Pride and Prejudice (The Wild and Wanton Edition)

by Annabella Bloom

  “Blame you? Oh, no.”

  “But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?”

  “No, I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.”

  “Wait till I tell you what happened the very next day.”

  Elizabeth told Jane of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far as they concerned George Wickham. Jane would have willingly gone through her whole life without believing wickedness existed in all of mankind, as was here collected in one individual. Nor was Darcy’s vindication capable of consoling her for such a discovery. She tried, most earnestly, to establish the probability of error and seek to clear the one without involving the other.

  “This will not do,” said Elizabeth. “You will never be able to make them both good. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied with only one. For my part, I am inclined to believe Darcy, but you shall do as you choose.”

  However, it was some time before a smile could be extorted from Jane. “I do not know when I have been more shocked. Wickham so very bad — it is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! Dear Lizzy, only consider what he must have suffered. He must have felt such a disappointment and with the knowledge of your ill opinion, too. Then having to relate such a thing about his sister. It is really too distressing. I am sure you must agree.”

  “Oh, no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so full of both. I know you will do his feelings ample justice that I am growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent.”

  Jane sighed, refusing to be cheered by Elizabeth’s jesting. “Poor Wickham, there is such an expression of goodness in his countenance and such an openness and gentleness in his manner.”

  “There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those two young men.” Elizabeth could not help but think of Darcy’s stern countenance. “One has got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it.”

  “I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the appearance of it as you used to.”

  “I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike to him, without any reason. Then I read his letter. With no one to speak to about what I felt, no Jane to comfort me and say that I had not been so very weak and vain and nonsensical as I knew I had. Oh, how I wanted you! You would have known just what I should have done to make it right.”

  “It is unfortunate that you used such very strong expressions in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they do appear wholly undeserved.”

  “The misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. I do feel as if I ought to make our acquaintances understand Wickham’s character. Though, I will not. Mr. Darcy has not authorized me to make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to myself. Besides, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in Meryton to attempt to place him in an amiable light. Yet, I feel there is little justice in not redeeming his character.”

  “It would be an injustice to Mr. Darcy to reveal what he told you in confidence, even to hint at it. If he wishes to redeem his character, then I think he must be the one to do it — or at least charge the care to a friend.”

  “Thankfully, Wickham will soon be gone. It will be glad to forget him.”

  “To have Wickham’s errors made public might ruin him forever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and anxious to re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate.”

  Elizabeth was not sure she wholly agreed with Jane’s assessment. The fact that he tried to re-establish his character at the expense of a man who did not deserve it proved he was not sorry for what he had done. However, the tumult of her mind was allayed by their conversation. She had gotten rid of the two secrets that had weighed on her for a fortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Jane whenever she might wish to talk again of either. But there were still a few things lurking in the back of her mind, both of which prudence forbade the disclosure. The first was that she dare not relate the other half of Mr. Darcy’s letter. The second was she dare not relate the unmentionable feelings she had for Mr. Darcy. The first would only bring pain. The second was not worth discussing for the feelings had nothing to do with considering marriage and everything to do with desiring an affair; and she could not bear to tell Jane she wanted Mr. Darcy in body only. Jane was kindness and good, and would only consider such happy desires as springing from marriage. Elizabeth knew such desires could spring from lust, but that marriage between Mr. Darcy and herself would be a mistake. They were both too proud, too stubborn, and would most likely argue until the end of time. And, lest she forget, he had ruined Jane’s happiness — a most unforgivable offense.

  Now, being settled at home and at leisure to observe the real state of her sister’s spirits, Elizabeth determined Jane was not happy. Her sister still cherished a very tender affection for Bingley. Having never fancied herself in love before, Jane’s regard had all the warmth of first attachment and, from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than most first attachments often boast. So fervently did she remember him and prefer him to every other man.

  “Well, Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet one day. “What is your opinion of this sad business of Jane’s? For my part, I am determined never to speak of it again to anybody. I told my sister Philips so the other day. But I cannot find out if Jane saw him in London. Has she mentioned it to you? Well, he is a very undeserving young man, and I do not suppose there’s the least chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his coming to Netherfield in the summer. I have inquired of everybody, too, who is likely to know.”

  “I do not believe he will ever again live at Netherfield,” Elizabeth said.

  “Oh well, it is as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. I shall always say he used my daughter extremely ill. I am sure Jane will die of a broken heart and then he will be sorry for what he has done.”

  As Elizabeth could not find comfort in such expectation, she made no answer.

  “Well, Lizzy,” continued her mother, “and so the Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it will last. Charlotte is an excellent manager, I daresay. If she is half as sharp as her mother, she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in their housekeeping?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “A great deal of good management, depend upon it. They will never be distressed for money. I suppose, they often talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead.”

  “It was a subject they did not mention before me.”

  “No, it would have been strange if they had. I do not doubt they often discuss it between themselves.” Mrs. Bennet continued to talk, supposing that Elizabeth should have been the current Mrs. Collins so that the entail would have been settled to their favor. Elizabeth did her best not to hear her and could not help but think of how her mother would react if she knew her daughter had refused a man with ten thousand a year. Prudence kept her from saying a word.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  THE FIRST WEEK OF THEIR RETURN was soon gone and the second began. It was the last of the regiment’s stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies in the neighborhood were feeling the sad effects. The dejection was almost universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink, and sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very frequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such hard-heartedness. Their affectionate mother shared their grief.

  “I cried for two days when Colonel Miller’s regiment went away. I thought my heart broken,” said Mrs. Bennet.

  “I am sure I shall break mine,” said Lydia.

  “If one could but go to Brighton,” observed Mrs. Bennet.

  “Oh, yes, if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so disagree
able.”

  “A little sea-bathing would set me up forever.”

  “And my aunt Philips is sure it would do me a great deal of good,” added Kitty.

  Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them, but all sense of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy’s objections and never had she been so much disposed to pardon his interference in the views of his friend.

  But Lydia’s gloom was shortly cleared away for she received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humor and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other.

  The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster, the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely to be described. Completely inattentive to her sister’s feelings, Lydia flew about the house in restless ecstasy, calling for everyone’s congratulations. The luckless Kitty complained about her fate, “I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask me as well as Lydia. I have just as much right as she has. I am two years older.”

  In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make Kitty reasonable, and Jane to make her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was far from exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia. She considered it as the death warrant of all possibility of common sense for the latter. Lydia would have detested her if she found out, but Elizabeth could not help secretly advising her father not to let her go. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia’s general behavior, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must be greater than at home.

  After listening attentively, he replied, “Lydia will never be easy until she has exposed herself in some public place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present circumstances.”

  “If you were aware,” Elizabeth said, “of the very great disadvantage to us all which must arise from the public notice of Lydia’s unguarded and imprudent manner, I am sure you would judge differently.”

  “Has she frightened away some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! Do not be cast down. Such squeamish youths that cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of pitiful fellows who have been kept aloof by Lydia’s folly.”

  “Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent.” Elizabeth refused to think of Mr. Darcy. There was no need to tell her father about the proposal. “It is of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our importance, our respectability in the world must be affected by the wild volatility, and the disdain of all restraint that marks Lydia’s character. If you will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and of teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of her life, she will soon be beyond the reach of correction. Her character will be fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt that ever made herself or her family ridiculous. Kitty will follow wherever Lydia leads — vain, ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled. Can you suppose it possible that they will be censured and despised wherever they are known, and that their sisters will often be involved in the disgrace?”

  Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject, and affectionately taking her hand said in reply, “Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known you must be respected and valued. You will not appear to less advantage for having a couple of very silly sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will keep her out of any real mischief. She is luckily too poor to be an object of prey to anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance than she has been here. Let us hope that her stay may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow many degrees worse, without obliging us to lock her up for the rest of her life.”

  With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content, but her own opinion continued the same and she left him disappointed and sorry.

  During those last days before the soldiers were to leave Meryton, Elizabeth was frequently in the company of Mr. Wickham. Any agitation on her part did not last long. The very gentleness which had first delighted her, now filled her with disgust. The feeling was made all the more predominate by his testifying a renewal of those intentions which had marked the early part of their acquaintance. She had no wish to be the object of his idle and frivolous gallantry; and looked at him with renewed eyes at each and every meeting, and each time she found him lacking in another way.

  On the very last day of the regiment’s remaining at Meryton, he dined at Longbourn with some other officers. Elizabeth was so little disposed to part from him in good humor, that on his making some inquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam’s and Mr. Darcy’s having both spent three weeks at Rosings, and asked him, if he was acquainted with the former.

  He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment’s recollection and a returning smile, replied that he had formerly seen him often. After observing that he was a very gentlemanlike man, asked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in Fitzwilliam’s favor.

  With an air of indifference he added, “How long did you say he was at Rosings?”

  “Nearly three weeks.”

  “And you saw him frequently?”

  “Yes, almost every day.”

  “His manners are very different from his cousin’s.”

  “Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves upon acquaintance.”

  “Indeed!” said Mr. Wickham with a look which did not escape her. “And pray, may I ask…?” But checking himself, he added, in a forced pleasant tone, “Is it in manners that he improves? Has he deigned to add civility to his ordinary style?”

  “Oh, no,” said Elizabeth, “in essentials, I believe, he is very much what he ever was.”

  Wickham looked as if scarcely knew whether to rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a something in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive and anxious attention.

  Elizabeth could not resist. She would not say exactly what she meant, but let Wickham wonder at how much she knew. “When I said he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that his mind or his manners were in a state of improvement, but that, from knowing him better, his disposition was better understood.”

  Wickham’s alarm appeared in his heightened complexion, and she silently took the small victory. For a few minutes he did not speak. Then, shaking off his embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said, “You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Darcy, will readily comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume even the appearance of what is right. His pride in that direction may be of service, if not to himself then to others. It must deter him from repeating such foul misconduct as I have suffered. I only fear that the sort of cautiousness to which you have been alluding is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgment he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always been evident when they were together, and a good deal is to be imputed to his wish of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I am certain he has very much at heart.”

  Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on the old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humor to indulge him. The rest of the evening passed with the appearance, on his side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to distinguish Elizabeth. They parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a mutual desire of never meeting again.

  When the party broke up, Ly
dia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton from whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation between her and her family was more noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the only one who shed tears, but she wept from vexation and envy. Mrs. Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter, and impressive in her injunctions that she should not miss the opportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible — advice which there was every reason to believe would be well attended to.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Despite her protests to Jane otherwise, Elizabeth found her mind occupied with thoughts of marriage and Mr. Darcy — not necessarily because she was convinced she wanted to marry Mr. Darcy, but because his asking her and the succession of information that followed caused her to reconsider her opinions of herself and what she truly wanted in her life.

  Had Elizabeth’s opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could not have formed a very pleasing opinion of conjugal felicity or domestic comfort. Her father married her mother because she was beautiful and had the appearance of a good nature. However, early in their marriage these qualities became tarnished by the reality of her weak mind and he lost what respect he had for her. Now, he was fond primarily of the country and of books, and from these tastes had arisen his principal enjoyments. To his wife he was little indebted, other than the fact her ignorance and folly often contributed to his amusement. This is not the sort of happiness which a man would wish to owe to his wife but, where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true philosopher will derive benefit from those that are given.

  Elizabeth had never been blind to the impropriety of her father’s behavior as a husband. She had always seen it with pain, but respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of herself, she endeavored to forget what she could not overlook. She tried to banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation and decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own children, was so highly reprehensible. But, till now, she had never felt so strongly the disadvantages which must befall the children of so unsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising from so ill-judged a direction of talents — talents, which, rightly used, might at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters, even if incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife.