by Mary Street
I said so. ‘If a friend were to say, “Bingley, you had better stay till next week”, you would probably do it, you would probably not go – and at another word, might stay a month.’
‘You have only proved by this,’ said Elizabeth, ‘that Mr Bingley did not do justice to his own disposition. You have shown him off now much more than he did himself.’
Bingley, confound him, gave a triumphant smirk. But he had the grace to admit it was not what I meant. ‘Darcy would think the better of me, if under such a circumstance, I were to give a flat denial and ride off as fast as I could.’
‘Would Mr Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intention as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?’
‘Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter. Darcy must speak for himself.’
I smiled at Bingley’s perplexity: the liveliness of her mind was too much for him. He had withdrawn, and now I was free to engage Elizabeth in an interesting discussion.
I reminded her that Bingley’s hypothetical friend had merely asked him to stay without offering any argument in favour of doing so.
‘To yield readily – easily – to the persuasion of a friend is no merit with you?’
‘To yield without conviction,’ I pronounced, ‘is no compliment to the understanding of either.’
She raised her brows and suggested that affection between friends might be enough to persuade one to alter a decision of no great moment, without waiting to be argued into it.
I was pleased, though I could not say exactly why. I saw that Elizabeth could be a formidable opponent in any debate.
I suggested we should arrange the points of discussion with more precision. ‘We should determine the degree of importance which is to appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy between the parties.’
I had forgotten Bingley and his determination to show off: now he swept away all hope of continuing the discussion.
‘By all means,’ he cried, ‘let us hear all the particulars, not forgetting their comparative height and size, for that will have more weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you are aware of. I assure you that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare, I do not know a more aweful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in particular places: at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening when he has nothing to do.’
Clearly, Bingley felt the lady was paying too much attention to me and not enough to himself, though why he found it necessary to hold me up to ridicule, I know not. It was not his usual way and I found it particularly offensive that he should do so in front of Elizabeth.
I smiled, of course: there was nothing else to be done, and I was a little consoled because he had not succeeded in making Elizabeth laugh at me.
‘I see your design, Bingley,’ I said. ‘You dislike an argument and want to silence this.’
‘Arguments are too much like disputes. If you will defer yours till I am out of the room I shall be very thankful.’
‘What you ask,’ said Elizabeth politely, ‘is no great sacrifice on my side.’ She resumed her needlework and smiled at me. ‘Mr Darcy had much better finish his letter.’
I turned away in some dissatisfaction. Later, upon reading through my finished letter, I found I had told Georgiana a great deal about the fine eyes, the playful manners and the lively disposition of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
I abandoned my thought of altering it when Miss Bingley drew near again. Unwilling to let her see what I had written, I folded the sheets and wrote the address.
A little later, Miss Bingley seated herself at the pianoforte. When she struck up a Scottish air, I astonished myself by approaching Elizabeth, asking if she would care to dance a reel.
Receiving no answer, I was obliged to repeat the question, and she said, ‘You wish me to say “Yes” so that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste: but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes. I have made up my mind to tell you I do not want to dance a reel at all. Now despise me if you dare.’
Perhaps her refusal was to avoid giving offence to Miss Bingley, or perhaps she was still teasing me about my ill-humour at the Meryton ball. Bewitched by the laughter in her eyes, I could not be affronted. By way of making some amends for that occasion, I smiled and bowed. ‘Indeed, I do not dare.’
Later, after we had retired for the night, I realized I was being less successful than I wanted to be in disguising my admiration for Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Whilst she remained at Netherfield, I found I enjoyed her society too much: I wanted more of it.
I was accustomed to ladies such as Miss Bingley, who were always exerting themselves to please, and I was very sensible that Elizabeth made no such exertions. Yet, in spite of my resolve to ignore her, she had, this evening, drawn from me more attention than I had paid Miss Bingley in a month.
I knew I looked at her more than I should. And whether I looked at her or not, I had a heightened awareness of her presence. My ears caught every slight sound of movement: the briefest glance could give me a world of information as to her appearance and her mood.
My own knowledge that any alliance with Elizabeth was impossible, frequently received quite unwanted assistance from Miss Bingley. She would taunt me about my supposed marriage. ‘I hope you will give your mother-in-law a few hints as to the advantage of holding her tongue: and if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after the officers.’
Unwilling to give her the satisfaction of seeing how her remarks rankled, I kept my temper and displayed only indifference, but Miss Bingley did herself no service with me, neither did she succeed in her design of provoking me into dislike of Elizabeth.
Miss Jane Bennet was sufficiently recovered to join us downstairs the next evening. Bingley was overjoyed: he spent some time ensuring her comfort and spent the rest of the evening talking to her.
I took up a book, and might have resisted all Miss Bingley’s attempts to distract me, had she not drawn Elizabeth into her scheme. Then I was alert, for all her previous incivility to our guest had me suspecting a design to discompose Elizabeth.
I was mistaken: Miss Bingley simply meant to engage my attention by any means she could. But, before I knew it, I was drawn, first into an airy, insubstantial conversation which later turned into another confrontation between myself and Elizabeth.
‘I am perfectly convinced that Mr Darcy has no defect,’ said Elizabeth. ‘He owns it himself, without disguise.’
That was just her own style of pleasantry, of course: she knew I had made no such pretension, and I would have done better to return some light answer. But there was something challenging about Elizabeth that evening, and under her coolly smiling gaze I found myself confessing to an unyielding temper and a resentment that could rarely be appeased. ‘My good opinion, once lost, is lost for ever.’
‘Then your defect is a propensity to hate everybody.’
Nonsensical girl! But I could only approve her design, which was to lighten a discussion which had quickly become too serious.
‘And yours,’ I said, smiling, ‘is to wilfully misunderstand!’
Miss Bingley interrupted the discussion, suggesting music, and I, recollecting myself, was not sorry for it.
I was becoming perturbed: I am not a man who cares to bare his soul for others, and I regretted, now, that I had said as much as I had to Elizabeth.
I was forced to acknowledge that her power was increasing. Had she sprung from a more distinguished family, my growing feelings for her might have been agreeable: as it was, I felt obliged to struggle against them.
Aware of the danger, I was relieved when, on Saturday, Jane Bennet declared herself well enough to return home. Polite protests were made, enough to persuade her to remain another day, but beyond that she would not be moved. They were to leave on Sunday, after matins.
A swift review of all that had occurred these last few days concerned
me in case Elizabeth was entertaining her own hopes and expectations. I knew she understood Miss Bingley had designs on me; I thought she was quick enough to suspect jealousy in that lady’s incivility to herself. And my own attentions must have betrayed my admiration for her.
I must now make it clear I had no intentions. It pained me to do so, but it was necessary.
In consequence, I hardly spoke to her on Saturday. When left alone with her, I ignored her and kept my eyes on my book, though I confess I turned over more pages than I read.
They left on Sunday, as arranged. On departure, Elizabeth seemed to be in the best of spirits. Had she been disappointed by my coolness, she gave no sign of being unhappy about it.
It would have been more gracious of me were I pleased to see her taking such a sensible attitude, but I confess I was not. I prided myself on my sense and judgement, yet here my sentiments were far from being sensible. I was mortified to discover she had more self-command than I did.
I took myself off for a walk, reminding myself of all the arguments against entertaining any design on Elizabeth Bennet. Reminding myself of the evils of such an alliance might strengthen my resolve, but there seemed to be little I could do to repress the feelings I had for Elizabeth. She was lively, and she was intelligent, and she was kind and she was lovely. I found such delight in her.
I now resolved to leave Netherfield as soon as I could. Here, I could hardly avoid seeing her and my knowledge of her and my feelings for her had grown too rapidly: should I see her often, I would be lost to every rational consideration.
At dinner, before I could make my excuses, I found Bingley had remembered his declared intention of holding a ball.
‘It would not be advisable to hold it this week,’ he said, ‘for I am by no means persuaded Miss Bennet is fully recovered from her illness. I propose we hold it next Tuesday sennight. What say you, Darcy?’
‘You cannot expect Mr Darcy to enter into your scheme with enthusiasm, Charles,’ Miss Bingley reproved him. ‘For him, a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure.’
Having determined my sentiments, Miss Bingley also affected to share them. She could hardly have been more mistaken: I was recalling how once I had promised myself the pleasure of dancing with one particular lady.
No harm would be done by putting off my excuses and departure until after the ball. No harm would be done by allowing myself one small indulgence, one dance with Elizabeth.
In spite of Miss Bingley’s efforts to be entertaining, the evenings without Elizabeth had lost much of their savour and when, during the week, Bingley suggested riding to Longbourn to enquire after the health of Miss Jane Bennet, I agreed to accompany him.
We did not go all the way, for passing through Meryton we came across all the Bennet sisters in the street, talking with a group of gentlemen.
Bingley went towards them and began the usual civilities and I, in my determination not to look at Elizabeth, found myself looking at someone very different: someone I recognized.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
George Wickham!
There he was, impudent as ever, the one man I had believed I would never meet again in the whole course of my life.
There he was, the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favourite of my father, the bane of my life.
He was deep in conversation with Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Four
‘DO NOT DARE tell me you are in love with such a man,’ I said savagely. My sister was alarmed to see me so angry, but on that dreadful day in Ramsgate last July, I was too intent on venting my own feelings to have much concern for hers. ‘He is a libertine a gamester and a drunkard,’ I went on remorselessly. ‘He is extravagant, false, and deceitful. He has no integrity and no conscience.’
‘No!’ cried Georgiana. ‘This cannot be! How can you speak of him so, sir? You know how Papa valued him.’
‘I do, indeed,’ I said drily. I struggled for composure, for I could not wholly blame my sister who, in her youth and innocence, had trusted our father’s good opinion. ‘He was taken in, Georgiana, and you know not how it pained me to see it. But you shall know the truth: I will not have Wickham insinuate himself with you.’
‘I know he is not well connected,’ said Georgiana tearfully. ‘I thought you might object on that account, but—’
‘And so I would, especially for a girl of your tender years! But I have other reasons: you deserve a better man than Wickham, my dear. He is wholly profligate.’
‘There must be some mistake!’ she said desperately. ‘I cannot believe he is all the things you say! I remember how kind he was to me when I was small.’
‘That is true,’ I acknowledged. ‘I can well understand that your fond memories assist your belief in him. Always he was charming, that I know. But you have been deceived by it, Georgiana. You know not what wickedness that charm conceals.’
‘Oh, this is insupportable!’ cried Georgiana. ‘You are determined, are you not, to set me against him?’
‘You may be sure I am,’ I replied. ‘You are a lady of good fortune, Georgiana, and fortune is Wickham’s design, believe me. But I do not understand what he means to do. He knows he cannot marry you without the consent of your guardians: and he must know that neither I nor our cousin Fitzwilliam would ever give it.’
Something in the stiffening of my sister’s slight figure opened up another idea on the matter. ‘Oh no! Georgiana, you cannot be planning to elope with him?’
‘I had hoped I would not have to,’ she cried. ‘I hoped you would be reasonable and give your consent so we could be married properly.’
‘An elopement!’ I said in disgust. ‘And you let him persuade you to this? Have you no pride, have you no regard for your own credit?’
‘I wanted to be married properly,’ she repeated. ‘You must know I would not wish to grieve you. But he thought it was the only way we could be together.’
‘I am sure he did,’ I said drily. She made no answer and once again I found myself struggling to contain my feelings. ‘Georgiana, you are but fifteen years old: you have lately finished school and you know but little of the world. You may believe there are many, besides Wickham, who will love you for your fortune. You need time to learn how to judge men.’
‘I trusted Papa’s good opinion,’ said Georgiana, sulkily. ‘And I do not yet understand why I should not.’
‘I should think the mere fact Wickham tried to persuade you to an elopement was reason enough, ‘I told her. ‘You may take it from me, my dear, that no man of any honour would make such an attempt.’
‘But we love each other!’ cried Georgiana. ‘Why can you not understand?’
‘Would he love you so well had you no fortune to recommend you?’ I demanded. ‘Knowing Wickham, I take leave to doubt it.’
Georgiana protested again but here the conversation was interrupted briefly by the arrival of our cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam.
‘I came as soon as I received your message, sir,’ he said to me, ‘for I judged it a matter of some urgency. What is going forward here?’
‘This silly chit imagines herself in love with Wickham,’ I said.
‘What?’ Fitzwilliam burst into laughter and it was some time before he could be persuaded to take the matter seriously. This caused more annoyance to Georgiana than to myself.
‘We have been careless in our guardianship, sir,’ I told Fitzwilliam soberly. ‘We should have enquired more closely into the character of Mrs Younge before we engaged her to be my sister’s companion. It seems she had an acquaintance with Wickham and has done everything possible to further his interest with Georgiana. I doubt not he promised her some reward once his object was achieved. Heavens, what a dupe have I been. I make no doubt they have been planning this for some time.’
Fitzwilliam sucked in his breath. ‘It is fortunate indeed that you happened upon them when you did.’
‘The veriest chance,’ I agreed. ‘For it was mere impulse on my part to
join Georgiana, here in Ramsgate. Had I been but a week later….’
‘It is indeed quite frightening,’ agreed Fitzwilliam. ‘But you shall not take upon yourself more blame than your due, sir. Honest men cannot be expected to anticipate the actions of scoundrels.’
I could not be so easily reconciled. ‘Wickham thinks he knows me,’ I said intensely, ‘but he does not. For had he succeeded in his design, he would not have lived to enjoy his ill-gotten gains. She would have been a widow as soon as she was a wife, for I would have killed him. Aye, and swung for it, if I had to.’
‘You could not!’ whispered Georgiana, appalled. ‘You could not court death and dishonour in such a way!’
‘Better tried and hanged for murder than the disgrace of knowing you were tied for life to such a man, and through my carelessness.’
‘He means it,’ cried Georgiana. ‘Cousin, can you not talk some sense into him?’
‘It has not happened, and it will not,’ said Fitzwilliam with practical good sense. ‘But it is well that you know how far your brother would go to protect you. You are the one we have to talk sense into, Georgie. You must understand what manner of man Wickham is.’
‘I confess I do not,’ said Georgiana. ‘He always seems so gentle and good. And if he is everything you say, how was it that Papa esteemed him so highly? Could he really have been so blind?’
‘He could and he was,’ said Fitzwilliam bluntly. ‘You know well enough that Wickham’s father was a decent man: his good conduct as your father’s steward naturally inclined your father to believe the son just as respectable. Wickham’s manners were always charming, as we have lately been reminded. Your father was fond of him and enjoyed his company. He never understood his true nature.’
I took up the story. ‘When he visited Pemberley, Wickham took care to guard his behaviour: Papa saw nothing to raise his suspicions. He was not so guarded at other times and in other places. We both saw enough to understand what he was, and we had reason to believe those things we heard about him, too. Georgiana, he is totally without principle.’