More Sport for our Neighbours

by Ronald McGowan

  “But Mr Darcy respects you, and values your opinion so. Could you not at least speak to him?”

  “I should be very surprised to find that he values my opinion more than yours, my dear. But rest easy, I had already decided that something must be done, and I shall beard the lion in his den before the morning is out.”

  I have never been averse to daughterly embraces, but they never used to have such a lacrimose effect upon me. I am getting old, I fear. At least the necessary washing of my face gave me time to prepare for going to Mahomet.

  I found Darcy in his study, going through some estate accounts, which he laid down instantly I stepped inside. I congratulated myself on having caught him at a moment when any distraction from endless rows of figures would be welcome.

  Before I could say anything, however, he forestalled me.

  “I believe I know why you have come to me so early, Mr Bennet, and let me first of all apologise for my behaviour yesterday afternoon, when I took your name and that of your daughter in vain when refusing entrance to my house to a certain person with whom we are both acquainted. Let me also say that any pleas on behalf of that person will not be countenanced. I tell you this because I will not have you come before me as a suppliant, Mr. Bennet. I greatly value both your intellect and your personal character, which I believe to be more kind, benevolent and understanding than is commonly held, although of your immediate family only one, or perhaps two have any inkling of your real thoughts and worth. I beg you not to ask of me something which I must refuse.”

  For a moment, I considered bowing out there and then, but what would I tell Wickham? More important, what would I tell Lizzie?

  So I took courage, and replied –

  “I come to ask nothing of you, Mr Darcy, but to remind you of your own words, only last week, concerning the officer of the 68th Regiment of Foot whom I had the privilege of assisting in his investigation of the so-called French Spy at Hartlepool. ‘Marriage and fatherhood, and, perhaps, exile appear to have effected an unlooked-for improvement in his character’, that is what you said, and it is useless to pretend that everyone there did not comprehend about whom you were speaking. I, too, have had my quarrels with Wickham. I went looking for him once, with a case of pistols. That particular quarrel you were good enough to take a hand in, and to resolve it in a way for which I shall always be grateful. For my sake, and for my daughter’s sake you were prepared to admit Wickham – yes, I will say it, it is not such a very profane word – you were prepared to admit Wickham into your presence. I do not ask, but I suggest, that it might, perhaps, be worth considering whether to do the same thing for your own sake, and for the sake of your family, of which he is now, to some degree at least, a member. I had no great opinion of the old Wickham. I made him a source of amusement, as I have been constrained to do with most things, in most of my life, but I thought nothing of him. But he has changed, Mr Darcy. The idle fop who pranced around Meryton in his fancy uniform is not the same man as the officer who, with only twenty men behind him – aye, and an old crock, I know – faced down a crowd of thousands baying for blood. The latter is a gentleman whose hand I am proud to shake, and whose hand you should at least be prepared to take in yours. Forgive me this unaccustomed indulgence in eloquence, but I feel it necessary in the circumstances.”

  He shrugged.

  “Even if all is as you say, Mr Bennet – and I make no claim that it is not – there is one over-riding consideration that you have forgot, and her name is Georgiana Darcy. Mr Wickham may have become a combination of Sir Lancelot, Saint George and any other hero of romance you care to name, but I cannot, and will not, in any circumstances, admit him to any residence which houses my sister.”

  “I take your point, Mr Darcy. Miss Georgiana is very dear to all our hearts, and there is not a soul in this house who would wish to cause distress to her in any way. But is she not shortly to depart for Lady Catherine’s for a space of some months? Could you not see fit to allow Captain Wickham to be reunited with his wife and child during her absence?”

  I could see that I had struck home, but this was not the time to press my advantage.

  “Think upon it, that is all I ask,” I said, rising from my seat, “Talk it over with Mrs Darcy, she will have much that is valuable to say upon the subject, I am sure. Consult your own sense of justice and fittingness and follow where it may lead. I say nothing more, save to thank you for your time, and wish you joy of your sums.”

  No more was said between us on the subject until the day Miss Darcy left for Rosings. We all stood in a line to see her off and wish her well, although how much of that sort of thing may be expected of a stay with Lady Catherine I cannot say.

  Georgiana Darcy somehow combines the qualities of a lovely, innocent girl with those of a great lady, and will make a great match for someone, some day, if only her brother, whose very word she hangs upon, will permit it. She came down the line to take her leave of all of us personally.

  “Goodbye, Mr Bennet,” she said to me. “I wish that I could stay longer, to hear more of your tall tales, but Lady Catherine is never to be denied, you know. I know of only one person who has ever had the hardihood to do so, and I admire her immensely in every way. I shall be back well before the happy event, and you may be sure that I will do everything I can to take care of my sister Elizabeth, for I fear you will all be gone before I return. I am sorry to have been, perhaps, the cause of trouble to my sister Lydia, but hope such troubles will soon be over now.”

  “We shall miss you, Miss Georgiana,” was all I could say.

  We were all on tenterhooks for the rest of the day, waiting for an announcement, as it were.

  Darcy finally made it after dinner, when he called a servant to take a message to Mr Wickham, at the Fitzwilliam Arms.

  “Tell him we expect him and his traps here after breakfast tomorrow, and will not take no for an answer,” he said. “He has neglected his beautiful young wife and charming child for far too long, and we cannot countenance any more of it.”

  Lydia’s shrieks of gratitude and loud celebration of the perfection of Mr Darcy might have saved the man the trouble, for they must certainly have been heard in the village, but all I had eyes for was the knowing smile on Lizzie’s face as she nodded, over her husband’s shoulder, to me.

  Chapter Thirty-four : The Far Side of the World

  So, for a little while, we had the pleasure of having all the family together once again. By this I mean, ‘all the Bennet family’, of course, for Miss Georgiana’s absence left a sad gap in the ranks of the Darcys, and I never think of Wickham as ever having had any family at all, and were it not for Darcy’s account of his youth and parentage, would have thought him sprung, like Minerva, straight from the forehead of some Derbyshire Jupiter, or perhaps Mercury would be more apt.

  Thus was I enabled to delude myself, for the nonce, into thinking it was quite like old times, although the additions of Darcy, Wickham and Fizzy, combined with the change of venue, meant that it was not really like them at all. But old men grow whimsical, and will cherish their delusions.

  Such a state of affairs could not last, however, and was brought to an end, after some four weeks, by Darcy’s taking me to one side and leading me into his study one morning.

  “I am happy to confess that we have all jogged along well enough together these last few weeks,” he said, “and that I am inclined to agree with your view of the change in George Wickham. But time does not stand still, and soon my sister will be back among us, and I must take thought for the future. I have been in correspondence with my acquaintances at the Horse Guards, and have a proposal that may suit. I do not, however, wish to put it to Wickham myself. To do so, I must appear as either ogre or benefactor, and I do not choose to undertake either role. Would you do me the favour of broaching the subject with Wickham yourself?”

  “I am as reluctant as you to appear in such roles,” I replied, “but if it will add to the happiness of my family – in which, by the way,
I comprehend both you and Miss Georgiana quite as much as my own wife and children and their connections – I must be prepared at least to consider it. But I can make no promise without knowing more. What, exactly, is this proposal?”

  “I have learned of a commission in an infantry regiment of the line which may be made available on favourable terms, which terms I am prepared to meet. It is neither a lieutenant’s nor a captain’s commission, but a major’s, and may therefore be looked upon as a definite promotion, and could make its holder for life, as it comes with very likely prospects of succeeding to command of the battalion. There is however, one thing to it that may be looked upon as a drawback. It is overseas, and must be filled before the month is out.”

  “Overseas? I see. In Spain?”

  “No, not in Spain. I do not see myself as David, nor Wickham as Uriah the Hittite; and, before you ask, nor is it in some West Indies fever hole, nor the ‘Bight of Benin, where few come out though many go in’. It is in New South Wales.”

  I misheard him at first, and replied.

  “Is that all there is against it? Well, Wales may be a disagreeable part of the country, but I should hardly have called it overseas.”

  “Not South Wales,” he replied. “New South Wales, in Australia.”

  “I see only too well now. You mean to pack my daughter and her husband off to the antipodes, never to be seen again, is that it?”

  “Not precisely, but I must admit that distance does lend enchantment to the proposal. I am thinking of my sister, of course, and no doubt being over-cautious, but I beseech you to remember how you felt when you first heard of your daughter’s elopement from Brighton. Consider that I still feel like that whenever I think of Wickham and Georgiana, no matter what changes there may have been, on either side, and I cannot help myself.

  It need not be a permanent separation, you know. Major and Mrs Wickham would be perfectly at leisure to return any time they wished, on half-pay, which would at least give them something to live on. Things would be even easier for Colonel and Mrs Wickham – a prospect which I am given to believe is not unlikely. The present colonel is sickly and not expected to last long, and his second is usually promoted on the spot, there being such a long wait for any appointment from home. He could be a great man in the colony, and your daughter could be a great lady. In fact, it is not impossible that she could come back one day as Lady Wickham, with her husband Sir George – Brigadier General Sir George, I might say, for at such levels an extra promotion is usually granted on retirement. This is a great opportunity that is offering here.”

  “I can see that some might think it so,” I replied, “and I will put it to them – to them, and not just to him, for I wish to hear from her own mouth what my daughter might think of it. Cry it up as you may, it is likely that I will never see her again when once she takes ship for the far side of the world. I know not, myself, whether to call it a reward or a punishment.”

  I might have saved myself the anxiety, of course. Wickham has never been one to care about where he happens to be residing, and closed with the offer immediately, only finding it difficult to believe that he could be so fortunate and benefit so much at Darcy’s hands once again. Lydia meanwhile, went into raptures at the thought of being ‘Mrs Major’ or perhaps even ‘Mrs Colonel’. The thought of the balls she would have under the Southern Cross, and how she would lord it over the ladies of the colony swept all other considerations away.

  When the news was announced, it very soon became clear that neither she nor her mother had any real conception of the distances involved, for they began planning their future visits immediately.

  “But you must give us time to get settled, mama, for who knows what sort of houses they may have in those parts, and it would not do to come before we are quite ready to receive you, you know,” was the extreme limit of her misgivings, while Mrs Bennet was rapturous at her son and daughters advancement, and at a loss as to whom to oppress more with her gratitude, me or Darcy.

  I gave her no encouragement either way, but accepted gracefully whatever came in my direction. I am an old married man, after all.

  Chapter Thirty-five : Farewell to the North

  We had a sad few days of it after the Wickhams left for London en route to New Holland. Who could tell when we should even hear from them again, let alone see them again? Mrs Bennet repeated her comments on her first parting from her favourite daughter when Wickham and Lydia went to Newcastle, and this time I did not have the ready consolation of pointing out that it was the consequence of marrying a daughter.

  We did, however, have the two prospective new arrivals to look forward to. Mrs Bennet was quite at a loss as to how to reconcile the desire to supervise every minute of the time before these two wonders of the world should arise, and that of returning home to glory over her neighbours in the prospect, not to mention her adventures in the frozen north.

  While she was still debating with herself, word reached us – or, rather, reached Darcy, as patron of the living, that the tenacious but less than enduringly faithful Mr Tomkins would not be returning to Derbyshire. He had begged leave of absence shortly after we left Pemberley, and followed us, determined to press his suit upon my daughter. That determination had lasted no longer than Newcastle, however, where, failing to find us, he had become engaged to the daughter of a country squire in Northumberland, a distant connection of the Percys, no less, the engagement carrying with it a rector’s living quite upon the Scotch border.

  We knew nothing else of the young lady in question. It was impossible to judge how desperate or lacking in discernment she might be, nor how indulgent her parents, but to me, at least, the news was welcome. None of us had really liked him, I believe, not even Kitty, and his income at Pemberley was quite inadequate. Even Mrs Bennet made no more of it than mentioning every five minutes her astonishment that anyone should so have treated her daughter so, but that subsided after little more than a week or two, so her amazement cannot have been so very great.

  Kitty, when she heard the news, coughed quite vociferously for a while, but was quickly consoled by the promise of a new hat.

  But winter was now drawing near, and I had no intention of being immured for months in the snows of deepest Derbyshire, and we must return to Longbourn.

  The leaving of her two daughters in such a very interesting condition was something that exercised Mrs Bennet for some little while.

  “Should we not stay here, Mr Bennet?” she would ask me several dozen times a day. “After all, who knows whether dear Jane, or even Lizzie, might want my help on some point ….. well, on some point that Darcy or Bingley would not know how to deal with, if you see what I mean?”

  “But then,” she would continue, “I am sure that all must be quite ahoo at Longbourn, we have been gone for so long, and I should be so very glad to sleep in my own bed, too, these Pemberley beds are very grand, but there is nothing like your own bed, is there?”

  The answer to all her questions was always the same. The infants would not be born until May, or perhaps late April, and we should return before then for both happy events, for Jane was proposing to lie in at Pemberley, as being nearer the midwives and accoucheurs of Buxton than Garthdale, and altogether more convenient to be near her sister. Mrs Bennet, however, seemed incapable of taking this in, nor of being persuaded that we could not be both at Pemberley and at Longbourn at the same time.

  The receipt of a letter from Lady Lucas, with news of a new tenant at Netherfield, a young man of a large fortune, who had danced twice with Maria Lucas at the last assembly awakened the old fire in her breast, however.

  “I see it all,” she cried. “Lady Lucas thinks she will steal this new arrival for her daughter, while forgetting that she is not the only one with daughters to marry off. Well Charlotte may have stolen a march on Lizzie, but I will not let the same thing happen to Mary and Kitty. Come, Mr Bennet, we must return home immediately. Do you not see what a great thing this could be for your daughters?”A single man
of large fortune; four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!"

  "How so? How can it affect them?"

  "My dear Mr. Bennet, how can you be so tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them."

  "Is that his design in settling at Netherfield?"

  "Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he may fall in love with one of them, and therefore we must visit him as soon as we may."

  "I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are as handsome as any of them, this single young man of large fortune may like you the best of the party."

  What is it the French say, plus ça change, plus c’est la meme chose?

  Afterword :Hartlepool Hangus

  Readers not familiar with the folklore of North-East England may find the Hartlepool part of my story far-fetched. If they think I made it all up as I went along, however, they would be mistaken.

  At various times in its long history, Hartlepool has been a nucleus of learning, a thriving port and an industrial centre, but the one thing it is most widely known for – in the UK, at any rate – is the episode at the heart of my tale.

  Every child from the Scottish border to the Tees at some time hears the story of the French ship that sank off Hartlepool during the Napoleonic wars, and how the sole survivor was the captain’s pet monkey, whom the Hartlepudlians took for a Frenchman, and hanged as a spy.

  The tale is told all over the area, as an example of how limited, intellectually, the inhabitants of the town must be (in contrast to those other well-known hotbeds of the intelligentsia, Newcastle and Sunderland).