by Eliza Gordon
They were on the point of seeking him upstairs with their mother when they were met by the butler. "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. He was deliberately pursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of the paddock.
Jane soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for breath, came up with him. "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 it 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. 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. Moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her, during your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions which, considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying with, as far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I will send this by express, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You will comprehend, from these details, that Mr. Wickham's circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to be. The world has been deceived in that respect. 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 fortune. If you send me full powers to act in your name throughout 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 quiet at Longbourn, and depend on my diligence and care. Send back your answer as fast 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 anything more is determined on. Yours, etc.,
"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 thought him," said her sister. "My dear father, I congratulate you."
"And have you answered the letter?" cried Elizabeth.
"No; but it must be done soon."
Most earnestly did she then entreaty him to lose no more time before he wrote.
"Oh! My dear father come back and write immediately," she cried. "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. Second, how am I ever to repay 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, though it had not occurred to me before," said Elizabeth. "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 on 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 that he would not marry Lydia if he had not a real regard for her," replied Jane. "Though our kind uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds, or anything like it, has been advanced. He has children of his own and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds?"
"If he were ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been, and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we should exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them because Wickham has not sixpence of his own," said Elizabeth. "The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal protection, 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. I flatter myself they will settle quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in time make their past imprudence forgotten."
"Their conduct has been such as neither you, nor I, nor anybody can ever forget," replied Elizabeth. "It is useless to talk of it."
It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library 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 fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her happiness, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct.
"My dear, dear Lydia! This is delightful indeed! She will be married!" she cried. "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 everything! 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 lead her thoughts to the obligations which Mr. Gardiner's behaviour laid them all under.
"For we must attribute this happy conclusion, in a great measure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has pledged himself to assist Mr. Wickham with money."
"Well, it is all very right. Who should do it but her uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my children must have had all his money, you know. It is the first time we have ever had anything from him, except a few presents. Well! I am so happy!" cried her mother. "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 not write. 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."
Proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and cambric, she would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders. With some difficulty, Jane 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, as soon as I am dressed, and tell the good, good news to my sister Philips," said she. "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 anything 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 room, that she might think with freedom.
Poor Lydia's situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it was no worse, she needed to be thankful. Though, neither rational happiness nor worldly prosperity could be justly expected for her sister.
Chapter 47
Before this period of his life, Mr. Bennet had very often wished he had laid by an annual sum instead of spending his whole income. Money 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 anyone should be forwarded at the sole expense of his brother-in-law. 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 useless, for, of course, they were to have a son. The son was to join in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age. 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. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then too late for 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 acknowledgement for the kindness of his brother, Mr Bennet committed to paper his explicit approval and his willingness to fulfil the engagements.
He had never before supposed that Wickham could 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. With her board and pocket allowance, and the continual presents in money which passed to her through her mother's hands, Lydia's expenses had been almost that sum.
That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was another very welcome surprise. His 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. Though dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick in its execution. He begged to know further details of his debt to his brother but was too angry with Lydia to send any message to her.
The good news spread quickly 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 farmhouse. But there was much to be talked of in marrying her.
The good-natured wishes for her well-doing which had proceeded before from all the spiteful old ladies in Meryton lost but a little of their spirit in this change of circumstances. With such a husband her misery was considered certain.
It was two weeks since Mrs. Bennet had been downstairs. On this happy day, she again took her seat at the head of her table, and in spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame dampened her triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object of her wishes, was now on the point of accomplishment. 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 home for her daughter. Without knowing or considering what their income might be, she rejected many as deficient in size and importance.
"Haye Park might do if the Gouldings could 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 Pulvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful."
Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the servants remained. When they had withdrawn, he said, "Mrs. Bennet, before you take any or all of these houses, 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 remained firm. It soon led to another. 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 exceeded all she could believe possible. To refuse his daughter a privilege without which her marriage would scarcely seem valid.
Mrs. Bennet was more alive to the disgrace which her want of new clothes must reflect on her daughter's nuptials, than to any sense of shame at her eloping and living with Wickham weeks before the wedding.
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. Her marriage would so shortly give the proper termination to the elopement. The Bennet family 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. And there was no one whose knowledge of a sister's frailty would have mortified her so much. Not from any fear of disadvantage from it individually to herself, for there seemed a gulf impassable between them.
Even had Lydia entered marriage on the most honourable terms, Mr. Darcy would surely not connect himself with a family allied with Wickham. There would now be added to every other objection, an alliance and relationship of the nearest kind with a man whom he so justly scorned.
From such a connection she could not wonder that he would shrink. The wish of procuring her regard 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 benefit 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.
He was as generous, as the most generous of his sex; but while he was mortal, there must be a triumph.
What a triumph for him! Could he know that the proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago, would now have been most gladly and gratefully received?
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 a union that must have been to the advantage of both. By her ease and liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved. From his judgement, information, and knowledge of the world, she must have received benefit of greater importance. No such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what a happy marriage was.
A 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. How little permanent happiness could belong to a couple who were only brought together because their passions were stronger than their virtue?