by Eliza Gordon
At length, she spoke again. "I have just had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My younger sister has left all her friends—has eloped; has thrown herself into the power 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 that I might have prevented it! I, who knew what he was," she added in a yet more agitated voice. "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. 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 acquiescence.
"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. He walked 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. Everything 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 wishes.
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. Covering her face with her handkerchief, Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else. After a pause of several minutes was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the voice of her companion.
In a manner which, though it spoke compassion, spoke likewise restraint, he said, "I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence. Nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything 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 apologise 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 and wished the matter a happier conclusion than there was reason to hope. After leaving his compliments for her relations, with only one serious, parting look, he went away.
As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt it improbable that they should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as had marked their meetings in Derbyshire. A retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, showed it full of contradictions and varieties. She sighed at the perverseness of 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. Alternatively, affectionate regard arising on a first interview and even before two words have been exchanged had been tried by Elizabeth in her partiality for Wickham.
Be that as it may, Elizabeth saw Darcy go with regret. 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 development. While the contents of the first letter remained in her mind, she was all surprise, all astonishment that Wickham should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry for money. 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 enough charm. She did not suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement without the intention of marriage. Elizabeth believed 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 wanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one officer, sometimes another, had been her favourite, as their attentions raised them in her opinion. Her affections had continually been 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.
Though almost persuaded that nothing could be done for Lydia, her uncle's interference seemed of the utmost importance. Till he entered the room, 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. 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, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be deeply afflicted.
Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it. After the first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner 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, everything 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."
"What 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 least could only serve 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. 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 at Lambton, with false excuses for their sudden departure.
Mr. Gardiner meanwhile settled his account at the inn.
An hour saw the whole completed. Nothing remained to be done but to go.
After all the misery of the morning, Elizabeth found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.
Chapter 44
"I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth. Upon serious consideration, I am more inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does on the matter," said her uncle, as they drove from the town. "It appears to me
so very unlikely that any young man should form such a design against a girl who is not unprotected or friendless, and who was actually staying in his colonel's family. Therefore, I am inclined to hope for 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 think so?" cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment.
"Upon my word, I begin to be of your uncle's opinion," said Mrs. Gardiner. "It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and interest, for him to be guilty of. 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, there is no absolute proof that they are not gone to Scotland," replied Mr. Gardiner.
"Oh, but their removing from the chaise into a 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 exceptional purpose. It is not likely that money should be very abundant on either side. 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 attraction has she that could make him forego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? Lydia has no brothers to step forward. He might imagine, from my father's behaviour, his indolence and the little attention he seemed to give to his family, that he would do as little as any father could in such a matter."
"But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love of him as to consent to live with him on any terms other than marriage?"
"It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed, that her sense of decency and virtue should admit doubt. But, really, I know not what to say. Perhaps I am not doing her justice. She is very young. She has never been taught to think on serious subjects. For the last twelvemonth—she has been given up to amusement and vanity," replied Elizabeth, with tears in her eyes. "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. Nothing but love, flirtation, and officers have been in her head. She has been doing everything in her power by thinking and talking on the subject, to give greater susceptibility to her feelings. 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 does not think so very ill of Wickham as to believe him capable of the attempt," said her aunt.
"Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there that she would think 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. He has neither integrity nor honour. 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. I told you, the other day, of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy. 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." Elizabeth coloured. "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, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it necessary to make our knowledge public. 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 could 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."
However little of novelty could be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, no other could detain them from its repeated discussion. 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. The carriage drove up to the door. The joyful surprise that lit 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. After giving each of them a hasty kiss, she hurried into the vestibule. Jane came running down from her mother's apartment, immediately met her. They affectionately embraced, whilst tears filled the eyes of both. Not a moment was lost in asking whether anything had been heard of the fugitives.
"Not yet," replied Jane. "But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope everything 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 twice. 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 assured her of her being well. Their conversation 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. They soon found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good, however, 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 their marriage.
After a few minutes' conversation together, they went to Mrs. Bennet who received them exactly as might be expected. With tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her sufferings and ill-usage. She blame
d everybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the errors of her daughter must principally be owed.
"If I had been able to carry my point in going to Brighton, with all my family, this would not have happened," said she. "But poor dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing if she had been well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the charge of her; but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor dear child! And now here's Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight Wickham, wherever he meets him. 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. 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. He would assist Mr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia.
"Do not give way to useless alarm, though it is right to be prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain," he added. "It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more we may gain some news of them. 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. Then we may consult together as to what is to be done."
"Oh! my dear brother that is exactly what I could most wish for," replied Mrs. Bennet. "And now do, when you get to town, find them out, wherever they may be. If they are not married already, make them marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them after they are married. And, above all, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in. That I am frighted 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."