by Mary Street
‘Some of us have grown up since those days, Wickham. Since you are about to enter the estate of wedlock, you would be well advised to do the same.’
It was hopeless: he would go on. He talked of fishing in the Derwent, of meeting gypsies at Whatstandwell, of pony rides across Masson.
I stood up to go. ‘I see your design, Wickham,’ I said. ‘You think recalling these memories will put me into a complaisant mood, so you might derive greater benefit. You will not succeed. I have more recent memories of you, which fill me with repugnance, and I know how you slandered me in Hertfordshire. You might have done better out of me had you – I delivered the most cutting reproof I could think of – ‘had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.’
I left, angry with him, for the memory which haunted me was of Elizabeth, her eyes filled with tears, her slim shoulders braced to bear all the ignominy and shame of her sister’s disgrace. Never, whatever the future held of pain or pleasure, never would I forgive him for that.
Meanwhile, acting on Wickham’s behalf, although without his knowledge, I went to see a friend at the War Office and told him I wanted to purchase a commission in a northern regiment. Wickham meant to resign his commission in Colonel Forster’s regiment, but he would have to do something, and, since his lady liked to see a man in regimentals, I proposed he should continue to make the army his profession.
My friend knew I did not purchase such a commission for myself, but he was in a jocular frame of mind and chose to chaff me about it. At length he was persuaded to be serious.
‘Newcastle? Why Newcastle, Darcy?’
‘It has the advantage of distance. And I know who the general is.’
‘You do?’ My friend gave me a speculative look. ‘They say he frightens his own officers even more than he frightens the enemy.’
‘Exactly,’ I said. Wickham, although he did not know it, would find himself obliged to submit to a sterner discipline than any he had yet experienced. He would, if he was wise, exercise smartly when he was on parade and behave himself when he was not.
My friend said he would attend to the matter and advise me as soon as possible.
As a result of this, I was in a better frame of mind when I returned to Wickham’s lodgings, and he, by that time, had made up his mind to be businesslike. Being Wickham, he wanted more than he could get. It took time, and mention of a debtors’ prison, to induce him to be reasonable. Eventually, we settled down to serious business.
Too much time had been wasted and we did not finish our discussions that day, but by Friday afternoon, the business was agreed. He was willing enough to accept my suggestion to continue his profession in the army. It was settled. His debts would be paid, a sum of money settled upon Lydia and a commission purchased.
He saw the advantage of starting afresh in a northern regiment, where neither of them were known. ‘You have the ability to do well if you apply yourself,’ I said. ‘You know how to make yourself popular. But I should renounce gambling, if I were you, Wickham.’ By this time, I knew the extent of his debts. ‘You are not good at it.’
Lydia pouted a little about leaving her friends in Brighton, but Wickham knew he could not return there and soon persuaded her she would make new friends in the north, assuring her there would be balls and parties, which was chiefly what she cared about.
When I left, Lydia was prattling about new clothes for her wedding and expressing her own satisfaction that she, the youngest of the Bennet sisters, would be the first of them to be married. Wickham smiled indulgently and said pretty things to her. I, disgusted with them both, was persuaded they deserved each other.
It remained to make Lydia Bennet’s family acquainted with what had been done and with this object in mind I went to call upon Mr Gardiner in Gracechurch Street. He was not at home. Upon enquiry, I discovered Mr Bennet was with him, but was returning to Longbourn tomorrow.
I received this news with some relief. I knew not how far Elizabeth confided in her father, but whether he knew of my sentiments for his daughter or whether I was no more than a young man he met briefly last autumn, I wished him to know nothing of my involvement in this affair.
Accordingly, I postponed my intention of seeing Mr Gardiner until Mr Bennet had left. I left word, desiring Mr Gardiner to be at home when I called again, but I did not leave my name.
I returned to Gracechurch Street the following day. Mr Gardiner greeted me with some surprise and a great deal of warmth. When the usual civilities were over, I said, ‘Before you left Lambton, sir, your niece made me acquainted with the matter which is at present causing your family some distress. It is for this reason I am here to consult with you. I have information concerning Mr Wickham and your niece.’
He became businesslike immediately, demanding to know the particulars. ‘You have seen them both? And they are not married?’
‘No, sir, they are not.’
‘Could I expect it to be otherwise?’ he murmured.
‘But,’ I went on, ‘I venture to hope they soon will be. I have represented the advisability of marriage to Mr Wickham, and he has come to agree with me.’
Mr Gardiner was now regarding me with the liveliest interest. ‘Mr Darcy, you astonish me.’
‘Sir, I beg you will pardon my intrusion into the affairs of your family. But I had some knowledge of his acquaintance to assist me in discovering them.’
‘You need ask no pardon, sir,’ exclaimed Mr Gardiner. ‘Indeed, I am indebted to you for your exertions on behalf of my niece.’
His tone left me in some doubt about which niece he meant.
‘I confess, I felt I had a duty in the matter, also,’ I said, ‘for I neglected to make Wickham’s character known when he first came into Hertfordshire. Had I done so, he would not have been received into society and this elopement would not then have taken place.’
Mr Gardiner was regarding me with some astonishment, but he said nothing and I, pained by the knowledge that I must lower myself in his esteem, braced myself to continue. ‘I have sometimes been accused of pride and arrogance, and I expect you have heard something of it, yourself, sir?’
‘Indeed, I have,’ agreed Mr Gardiner. ‘I have, if I may say so, heard far more than I have been able to observe.’
I felt my cheeks grow warm, knowing who had spoken of it. ‘I … er … I have lately been made aware of the evils resulting from such attitudes and never more so than in this matter. For I went expressly against the advice of a friend, who told me I should make Wickham’s worthlessness known. I heeded him not, for I am not a man who cares to lay his private actions open to the world. My friend said sometimes it was necessary to prevent a greater evil. He was right. As we have seen.’
Mr Gardiner was examining his own fingernails with great interest. ‘Mr Darcy,’ he said unsteadily, ‘you have persuaded me the whole business is entirely your fault. Indeed, now you have explained it to me, I can easily perceive that no blame at all should be attached to Mr Wickham or to my niece. I cannot understand why it did not occur to me sooner.’
Damn the man, he was far too perceptive. He might choose to be diverted by my confessions at present, but he would give me a hard time when he realized my design was to take the financial burden upon myself.
Before that happened, he expressed a desire to see Lydia and Wickham for himself. I had expected this, and had accordingly instructed my coachman to keep my carriage waiting.
The visit was brief. Mr Gardiner was stern, Lydia unabashed, with Wickham exerting himself to be charming.
‘My wife,’ said Mr Gardiner as we made the return journey to Gracechurch Street, ‘has remained at Longbourn, but returns home later today. I am persuaded she will agree with me that Lydia should stay with us and be married from our house.’
‘It will be to her advantage if you are willing to offer her your protection and countenance,’ I agreed. ‘And certainly it will be a comfort to her parents and sisters.’
‘I am concerned more for them than for Lydia
herself,’ said Mr Gardiner. ‘I declare, never have I been more shocked than I was by her behaviour, this morning. So far from being ashamed, she seems to be pleased with herself.’
‘I am afraid she has been influenced by Wickham.’ I excused her as best I could. ‘She does seem to be genuinely fond of him.’
‘So she may be, at present. I cannot feel there can be any lasting happiness for her in marriage to such a man.’
My own opinion was that each of them was as likely to be happy with the other as with anyone else. They were both shallow, extravagant and vain: lack of money was all that would cause either of them any grief.
Money became the subject of discussion between myself and Mr Gardiner as soon as we returned to Gracechurch Street. He perfectly approved of the arrangements I had made, confessing himself surprised only that Wickham had agreed to so little. ‘My brother Bennet was convinced he would not take her for less than ten thousand pounds.’
‘Wickham’s present circumstances are desperate indeed,’ I said. ‘His demands are tempered by the necessity of immediate relief.’
He nodded, smiling. ‘I congratulate you, sir. I flatter myself I am not without shrewdness in the matter of business, but I doubt I would have driven such a bargain with him.’
‘Our long acquaintance has taught me his tricks and also some methods of dealing with them. Moreover, I object, on principle, to lining his pockets. I will do what is necessary, but no more than is necessary.’
At this point Mr Gardiner discovered my intention of taking the financial burden upon myself. And I discovered just how shrewd Mr Gardiner was.
He insisted I had done much: he would not allow me to do more.
I repeated my assertion that this present evil was brought about by my neglect.
‘The present evil,’ said Mr Gardiner bluntly, ‘was brought about by Wickham’s perfidy and Lydia’s folly and you know it.’
‘It would not have happened had I not failed to make Wickham’s character generally known.’
‘As to that,’ replied Mr Gardiner, ‘it seems there were two Bennets who also failed to make Wickham’s character known. Jane, of course, hates to think ill of anyone and is always persuaded of unknown circumstances to account for anyone’s misconduct. And, being Jane, she was convinced Wickham was sorry now, and anxious to re-establish his character: she thought it would be cruel to expose him. Lizzy, however, was under no illusions: she knew exactly what he was.’
I had expected to hear Elizabeth mentioned and was prepared for it. But I confess I blinked a little at this insight into Jane Bennet.
I said, ‘Those ladies did not discover the truth until he was to leave Hertfordshire. I knew it when first he came, and should have heeded my friend’s advice: he warned me there would be evil consequences in remaining silent.’
‘You are not the only person who ignored good advice, Mr Darcy. My brother Bennet told me he was warned against allowing Lydia to go to Brighton. Lizzy did not foresee this turn of events, but she knew Lydia was ripe for mischief.’
This intelligence caused me some anguish on Elizabeth’s behalf. She, the wisest and the best of the Bennets, would easily perceive the danger: and Mr Bennet would know she was right. In his indolence, he had ignored her.
Now, they both suffered for it.
I had to pull myself together. ‘Had he known Wickham’s character, she would have been protected from him.’
And so we argued the matter back and forth. Mr Gardiner was the most skilful opponent I have ever had to deal with. He reasoned with me; he tried to discompose me by throwing in an occasional reference to Elizabeth. He laughed at me, grew stern with me, grew exasperated with me.
I remained stubbornly insistent, though I confess I was exhausted by the time he ran out of arguments.
My respect for Mr Gardiner had increased a great deal during my battle with him, but I was, that day, glad to get away from him. He was too clever. He understood where my reasoning was specious as well as I did, and did not hesitate to point out the weaknesses and flaws in my arguments. In the end, I was forced to rely upon blind obstinacy to carry my point.
The next day being Sunday, I called again after matins. When I did, Mrs Gardiner was returned home from Longbourn. Between us that day, we agreed how matters should be settled.
Another argument ensued when I insisted the Bennets should know nothing of my involvement in the matter. Mr Gardiner knew his brother-in-law would credit him with providing assistance.
Eventually, however, he admitted Mr Bennet would feel less pain of obligation in believing a member of his own family had managed the affair.
I dined with them that evening and, at table, Mrs Gardiner’s discourse touched on the situation at Longbourn.
Mrs Bennet had been of the firmest opinion that her husband had meant to fight Wickham, that in so doing he would be killed, whereupon the Collinses would take over Longbourn leaving the surviving Bennets homeless.
Foolish as Mrs Bennet was, she had real cause for anxiety.
‘If only our dear sister would calm herself,’ said Mrs Gardiner with a sigh. ‘But she seems incapable of moderating her fears and her hopes. Poor Jane was quite worn down. Never have I seen her look so pale as she did upon our return to Longbourn.’
Miss Jane Bennet had been given authority to open her father’s correspondence during his absence. Whilst Mrs Gardiner had been at Longbourn, a letter had arrived from Mr Collins, condoling with Mr Bennet on the severe misfortune the family was now suffering.
The content had not been revealed to Mrs Gardiner but, knowing the gentleman, I was not surprised to hear it had Jane shaking her head and Elizabeth spitting contempt.
Mr Collins heard all the Hertfordshire gossip from his in-laws, the Lucases. By now, my aunt, Lady Catherine, would be acquainted with the particulars. There would be a letter awaiting me at Pemberley, giving me her opinions.
On Monday, we made arrangements with our banks for the transfer of funds, and visited the rector of St Clement’s, arranging for the wedding to take place in a fortnight’s time.
Mr Gardiner sent an express to Longbourn, giving the Bennets an account of the situation. Mrs Gardiner collected Lydia from Wickham’s lodgings and took her to Gracechurch Street.
Aware of neglecting my friends at Pemberley, I resolved to begin my return journey later that day. Wickham caught me before I set off and asked, rather awkwardly, if I would return for the wedding to act as groomsman for him.
I had not thought of it, and I said so. ‘Surely someone among your acquaintance will suit the purpose better?’
‘No, I do not think so.’
It had cost him something to ask me, I could see that, and I was, perhaps, more affected than I should have been. At all events, I agreed. ‘Very well. I will return on Sunday week.’
When I recalled the distress he had caused Elizabeth, when I recollected how he had spoilt my design for restoring the happiness of Bingley and Jane, and cut short my own delight in Elizabeth’s visit to Derbyshire, I thought I must have been mad in thus allowing myself to be softened into agreement.
I arrived at Pemberley on Wednesday, and found myself in some disfavour with my friend. Bingley is usually a good-tempered man, but he seemed offended by my desertion.
‘Since your business was of such importance,’ he said stiffly, ‘why did you not attend to it whilst you were in town last month?’
‘This business was sudden, unexpected and most pressing,’ I assured him.
‘Indeed? Of course, you had no need of my assistance?’
I smiled at him. ‘Sorry I am to say it, Bingley, but in this matter you would have been very much in the way.’ I watched him stiffen even more and added, ‘I am not at liberty to confide in you: all I can say is that friends of mine were in trouble and needed help.’
‘Oh!’ Bingley unbent at once. ‘What a fool I am,’ he exclaimed. ‘I should have known it was something of that nature. Darcy, I beg your pardon.’
‘What did you think I was about?’ I asked.
He flushed. ‘I do not know what I thought,’ he muttered.
I was curious, but since he was embarrassed I did not press him. ‘The same business,’ I added, ‘will take me to town again next week, when, I hope, it will be concluded very speedily.’
Bingley was not the only one behaving oddly. His sisters were less attentive to me than usual, and I noticed my own sister eyeing me with some apprehension: even her companion, Mrs Annesley, was regarding me with some constraint. Something was going on, and I wanted to get to the bottom of it.
Not until the weekend could Georgiana bring herself to confess. Then I learnt that she and Mrs Annesley had been ‘rather naughty, and she hoped I would not be very angry’.
I told Mrs Annesley she was old enough to know better. She blushed and admitted it, but Miss Bingley had been so very provoking, and she could not resist the urge to wipe the smile from that lady’s face.
Mrs Annesley had told Miss Bingley she had heard a report of my engagement to my cousin, Anne. She neglected to add the better information she had from Georgiana.
My sister, joining in the game, added, quite truthfully, that our aunt hoped the wedding would take place very soon. Georgiana had sighed, afraid we would be obliged to have Mr Collins conduct the marriage service.
‘You should both know better,’ I said. ‘Mr Collins, indeed! Lady Catherine would demand no less a personage than the archbishop himself for such an occasion.’
Perceiving I was not seriously displeased, Georgiana looked relieved. Mrs Annesley apologized and said she would, of course, correct the impression she had given Miss Bingley.
‘I beg you will not,’ I said, knowing Miss Bingley would make her suffer for it. ‘You have done no harm.’
And indeed, she had not. Miss Bingley, I venture to suppose, must have felt my admiration for any other lady would be overcome by the prospect of such increase in my connections, consequence, wealth and property.