Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing what she felt, Elizabeth instantly seized the other letter, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read that it had been written a day after the conclusion of the first.
“By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter. I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as the marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia’s short letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that W. never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was repeated to Colonel F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from Brighton intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham, but no further, for on entering that place they removed into a hackney coach, and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that is known after this is that they were seen to continue the London road. I know not what to think. After making every possible inquiry on that side London, Colonel F. came to Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but without any success. With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F., but no one can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the worst, but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make it more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to pursue their first plan. Even if he could form such a design against a young woman of Lydia’s connections, which is not likely, can I suppose her so lost to everything? I grieve to find Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage. He said he feared W. was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother is really ill, and keeps her room. Could she exert herself, it would be better, but this is not to be expected. As to my father, I never in my life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has their anger for concealing their attachment, but as it was a matter of confidence, one cannot wonder. I am truly glad you have been spared something of these distressing scenes. But now, as the first shock is over, shall I own I long for your return? I am not so selfish as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu! Oh, Lizzy, I take up my pen again to do what I have just told you I would not, but circumstances are such that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well, that I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have still something more to ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel Forster to try to discover her. What he means to do I am not sure, but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again tomorrow evening. In such and exigency, my uncle’s advice and assistance would be everything in the world. He will immediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.”
“Oh, where is my uncle?” Elizabeth cried, darting from her seat as she finished the letter. She eagerly intended to follow him, without losing a precious moment, but as she reached the door it was opened by a servant and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous manner made him start, and before he could recover himself to speak, she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia’s situation, hastily exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed. I have not an instant to lose.”
“Good God! What is the matter?” he asked, with more feeling than politeness. Then recollecting himself, “I will not detain you a minute, but let me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are not well enough. You cannot go yourself.”
Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she felt how little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back the servant, she commissioned him, though in so breathless a way as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and mistress home instantly.
On his quitting the room she swayed on her feet and looked helplessly at Darcy. Before she knew what she was doing, she had reached for his arm and was gripping it tightly. His arm stiffened, but he placed his hand over hers with a gentle pat. Elizabeth felt faint and instantly swayed towards his heat. Unable to support herself, and looking so miserably ill, it was impossible for Darcy to leave her as her forehead hit the center of his chest. Darcy slipped his arm along her waist to hold her up. She pressed tight against him, feeling a kind of comfort she would have thought impossible in so a dire moment.
“You must sit,” he said, the words more of an order than a request. He led her to a chair and she did as he commanded her. He leaned next to her, letting her keep hold of his arm, as she had yet to release him.
In a tone of gentleness and commiseration, he said, “Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you present relief? A glass of wine? Shall I get you one?”
“No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavoring to recover herself. “There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well.”
He glanced down to where she clutched his arm and she instantly let go, mumbling an incoherent apology. Darcy straightened, taking a seat across from her.
“I am only distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn.” She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate silence. At length she spoke again. “I have just had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful news that it cannot be concealed from anyone. My younger sister has thrown herself into the power of — 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 forever.”
Darcy was fixed in astonishment. He wanted to reach for her and pull her close, but it was not his place to do so.
“When I consider,” she added in a yet more agitated voice, “that I might have prevented it! I, who knew what he was. Had I but explained some part of what I learned to my own family. Had his character been known, this could not have happened. But it is too late now.”
“I am grieved indeed,” Darcy said. “Is it absolutely certain?”
“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 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 are they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope.”
Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence and made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking 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 to her consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It was, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own wishes. Never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved him completely, as now, when all love must be vain.
In each of his pacing steps, she felt a kind of pounding atop her heart, beating it down into her chest. The pain consumed her and for an instant, she thought that she might die from
it. But self-pity, 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 several minutes, she was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the voice of her companion, who, though it spoke compassion, spoke likewise restraint, 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. 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 today.”
“Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologize 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, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present reason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her relations, with only one serious, parting look, went away.
As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as had marked their several meetings in Derbyshire. As she threw a retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of contradictions and varieties, she sighed at the perverseness of those 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. But if otherwise — if regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or unnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on a first interview with its object, and even before two words have been exchanged, nothing can be said in her defense, except that she had given somewhat of a trial to the latter method in her partiality for Wickham, and that its ill success might authorize her to seek the other less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go with regret, and 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 could flatter themselves with such an expectation. Surprise was the least of her feelings. While the contents of the first letter remained in her mind, she was 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 a sordid attachment as this she might have sufficient charms, and though she did not suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement without the intention of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither her virtue nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy prey.
She was wild to be at home — to hear, to see, 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, and 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. But, 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. Though Lydia had never been a favorite with them, 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.
“But what is to be done about Pemberley?” asked Mrs. Gardiner. “John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for us.”
“Yes, and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement. That is all settled.”
Everything relating to their journey was speedily arranged and they were to be off as soon as possible. Elizabeth, after all the misery of the morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
“I HAVE BEEN THINKING IT OVER again, Elizabeth,” said her uncle, as they drove from the town, “and upon serious consideration, I am much more inclined to judge as your eldest sister does on the matter. It appears to me so very unlikely that any young man should form such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or friendless, and who was actually staying with his colonel’s family. I am strongly inclined to hope 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 really think so?” Elizabeth brightened for a moment.
“Upon my word,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “I begin to be of your uncle’s opinion. Can you yourself, Lizzy, so wholly believe Wickham capable of it?”
“Not of neglecting his own interest, but of every other neglect I can believe him capable. Why should they not go on to Scotland if that had been the case?”
“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,” said Elizabeth. “And, besides, no traces of them were to be found on the Barnet road.”
“Well, then, suppose 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 beyond youth, health, and good humor that could make him, for her sake, forego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what restraint the apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on a dishonorable elopement with her, I am not able to judge for I know nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But as to your other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Lydia has no brothers to step forward, and he might imagine, from my father’s indolence and the little attention he has ever seemed to give to what was going forward in his family that he would do as little, and think as little about it, as any father could do in such a matter.”
“But can you think 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,” replied Elizabeth, with tears in her eyes, “that a sister’s sense of decency and virtue in such a point should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say. Perhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young. She has never been taught to think on serious subjects, and for the last half-year, nay, for a twelvemonth, she has been given up to nothing but amusement and vanity. 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. Since the militia was first quartered in Meryton, 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, which are naturally lively enough. And we all know Wick
ham has every charm that can captivate a woman.”
“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, whatever might be their former conduct, that she would think capable of such an attempt, till it was proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what Wickham really is. He has been profligate in every sense of the word. He has neither integrity nor honor and is as false and deceitful as he is insinuating.”
“And do you really know all this?” asked Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.
“I do indeed,” replied Elizabeth, coloring. “I told you, the other day, of his infamous behavior 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. And there are other circumstances which I am not at liberty — which it is not worthwhile 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.”
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