Lessons of Advantage

by michael sand

  Elizabeth looked at Wickham with astonishment. — Could he believe that such odious, unmeaning gallantry would be well received? or that her vanity could be gratified and her preference secured by the renewal of his earlier attentions? Wickham’s behaviour had given manifold cause for disgust, but none greater than the expectation that she might still be flattered by his notice. If this assurance spoke volumes about Wickham’s blind conceit, it said something about her own previous and equally blind complacency as well; and it was certainly a fortunate circumstance that she had Wickham to be angry with, or she should have had to be even angrier with herself.

  After that evening, Elizabeth prevailed on her father to change his view as to the propriety of receiving bridal visits at Longbourn. Any extension of the family circle was to be preferred to their being left to their own company.

  The day following the party at Lucas Lodge, Lydia was sitting with her sisters, retailing some particulars about her wedding, — a subject she believed must be of the same enthralling interest to them as to herself.

  “You must know that we were very late getting to the church. — It was all the fault of that horrid man, Mr something-Stone, — coming on business to my uncle at the last moment. Well, and then I was afraid that my uncle would have forgotten to provide a second witness, — you know, there must be two to sign the register, — and if we did not marry by eleven o’clock, we should have had to put it off until the next day — which would have driven me mad distracted. And then I remembered Mr Darcy would be there, and could serve — which vastly relieved my mind, for it would have been shocking inelegant to have it signed by the verger, or some person of no account.”

  “Mr Darcy?” cried Elizabeth, sitting bolt up right, and regarding Lydia with the most speaking amazement. “How came Mr Darcy to be present at your wedding?”

  “I suppose he was come to keep Wickham company — him and Wickham are such friends. — Oh! (stopping short in some confusion) I wasn’t supposed to mention his being there — my aunt made me promise particular to keep it secret, though I cannot think why.”

  “If it is a secret, then of course you must say nothing more about it,” said Jane.

  Elizabeth, who had never thought Jane’s delicate sense of honour so ill-timed, was obliged to swallow her curiosity. But a curiosity swallowed with so much difficulty, must for health’s sake be disgorged. — What could have been bringing Mr Darcy to London, and among such people at such a time? It was impossible to imagine; impossible not to long to know; — and Elizabeth, finding an excuse to run off, was soon seated at her table with pen and paper before her.

  “Longbourn, Sept. 4,

  “My dear Aunt,” she began. —

  The arrival next day of her niece’s letter at Gracechurch-street occasioned Mrs Gardiner a great deal of surprise, and she was obliged to adjust her ideas to a degree before discussing the matter with her husband. She had thought that in wanting to keep his actions secret from the Bennet family, Mr Darcy had merely wished to prevent the awkward consciousness it might be giving rise to in the rest of Elizabeth’s family. (She had only to imagine the fawning attentions which Mrs Bennet would subject Mr Darcy to, to understand why he should choose this course.) But she had felt certain that an understanding must exist between the young people, and that Lizzy must know he was labouring on her behalf. Now it appeared that Mr Darcy had acted without her knowledge. Was it possible that the reason he had advanced for coming to their rescue, the wish of undoing the harm he had done, had been his real, his only motive? Could he be acting solely from motives of honour, not love? —

  — No! Nonsense! — Mrs Gardiner rejected the notion with scorn. Darcy loved her niece — that much was certain. The way he had spoken her name — and the way he had avoided speaking her name — had told the same story. Then why keep her in ignorance? Remembering Mr Darcy’s distress at the mention of gratitude, she thought she understood: he did not want to win his Elizabeth by a display of his wealth, or to put her under an obligation by exercising it in her favour. This shewed true delicacy of mind; but Mrs Gardiner thought that there might be such a thing as too much delicacy, if matters between them were ever to progress. For Elizabeth to learn of his actions might be helping things along; in that light, Lydia’s disclosure was a developement as good as it was inevitable. Elizabeth ought to know how much Mr Darcy had done for her! — and what was more natural than that the secret should be revealed by a person from whom discretion was not to be expected?

  “I am not surprised that Lydia should be letting the cat out of the bag,” she said, showing the missive to her husband. “I shall write to Lizzy directly.”

  “My dear! We gave Mr Darcy our word! We promised to preserve his confidence.”

  “We have done nothing to betray it. I repeatedly impressed upon Lydia, that she was not to mention Mr Darcy’s presence at her wedding. But now that she has done so, how are we to answer my niece? Would Mr Darcy have us lie, and say we know nothing? — Or say that we know the truth, but cannot tell it her?”

  Mr Gardiner’s state of mind was far from happy. His position as the person supposed responsible for Lydia’s rescue was a source of continuing discomfort to him. He heartily wished that a true account of events would emerge to divest him of this undeserved honour, and if Lydia’s indiscretion had led to such an eclaircissement, he should have been unhappy on Mr Darcy’s behalf, but considerably happier on his own; but that Elizabeth alone should know the truth, spelt no alleviation of his burden. The necessity of eventually making some explanation to Mr Bennet still hung over his head.

  In regard to many matters, about which other men were obstinate, Mr Gardiner was easily managed; but he was firm where he felt himself to be right. Mrs Gardiner had an abiding respect for her husband’s good sense, and for all her liveliness and strength of purpose, she would not go against his judgement. “I shall do exactly as you bid me in this matter, Edward,” she said. “But two things I am certain of. — First, that nothing we tell Elizabeth, will go any farther. — In this, I think she will maintain a reserve even from Jane. And second, that if we do not tell her the truth on a matter which touches her so deeply, she will not rest till she discovers it by other means. And you know, no secret may be kept for ever — every thing becomes known in time. Why make a greater mystery than need be?”

  After consideration, Mr Gardiner admitted that no other better course appeared open to them. But if Mrs Gardiner was to be writing to Elizabeth, she must also write to Mr Darcy, and inform him that, in spite of their best efforts, his secret had been divulged. To this, Mrs Gardiner readily agreed. The interest of helping things along might be served still better if Elizabeth knew of Darcy’s actions, — and he knew that she did!

  Chapter Seven

  The day appointed for the departure of the newly-married couple arrived at last — a cause of sorrow to some of their connections, and relief to others. Mr Wickham took leave of Elizabeth in his accustomary affecting manner, thanking her for her gracious reception, trusting that their opinions should always coincide, and asserting that the privilege of calling her “his dearest sister,” contributed actively to the greater part of his happiness. Elizabeth, by whom this privilege had been endured rather than enjoyed, doubted whether their opinions had ever coincided on any subject — or ever would; but she kept her counsel.

  “I shall never forget,” said he, “how you were the first to hear and to pity my story. What is it Shakespeare says? — ‘My story being done, she swore ’twas passing strange — ’”

  Elizabeth wished that she could forget that first mistaken reliance she had placed in Wickham, but she only said, “Yes, she believed his story had been passing strange.”

  There was one subject, however, on which Elizabeth was eager to sound Mr Wickham. She offered him her congratulations: there had been speculation — on the part of persons either ill-natured or ill-informed — that he had alienated all his friends, and wasted his substance in riotous living. She was pleased t
o see that these people had been wrong: that there had been one at least among his acquaintance sufficiently generous, or forgiving, as to be purchasing a commission for him.

  “By the bye,” she said, “I wonder you did not encounter Mr Darcy in town last month. My aunt writes, that she and Mr Gardiner had the pleasure of dining with him. How strange that he should be in London at that time of year. What could have brought him, do you think?”

  Mr Wickham had seen Mr Darcy, in passing, but was at a loss to explain his presence. — Wickham’s attention being then claimed by the tearful effusions of his mother-in-law, he turned away from his “dearest sister” with some relief — sufficiently satisfied with their valediction as to have no wish of adding another word to it.

  The departure of Lydia and Wickham brought to an end the noise and bustle and general want of sense, which had marked events at Longbourn during the last week; and led to the gradual restoration of family tranquillity. Thus was proved again, what has often been proved before, that some losses may be gains. No-one who could think and feel, could have wished the visit prolonged. When the carriage was gone, and quiet had descended on the house, Elizabeth escaped into the shrubbery for a solitary walk. She now had a second topic on which she must maintain secrecy, even from Jane; a second letter to be the subject of doubt and earnest consideration. This letter, Mrs Gardiner’s reply to her own, she soon knew almost by heart; but there were many aspects she could not make out, which she was obliged to be constantly turning over in her mind.

  The liking and esteem for Mr Darcy, which Mrs Gardiner had been expressing, had made her extremely happy: her aunt and uncle were the only members of her family (barring Jane, who liked and esteemed everybody), who were able to value him at his proper worth. And she was gratified by her aunt’s belief that some bond of confidence must exist between her and Mr Darcy for him to have come to Lydia’s rescue as he had done; — she only wished it were true. Her aunt’s surprise that Mr Darcy should have been acting without her knowledge, was great, indeed: “We should not have fallen in so readily with his desire to keep his actions secret, if we had not assumed that they were known to you.”

  That “Mr Darcy had hardly mentioned her name,” was cause of disappointment, though she realized the irrationality of the sentiment: how, in all discretion, could he speak of her to her relations? It amused her, that Mrs Gardiner should think she had discovered the real defect of Darcy’s character — in obstinacy! Surely to be obstinate in doing good was an amiable vice. — She had once thought him far worse than obstinate. But in those days, she had considered herself licensed to think all manner of ungracious things about Mr Darcy.

  Mrs Gardiner’s letter also gave rise to a tolerable degree of relief, in the knowledge that the sum expended on Lydia’s behalf had not derived from Mr Gardiner. But here was more cause of perplexity. Her father had vowed to repay Mr Gardiner, in the belief that he had been the one to lay out the money. Poor Mr Gardiner! It was clear now, why he had put off the question of payment in his correspondence with her father. How could he account for there being nothing to pay? — And how awkward if the truth were to come out. How should Mr Darcy’s intervention be explained? No wonder Mrs Gardiner had enjoined her to keep this information to herself! Thank heaven, Lydia was gone away to the North! Wickham could be trusted not to reveal what would so effectively give the lie to all his previous assertions about Mr Darcy; but she would certainly have betrayed his secret had she remained longer at Longbourn. — It was a marvel she had not done so already.

  But all such considerations were mere trifles — the efforts of a bewildered mind to distract itself from puzzles of greater complexity. The chief of these — astonishing beyond all power of imagination to comprehend — was that her family owed their escape from degradation entirely to Mr Darcy! His had been the impetus, — his the exertion, — his the guiding force, and the success. (And what extraordinary liberality his not wanting to be repaid spoke in him! It was true that being rich, he had greater means of exercising liberality at his disposal; but she believed that few rich men would have acted as he had done.) Mrs Gardiner had surmised that he had had to use bribery and corruption to gain his end. Elizabeth could easily imagine what trouble he must have been to, and what vexation this must have cost him: to have to confront Wickham, who had given him such cause of indignation! — To be obliged to cajole and persuade a man with no regard for principle, into doing what principle demanded! — a man whom no argument of principle could be affecting. Of course Mr Darcy must appeal to mercenary motives. — How otherwise could such a person be worked on? Even in a good cause, such practice must be mortifying; such exertions must give disgust to any man of feeling, much less one as proud as Mr Darcy — one with such just grounds for pride. Why had he done it? Not for Lydia, who was no connection, and could be of no importance to him. — That was impossible. The reason he had given the Gardiners, his sense of responsibility for concealing Wickham’s misconduct, was plausible; it was all too readily believable — her heart fell at the thought, that this might have been his sole motive. But she was filled with pride in him. — He who had been given to such absolute, unchanging judgements, had reconsidered; and deciding that he had acted in error, had moved to undo the evil he had caused. This argued a greatness of soul, which she was now quite prepared to ascribe to Mr Darcy.

  But might there have been an additional inducement? Could he have been acting for her sake? Her vanity was not so swelled as to think him still in love with her. — She had rejected him once; a man with his proper pride would never ask again. — But though he must have abandoned any view of the kind, he might still think well enough of her to act from the benevolent wish of sparing her pain. That she could believe. Even if Mr Darcy had been moved to action out of love, had he not, by obliging Wickham to marry Lydia, created an insurmountable barrier to their marrying? “What ever he might have been feeling — (remembering the cordiality of their meeting in Derbyshire) — must have sunk when he heard of Lydia’s fall. He might have loved me then, — and who knows what might have come of it? But he would never connect himself with us now. He has too much family pride ever to suffer Wickham to be his brother-in-law.”

  Her thoughts were exceedingly troubled when she remembered their meeting at the inn at Lambton. How could she have come to act in a way so very unreserved? The shock of the dreadful revelation contained in Jane’s letters had certainly been great — great enough to overcome her discretion; but it distressed her to think that her family only owed their preservation to that failure of reserve. — If Mr Darcy had not chanced upon her at that moment — if she had not given way to tears? — What then? Would not Lydia have suffered the deserved consequence of her behaviour? and would they all not have suffered in her disgrace? Who but Mr Darcy could have saved them?

  “Could it be,” she asked herself, “that my unreserve was the product of some hidden calculation — some calculation hidden even from myself? In revealing what I did, was I not asking him to come to my aid? When I told him that our family had no money, or powerful connections that could work on Wickham, was not this begging him to work on our behalf?” Mr Darcy might have been moved to chivalrous action because she had come as a supplicant, petitioning him to actions he must naturally dislike. If this were so, it would be enough to extinguish all amiable feelings towards her, even if there had been no connection with Wickham to make a union impossible. He would feel bound in honour to fulfil his obligation, — and then he would owe her nothing. She felt ashamed of herself when she thought of how much he had done for a woman who had treated him so ungraciously; but proud of him that he had been willing to do it. She and her relations owed him every thing: their peace of mind, their position as a family, their self-respect. And because he had chosen to keep it an impenetrable secret, they would never know their debt, and she would never be able to thank him. It was unlikely even that they should ever meet again. — If Mr Bingley were to come to Netherfield, indeed — but Mr Bingley would not co
me; he would go nowhere his friend did not wish to go.

  The thought gave her pain, to which still more was added as a simpler explanation of Mr Darcy’s desire for secrecy occurred to her. He did not want her to know of his benefaction so that she should not build upon it. No conclusions were to be built, and he was kindly wishing to spare her the illusion. Did not this make perfect sense? It required no extraordinary stretch to believe that he would act thus out of solicitude for her.

  Mr Darcy would never ask her to marry him, — that much was certain; but would she even accept him if he did? Her opinion of him had been changing so rapidly of late, — all her views of his temper and manners so altered, transformed, and ^revolutionized in so short a time, that she felt her head spinning. He, whom she had once thought the most disagreeable man she had ever met, now seemed the most amiable. But she had been equally certain once before — equally confident in what had turned out blind prejudice. Was her judgement any more to be trusted now? Could Mr Darcy really be a man of such approved virtue as now appeared — a man whose principles could be relied upon — in whose moral capacity one could trust? Was she not now portraying him as more perfect than any man ever was?

  She gave it up — could think of these things no more. All was humiliation and perplexity. She must only hope that when her head ceased to spin, it would be facing front.

  The idea of marriage had first begun to absorb Elizabeth’s mind at the age of sixteen, the produce of the unrestricted reading of novels, in which she had been suffered to indulge. It was an axiom in such effusions, that a single woman — especially a gentlewoman of small fortune — must be in want of a husband. Marriage was represented as the unique goal of a woman’s life and the happiest of destinies — even though life provided daily proofs of the opposite. Not one couple in a hundred, it seemed, but were taken in when they married, husbands and wives turning out exactly the reverse of what each had expected. Elizabeth knew very well, too, that for many women, marriage was no more than a preservative from want, the only respectable solution for the problem of maintenance, which they entered upon less from love than fear of poverty; — which even a sensible woman might choose from purely prudential motives. She had only to think of Charlotte Lucas.