable
resentment, as to refuse his daughter a privilege, without which her
marriage would scarcely seem valid, exceeded all that she could believe
possible. She was more alive to the disgrace, which the want of new
clothes must reflect on her daughter's nuptials, than to any sense of
shame at her eloping and living with Wickham, a fortnight before they
took place.
Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the distress of
the moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted with their fears for
her sister; for since her marriage would so shortly give the proper
termination to the elopement, they might hope to conceal its
unfavourable beginning, from all those who were not immediately on the
spot.
She had no fear of its spreading farther, through his means. There were
few people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently depended;
but at the same time, there was no one, whose knowledge of a sister's
frailty would have mortified her so much. Not, however, from any fear of
disadvantage from it, individually to herself; for at any rate, there
seemed a gulf impassable between them. Had Lydia's marriage been
concluded on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that
Mr. Darcy would connect himself with a family, where to every other
objection would now be added, an alliance and relationship of the
nearest kind with the man whom he so justly scorned.
From such a connection she could not wonder that he should shrink. The
wish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself of his
feeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation survive such a
blow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she
hardly knew of what. She became jealous of his esteem, when she could no
longer hope to be benefited by it. She wanted to hear of him, when there
seemed the least chance of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that
she could have been happy with him; when it was no longer likely they
should meet.
What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that the
proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago, would now
have been gladly and gratefully received! He was as generous, she
doubted not, as the most generous of his sex. But while he was mortal,
there must be a triumph.
She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man, who, in
disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and
temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It
was an union that must have been to the advantage of both; by her ease
and liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved,
and from his judgment, information, and knowledge of the world, she must
have received benefit of greater importance.
But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what
connubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and
precluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their
family.
How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence,
she could not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could
belong to a couple who were only brought together because their passions
were stronger than their virtue, she could easily conjecture.
* * * * *
Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet's
acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurances of his eagerness to
promote the welfare of any of his family; and concluded with intreaties
that the subject might never be mentioned to him again. The principal
purport of his letter was to inform them, that Mr. Wickham had resolved
on quitting the Militia.
"It was greatly my wish that he should do so," he added, "as soon
as his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me,
in considering a removal from that corps as highly advisable, both
on his account and my niece's. It is Mr. Wickham's intention to go
into the regulars; and, among his former friends, there are still
some who are able and willing to assist him in the army. He has the
promise of an ensigncy in General ----'s regiment, now quartered in
the North. It is an advantage to have it so far from this part of
the kingdom. He promises fairly, and I hope among different people,
where they may each have a character to preserve, they will both be
more prudent. I have written to Colonel Forster, to inform him of
our present arrangements, and to request that he will satisfy the
various creditors of Mr. Wickham in and near Brighton, with
assurances of speedy payment, for which I have pledged myself. And
will you give yourself the trouble of carrying similar assurances
to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin a list,
according to his information. He has given in all his debts; I hope
at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions, and
all will be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment,
unless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from
Mrs. Gardiner, that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all,
before she leaves the South. She is well, and begs to be dutifully
remembered to you and her mother.--Your's, &c.
"E. GARDINER."
Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham's removal
from the ----shire, as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But Mrs.
Bennet, was not so well pleased with it. Lydia's being settled in the
North, just when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her
company, for she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in
Hertfordshire, was a severe disappointment; and besides, it was such a
pity that Lydia should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted
with every body, and had so many favourites.
"She is so fond of Mrs. Forster," said she, "it will be quite shocking
to send her away! And there are several of the young men, too, that she
likes very much. The officers may not be so pleasant in General ----'s
regiment."
His daughter's request, for such it might be considered, of being
admitted into her family again, before she set off for the North,
received at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth, who
agreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister's feelings and
consequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by her parents,
urged him so earnestly, yet so rationally and so mildly, to receive her
and her husband at Longbourn, as soon as they were married, that he was
prevailed on to think as they thought, and act as they wished. And their
mother had the satisfaction of knowing, that she should be able to shew
her married daughter in the neighbourhood, before she was banished to
the North. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore, he
sent his permission for them to come; and it was settled, that as soon
as the ceremony was over, they should proceed to Longbourn. Elizabeth
was surprised, however, that Wickham should consent to such a scheme,
and, had she consulted only her own inclination, any meeting with him
would have been the last object of her wishes.
CHAPTER IX.
Their sister's wedding day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt for her
probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to meet
them at ----, and they were to return in it, by dinner-time. Their
arrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets; and Jane more especially,
who gave Lydia the feelings which would have attended herself, had _she_
been the culprit, was wretched in the thought of what her sister must
endure.
They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room, to receive
them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet, as the carriage drove up to
the door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed,
anxious, uneasy.
Lydia's voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown open, and
she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and
welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand with an affectionate smile to
Wickham, who followed his lady, and wished them both joy, with an
alacrity which shewed no doubt of their happiness.
Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite
so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely
opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was
enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was
shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and
fearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their
congratulations, and when at length they all sat down, looked eagerly
round the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and
observed, with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been
there.
Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his manners
were always so pleasing, that had his character and his marriage been
exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he
claimed their relationship, would have delighted them all. Elizabeth had
not before believed him quite equal to such assurance; but she sat down,
resolving within herself, to draw no limits in future to the impudence
of an impudent man. _She_ blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of
the two who caused their confusion, suffered no variation of colour.
There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither
of them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to sit near
Elizabeth, began enquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood,
with a good humoured ease, which she felt very unable to equal in her
replies. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the
world. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led
voluntarily to subjects, which her sisters would not have alluded to for
the world.
"Only think of its being three months," she cried, "since I went away;
it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been things
enough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away, I am sure
I had no more idea of being married till I came back again! though I
thought it would be very good fun if I was."
Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked
expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw any thing of
which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, "Oh! mamma, do the
people here abouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might
not; and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was
determined he should know it, and so I let down the side glass next to
him, and took off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window
frame, so that he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like
any thing."
Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room;
and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to
the dining-parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with
anxious parade, walk up to her mother's right hand, and hear her say to
her eldest sister, "Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go
lower, because I am a married woman."
It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment,
from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good
spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Philips, the Lucases, and all
their other neighbours, and to hear herself called "Mrs. Wickham," by
each of them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to shew her
ring and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.
"Well, mamma," said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast
room, "and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I
am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half my
good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get
husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go."
"Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don't
at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?"
"Oh, lord! yes;--there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all
things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We
shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some
balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all."
"I should like it beyond any thing!" said her mother.
"And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters
behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the
winter is over."
"I thank you for my share of the favour," said Elizabeth; "but I do not
particularly like your way of getting husbands."
Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham
had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join
his regiment at the end of a fortnight.
No one but Mrs. Bennet, regretted that their stay would be so short; and
she made the most of the time, by visiting about with her daughter, and
having very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to
all; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did
think, than such as did not.
Wickham's affection for Lydia, was just what Elizabeth had expected to
find it; not equal to Lydia's for him. She had scarcely needed her
present observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that
their elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather
than by his; and she would have wondered why, without violently caring
for her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain
that his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and
if that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity
of having a companion.
Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every
occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did every
thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds on
the first of September, than any body else in the country.
One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two
elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth,
"Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe. You were
not by, when I told mamma, and the others, all about it. Are not you
curious to hear how it was managed?"
"No really," replied Elizabeth; "I think there cannot be too little said
on the subject."
"La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were
married, you know, at St. Clement's, because Wickham's lodgings were in
that parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven
o'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others
were to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in
such a fuss! I was so afraid you know that something would happen to put
it off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And there was my
aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if
she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten,
for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to
know whether he would be married in his blue coat.
"Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never
be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt
were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you'll believe
me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a
fortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or any thing. To be sure London was
rather thin, but however the little Theatre was open. Well, and so just
as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon business
to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get
together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did not
know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we were beyond
the hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he came back
again in ten minutes time, and then we all set out. However, I
recollected afterwards, that if he _had_ been prevented going, the
wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well."
"Mr. Darcy!" repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.
"Oh, yes!--he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious me!
I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised
them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!"
"If it was to be secret," said Jane, "say not another word on the
subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further."
"Oh! certainly," said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; "we will
ask you no questions."
"Thank you," said Lydia, "for if you did, I should certainly tell you
all, and then Wickham would be angry."
On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her
power, by running away.
But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least it
was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at her
sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people,
where he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go.
Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her
brain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as
placing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She
could not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper,
wrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what
Lydia had dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been
intended.
"You may readily comprehend," she added, "what my curiosity must be to
know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively
speaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such
a time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it--unless it is,
for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to
think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with
ignorance."
"Not that I _shall_ though," she added to herself, as she finished the
letter; "and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable
manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it
out."
Jane's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to
Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad of
it;--till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any
satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.
CHAPTER X.
Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter, as
soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it, than
hurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to be
interrupted, she sat down on one of the benches, and prepared to be
happy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not
contain a denial.
"Gracechurch-street, Sept. 6.
"MY DEAR NIECE,
"I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole
morning to answering it, as I foresee that a _little_ writing will
not comprise what I have to tell you. I must confess myself
surprised by your application; I did not expect it from _you_.
Don't think me angry, however, for I only mean to let you know,
that I had not imagined such enquiries to be necessary on _your_
side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my
impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am--and nothing
but the belief of your being a party concerned, would have allowed
him to act as he has done. But if you are really innocent and
ignorant, I must be more explicit. On the very day of my coming
home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr.
Darcy called, and was shut up with him several hours. It was all
over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so dreadfully racked
as _your's_ seems to have been. He came to tell Mr. Gardiner that
he had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were, and that
he had seen and talked with them both, Wickham repeatedly, Lydia
once. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day
after ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting
for them. The motive professed, was his conviction of its being
owing to himself that Wickham's worthlessness had not been so well
known, as to make it impossible for any young woman of character,
to love or confide in him. He generously imputed the whole to his
mistaken pride, and confessed that he had before thought it beneath
him, to lay his private actions open to the world. His character
was to speak for itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to step
forward, and endeavour to remedy an evil, which had been brought on
by himself. If he _had another_ motive, I am sure it would never
disgrace him. He had been some days in town, before he was able to
discover them; but he had something to direct his search, which was
more than _we_ had; and the consciousness of this, was another
reason for his resolving to follow us. There is a lady, it seems, a
Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago governess to Miss Darcy, and was
dismissed from her charge on some cause of disapprobation, though
he did not say what. She then took a large house in Edward-street,
and has since maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs.
Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham; and he
went to her for intelligence of him, as soon as he got to town. But
it was two or three days before he could get from her what he
wanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery
and corruption, for she really did know where her friend was to be
found. Wickham indeed had gone to her, on their first arrival in
London, and had she been able to receive them into her house, they
would have taken up their abode with her. At length, however, our
kind friend procured the wished-for direction. They were in ----
street. He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia.
His first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade
her to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her
friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her,
offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But he found Lydia
absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared for none
of her friends, she wanted no help of his, she would not hear of
leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some time or
other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were her
feelings, it only remained, he thought, to secure and expedite a
marriage, which, in his very first conversation with Wickham, he
easily learnt, had never been _his_ design. He confessed himself
obliged to leave the regiment, on account of some debts of honour,
which were very pressing; and scrupled not to lay all the
ill-consequences of Lydia's flight, on her own folly alone. He
meant to resign his commission immediately; and as to his future
situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He must go
somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew he should have
nothing to live on. Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your
sister at once. Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich,
he would have been able to do something for him, and his situation
must have been benefited by marriage. But he found, in reply to
this question, that Wickham still cherished the hope of more
effectually making his fortune by marriage, in some other country.
Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely to be proof
against the temptation of immediate relief. They met several times,
for there was much to be discussed. Wickham of course wanted more
than he could get; but at length was reduced to be reasonable.
Every thing being settled between _them_, Mr. Darcy's next step was
to make your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in
Gracechurch-street the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardiner
could not be seen, and Mr. Darcy found, on further enquiry, that
your father was still with him, but would quit town the next
morning. He did not judge your father to be a person whom he could
so properly consult as your uncle, and therefore readily postponed
seeing him, till after the departure of the former. He did not
leave his name, and till the next day, it was only known that a
gentleman had called on business. On Saturday he came again. Your
father was gone, your uncle at home, and, as I said before, they
had a great deal of talk together. They met again on Sunday, and
then _I_ saw him too. It was not all settled before Monday: as soon
as it was, the express was sent off to Longbourn. But our visitor
was very obstinate. I fancy, Lizzy, that obstinacy is the real
defect of his character after all. He has been accused of many
faults at different times; but _this_ is the true one. Nothing was
to be done that he did not do himself; though I am sure (and I do
not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it,) your
uncle would most readily have settled the whole. They battled it
together for a long time, which was more than either the gentleman
or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your uncle was forced
to yield, and instead of being allowed to be of use to his niece,
was forced to put up with only having the probable credit of it,
which went sorely against the grain; and I really believe your
letter this morning gave him great pleasure, because it required an
explanation that would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give
the praise where it was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no farther
than yourself, or Jane at most. You know pretty well, I suppose,
what has been done for the young people. His debts are to be paid,
amounting, I believe, to considerably more than a thousand pounds,
another thousand in addition to her own settled upon _her_, and his
commission purchased. The reason why all this was to be done by him
alone, was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his
reserve, and want of proper consideration, that Wickham's character
had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he had been
received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth in
_this_; though I doubt whether _his_ reserve, or _anybody's_
reserve, can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all this
fine talking, my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured, that
your uncle would never have yielded, if we had not given him credit
for _another interest_ in the affair. When all this was resolved
on, he returned again to his friends, who were still staying at
Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be in London once more
when the wedding took place, and all money matters were then to
receive the last finish. I believe I have now told you every thing.
It is a relation which you tell me is to give you great surprise; I
hope at least it will not afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to
us; and Wickham had constant admission to the house. _He_ was
exactly what he had been, when I knew him in Hertfordshire; but I
would not tell you how little I was satisfied with _her_ behaviour
while she staid with us, if I had not perceived, by Jane's letter
last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home was exactly of a
piece with it, and therefore what I now tell you, can give you no
fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most serious manner,
representing to her all the wickedness of what she had done, and
all the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If she heard me,
it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not listen. I was
sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my dear Elizabeth
and Jane, and for their sakes had patience with her. Mr. Darcy was
punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you, attended the
wedding. He dined with us the next day, and was to leave town again
on Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my dear
Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying (what I was never bold
enough to say before) how much I like him. His behaviour to us has,
in every respect, been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire.
His understanding and opinions all please me; he wants nothing but
a little more liveliness, and _that_, if he marry _prudently_, his
wife may teach him. I thought him very sly;--he hardly ever
mentioned your name. But slyness seems the fashion. Pray forgive
me, if I have been very presuming, or at least do not punish me so
far, as to exclude me from P. I shall never be quite happy till I
have been all round the park. A low phaeton, with a nice little
pair of ponies, would be the very thing. But I must write no more.
The children have been wanting me this half hour. Your's, very
sincerely,
"M. GARDINER."
The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits,
in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the
greatest share. The vague and unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had
produced of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister's
match, which she had feared to encourage, as an exertion of goodness too
great to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the
pain of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true!
He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on himself all the
trouble and mortification attendant on such a research; in which
supplication had been necessary to a woman whom he must abominate and
despise, and where he was reduced to meet, frequently meet, reason with,
persuade, and finally bribe, the man whom he always most wished to
avoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had
done all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her
heart did whisper, that he had done it for her. But it was a hope
shortly checked by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her
vanity was insufficient, when required to depend on his affection for
her, for a woman who had already refused him, as able to overcome a
sentiment so natural as abhorrence against relationship with Wickham.
Brother-in-law of Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from the
connection. He had to be sure done much. She was ashamed to think how
much. But he had given a reason for his interference, which asked no
extraordinary stretch of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel
he had been wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising
it; and though she would not place herself as his principal inducement,
she could, perhaps, believe, that remaining partiality for her, might
assist his endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be
materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that
they were under obligations to a person who could never receive a
return. They owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, every thing
to him. Oh! how heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation
she had ever encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed
towards him. For herself she was humbled; but she was proud of him.
Proud that in a cause of compassion and honour, he had been able to get
the better of himself. She read over her aunt's commendation of him
again and again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even
sensible of some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how
steadfastly both she and her uncle had been persuaded that affection and
confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself.
She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one's
approach; and before she could strike into another path, she was
overtaken by Wickham.
"I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?" said he,
as he joined her.
"You certainly do," she replied with a smile; "but it does not follow
that the interruption must be unwelcome."
"I should be sorry indeed, if it were. _We_ were always good friends;
and now we are better."
"True. Are the others coming out?"
"I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to
Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find from our uncle and aunt, that
you have actually seen Pemberley."
She replied in the affirmative.
"I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much
for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the
old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of
me. But of course she did not mention my name to you."
"Yes, she did."
"And what did she say?"
"That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had--not turned
out well. At such a distance as _that_, you know, things are strangely
misrepresented."
"Certainly," he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had
silenced him; but he soon afterwards said,
"I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other
several times. I wonder what he can be doing there."