 CHAPTER 46 Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from Jane on their first arrival at Lambton, and this disappointment had been renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there. But on the third her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as Jane had written the direction remarkably ill. They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in, and her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by themselves. The one missent must first be attended to, it had been written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded, but the latter half, though it was dated a day later, and written in evident agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect. Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a most unexpected and serious nature. But I am afraid of alarming you. Be assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia. Unexpress came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed from Colonel Foster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland with one of his officers. To own the truth, with wisdom. Imagine our surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides. But I am willing to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step—and let us rejoice over it—marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How thankful am I that we never let them know what has been said against him. We must forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about twelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Foster gives us reason to expect him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly know what I have written. Without allowing herself time for consideration and scarcely knowing what she felt, Elizabeth, on finishing this letter, instantly seized the other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows. It had been written a day later than 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 Foster 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 B and tending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham, but no further. For on entering that place, they removed into a hackney-coat and dismissed the shays that brought them from Epson. 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 on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the termpikes, and at the inns in Barnett and Hatfield, but without any success. No such people had been seen to pass through. 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 Lizzie, 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. And 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? Impossible. I grieve to find, however, that Colonel F is not disposed to depend upon their marriage. He shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and 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. And as to my father, I never in my life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having concealed their attachment, but as it was a matter of confidence one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzie, that you have been spared something of these distressing scenes. But now, as the first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not so selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu. 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 aren't 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 Foster instantly to try to discover her. What he means to do I am sure I know not, but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Foster is obliged to be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such an exigence 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—where is my uncle? cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him without losing a moment of the time so precious. 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. Gardner this moment on business that cannot be delayed. I have not an instant to lose. Good God! What is the matter? cried he 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. Gardner. 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 therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an accent has made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and mistress home instantly. On his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support herself, and looking so miserably ill that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her, or to refrain from saying in a tone of gentleness and commiseration, 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? You are very ill. No, I thank you, she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well. 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. It cannot be concealed from any one. My younger sister has left all her friends, has eloped, 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 for ever. Darcy was fixed in astonishment. 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 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. And 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 open 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, and was walking up and down the room in earnest meditation, as 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 own wishes, and 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, and covering her face with her handkerchief, Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else. And after a pause of several minutes was only recalled to a sense of a situation, by the voice of her companion, who, in a manner which, though it spoke compassion, spoke likewise restraint, said, I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence, nor have I anything to plead an 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 sisters 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, and as she threw a retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those feelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would formally 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 defence, except that she had given somewhat of a trial to the latter method in her partiality for Wickham, and that its ill-success might, perhaps, authorise 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 has 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, and 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 sufficient charms, and though she did not suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an allotment 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 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, and though almost persuaded that nothing could be done for Lydia, her uncle's interference seemed of the utmost importance, until he entered the room her impatience was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardner had hurried back an alarm, supposing by the servants' account that their niece was suddenly taken 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 post-grip of the last with trembling energy. Though Lydia had never been a favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardner could not be but deeply afflicted. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it, and after the first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardner 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. Gardner. "'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. But 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 Lampton with false excuses for their sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed, and Mr. Gardner meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing remained to be done but to go. And 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 47 I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth, said her uncle as they drove from the town. And really, upon serious consideration, I am much more inclined than I was 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 in his Colonel's family, that 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 Foster? His temptation is not adequate to the risk. "'Do you really think so?' cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment. "'Upon my word,' said Mrs. Gardner, I begin to be of your uncle's opinion. 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, Lizzie, 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,' replied Mr. Gardner, there is no absolute proof that they are not gone to Scotland. Oh, but they're removing from the shays into a hackney-coach is such a presumption, and besides, no traces of them were to be found on the Barnett 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, and it might stride 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 humour that could make him, for her sake, forgo every chance of benefitting himself by marrying well? As to what restraint the apprehensions of disgrace in the core might throw on a dishonourable 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 behaviour, from his 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 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, 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 twelve-month, 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 Shire were first quartered in meridian, 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—what shall I call it—susceptibility to her 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, said her aunt, does not think so very ill of Wickham as to believe him capable of the attempt. 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 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, that he has neither integrity nor honour, that he is as false and deceitful as he is insinuating. And you really know all this, cried Mrs. Gardner, whose curiosity as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive. I do indeed, replied Elizabeth, colouring. I told you the other day of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy, and 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. But does Lydia know nothing of this? Can she be ignorant of what you and Jane seemed so well to understand? Oh, yes! That! that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw so much of both Mr. Darcy and his relation, Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was ignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home, the shire was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight's time. As that was the case, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it necessary to make our knowledge public. For of what use could it apparently be to any one that the good opinion which all the neighborhood had of him should then be overthrown? And even if 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, and had anything of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware that ours is not a family in which it could be thrown away. When first he entered the core, she was ready enough to admire him. But so we all were. Every girl in or near Meryton was out of his senses about him for the first two months. But he never distinguished her by any particular attention. And consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment who treated her with more distinction again became her favorites. It may be easily believed that however little of novelty could be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures on this interesting subject by its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long during the whole of the journey. 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 dinnertime the next day. It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied by long expectations. The little gardeners, attracted by the sight of a shay's, were standing on the steps of the house as they entered the paddock, and when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted 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, and after giving each of them a hasty kiss, hurried into the vestibule where Jane, who came running down from her mother's apartment, immediately met her. Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether anything had been heard of the fugitives. Not yet, replied Jane. But now that my dear uncle has 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 upstairs 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, however, assured her of her being perfectly well, and their conversation which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardner were engaged with their children, was now put an end to by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle-in-aunt and welcomed and thanked them both with alternate smiles and tears. When they were all in the dining-room, the questions which Elizabeth had already asked were of course repeated by the others, and they soon found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good, however, which the benevolence of our heart suggested, 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. Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired after a few minutes' conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected, with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill usage, blaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the errors of her daughter must principally be owing. If I had been able, said she, to carry my point in going to Brighton with all my family, this would not have happened. 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 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, and then he will be killed and want us to become of us all. The Collinces 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, and Mr. Gardner, 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, and would assist Mr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia. "'Do not give way to useless alarm,' added he, though it is right to be prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain. It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more we may gain some news of them, until 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 Grace Church Street, and then we may consult together as to what is to be done." "'Oh, my dear brother,' replied Mrs. Bennet, "'that is exactly what I could most wish for. And now do when you get to town find them out wherever they may be, and 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 trembling, 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." But Mr. Gardner, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavours in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well in her hopes as her fear. And after talking with her in this manner till dinner was on the table, they all left her to vent her feelings on the housekeeper who attended in the absence of her daughters. Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her tongue before the servants while they waited at table, and judged it better that one only of the household, and the one whom they could most trust, should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the subject. In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been too busily engaged in their separate apartments to make their appearance before. One came from her books, and the other from her toilette. The faces of both, however, were tolerably calm, and no change was visible in either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or the anger which she had herself incurred in this business, had given more of fretfulness than usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was mistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth with the countenance of grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table. This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much talked of. But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of each other the balm of sisterly consolation. Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added, Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful lesson, that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable, that one full step involves her in endless ruin, that her reputation is no less brittle than it is beautiful, and that she cannot be too much guarded in her behaviour towards the underserving of the other sex. Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed to make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such kind of moral extractions from the evil before them. In the afternoon the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for half an hour by themselves, and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of the opportunity of making any inquiries which Jane was equally eager to satisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel of this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss Bennet could not assert to be wholly possible, the former continued the subject by saying, But tell me all and everything about it which I have not already heard. Give me further particulars. What did Colonel Foster say? Had they no apprehension of anything before the elopement took place? They must have seen them together for ever. Colonel Foster did own that he had often suspected some partiality, especially on Lydia's side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so grieved for him. His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He was coming to us in order to assure us of his concern before he had any idea of there not being gone to Scotland. When that apprehension first got abroad it hastened his journey. And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of their intending to go off? Had Colonel Foster seen Denny himself? Yes. But when questioned by him, Denny denied knowing anything of their plans, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not repeat his persuasion of their not marrying, and from that I am inclined to hope he might have been misunderstood before. Until Colonel Foster came himself not one of you entertained a doubt, I suppose, of their really being married? How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I felt a little uneasy, a little fearful of my sister's happiness with him in marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not always been quite right. My father and mother knew nothing of that. They only felt how imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned with a very natural triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia's last letter she had prepared her for such a step. She had known it seems of their being in love with each other many weeks. But not before they went to Brighton. No, I believe not. And did Colonel Foster appear to think well of Wickham himself? Does he know his real character? I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad affair has taken place, it is said that he left Merritton greatly in debt. But I hope this may be false. Oh, Jane! Had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him, this could not have happened. Perhaps it would have been better, replied her sister. But to expose the former faults of any person without knowing what their present feelings were seemed unjustifiable, we acted with the best intentions. Could Colonel Foster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to his wife? He brought it with him for us to see. Jane then took it from her pocket-book and gave it to Elizabeth. These were the contents. My dear Harriet, you will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help laughing myself at your surprise tomorrow morning as soon as I am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater when I write them inside my name Lydia Wickham. What a good joke it will be! I can hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt for not keeping my engagement and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I hope he will excuse me when he knows all. And tell him I will dance with him at the next bore we meet, with great pleasure. I shall send for my clothes when I get to Longbourn. But I wish you would tell Sally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown before they are packed up. Goodbye. Give my love to Colonel Foster. I hope he would drink to our good journey. Your affectionate friend, Lydia Bennet. Oh, thoughtless, thoughtless, Lydia! cried Elizabeth when she had finished it. What a letter is this to be written at such a moment! But at least it shows that she was serious on the subject of their journey. Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her side a scheme of infamy. My poor father! How he must have felt it! I never saw any one so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately and the whole house in such confusion. Oh, Jane! cried Elizabeth. Was there a servant belonging to her who did not know the whole story before the end of the day? I do not know. I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a time is very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I endeavoured to give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so much as I might have done. But the horror of what might possibly happen almost took me from my faculties. Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not look well. Oh, that I have been with you. You have had every care and anxiety upon yourself alone. Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every fatigue, I am sure, but I did not think it right for either of them. Kitty is slight and delicate, and Mary studies so much that her hours of repose should not be broken in on. My Aunt Phillips came to Longbourn on Tuesday after my father went away, and was so good as to stay till Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all, and Lady Lucas has been very kind. She walked here on Wednesday morning to condole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters, if they should be of use to us. She had better have stayed at home, cried Elizabeth. Perhaps she meant well, but under such a misfortune as this one cannot see too little of one's neighbours. Assistance is impossible. Condolence insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied. She then proceeded to inquire into the measures which her father had intended to pursue while in town for the recovery of his daughter. He meant, I believe, replied Jane, to go to Epsom, the place where they last changed horses, see the pastillions, and try if anything could be made out from them. His principal object must be to discover the number of the Hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come with a fair from London, and as he thought that the circumstance of a gentleman and ladies removing from one carriage into another might be remarked, he meant to make inquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow discover at what house the coachman had before set down his fair, he determined to make inquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible to find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any other designs that he had formed, but he was in such a hurry to be gone, and his spirit so greatly discomposed, that I had difficulty in finding out even so much as this. They were forced to conclude that he had no pleasing intelligence to send, but even of that they would have been glad to be certain. Mr. Gardner had waited only for the letters before he set off. When he was gone they were certain at least of receiving constant information of what was going on, and their uncle promised, at parting, to prevail on Mr. Bennett to return to Longbourn as soon as he could, to the great consolation of his sister, who considered it as the only security for her husband's not being killed in a duel. Mrs. Gardner and the children were to remain in Hartfordshire a few days longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable to her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennett, and was a great comfort to them in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also visited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of cheering and heartening them up, though, as she never came without reporting some fresh instance of Wickham's and Stravigans or irregularity, she seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found them. All Meritons seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three months before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be in debt to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family. Everybody declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world, and everybody began to find out that they had always distrusted the appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above half of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of her sister's ruin more certain, and even Jane, who believed still less of it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now come when, if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before entirely despaired of, they must in all probability have gained some use of them. Mr. Gardner left long-born on Sunday. On Tuesday his wife received a letter from him. It told them that, on his arrival, he had immediately found out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Grace Church Street. That Mr. Bennett had been to Ebsom and Clapham before his arrival, but without gaining any satisfactory information. And that he was now determined to inquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennett thought it possible they might have gone to one of them on their first coming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardner himself did not expect any success from this measure. But as his brother was eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added that Mr. Bennett seemed wholly disinclined at present to leave London, and promised to write again very soon. There was also a post-grip to this effect. I have written to Colonel Foster to desire him to find out, if possible, from some of the young man's intimates in the regiment, where the Wickham has any relations or connections, who would be likely to know in what part of town he has now concealed himself. If there were any one that one could apply to with the probability of gaining such a clue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we have nothing to guide us. Colonel Foster will, I dare say, do everything in his power to satisfy us on this head. But on second thoughts, perhaps Lizzie could tell us what relations he has now living better than any other person. Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference to her authority proceeded, but it was not in her power to give any information of so satisfactory a nature as the compliment deserved. She had never heard of his having had any relations except a father and mother, both of whom had been dead many years. It was possible, however, that some of his companions in the Shire might be able to give more information, and though she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the application was a something to look forward to. Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety, but the most anxious part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters was the grand object of every morning's impatience. Through letters, whatever of good or bad was to be told would be communicated, and every succeeding day was expected to bring some news of importance. But before they heard again from Mr. Gardner, a letter arrived for their father from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins, which, as Jane had received directions to open all that came for him in his absence, she accordingly read, and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his letters always were, looked over her and read it likewise. It was as follows, My dear sir, I feel myself called upon by our relationship and my situation in life to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter from Hartfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs. Collins and myself sincerely sympathise with you and all your respectable family, in your present distress, which must be of the bitterest kind, because proceeding from a cause which no time can remove, no arguments shall be wanting on my part that can alleviate so severe a misfortune, or that may comfort you under a circumstance that must be of all others the most afflicting to a parent's mind. The death of your daughter would have been a blessing and comparison to this, and it is the more to be lamented, because there is reason to suppose, as my dear Charlotte informs me, that this licentiousness of behaviour in your daughter has proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence, though at the same time for the consolation of yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think that her own disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be guilty of such an enormity at so early an age. Howsoever that may be, you are grievously to be pitied, in which opinion I am not only joined by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by Lady Catherine and her daughter, to whom I have related the affair. They agree with me in apprehending that this false step in one daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of all the others. For who, as Lady Catherine herself condescendingly says, will connect themselves with such a family? And this consideration leads me moreover to reflect, with augmented satisfaction, on a certain event of last November. For had it been otherwise, I must have been involved in all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me then advise you, dear sir, to console yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy child from your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of her own heinous offence. I am, dear sir, et cetera, et cetera. Mr. Gardner did not write again till he had received an answer from Colonel Foster, and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send. It was not known that Wickham had a single relationship with whom he kept up any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one living. His former acquaintances had been numerous, but since he had been in the militia it did not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship with any of them. There was no one, therefore, who could be pointed out as likely to give any news of him. And in the wretched state of his own finances, there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in addition to his fear of discovery by Lydia's relations, for it had just transpired that he had left gaming debts behind him to a very considerable amount. Colonel Foster believed that more than a thousand pounds would be necessary to clear his expenses at Brighton. He owed a good deal in town, but his debts of honour were still more formidable. Mr. Gardner did not attempt to conceal these particulars from the long-born family. Jane heard them with horror. A game-ster, she cried, this is wholly unexpected. I had not an idea of it. Mr. Gardner added in his letter that they might expect to see their father at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rended spiritless by the ill success of all their endeavours, he had yielded to his brother-in-law's entreaty that he would return to his family, and leave it to him to do whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable for continuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did not express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering what her anxiety for his life had been before. What? Is he coming home and without Paul Lydia? she cried. Sure he will not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Wickham and make him marry her if he comes away? As Mrs. Gardner began to wish to be at home, it was subtle that she and the children should go to London at the same time that Mr. Bennet came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their journey, and brought its master back to Longbourn. Mrs. Gardner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and her Derbyshire friend that had attended her from that part of the world. His name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece, and the kind of half-expectation which Mrs. Gardner had formed of their being followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing. Elizabeth had received none since her return that could come from Pemberley. The present unhappy state of the family rendered any other excuse for the loneliness of her spirits unnecessary. Nothing, therefore, could be fairly conjectured from that, though Elizabeth, who was by this time tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she would have borne the dread of Lydia's infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought, one sleepless night out of two. When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the habit of saying, made no mention of the business that had taken him away, and it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of it. It was not till the afternoon when he had joined them at tea that Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject, and then, on her briefly expressing her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, Say nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing, and I ought to feel it. You must not be too severe upon yourself, replied Elizabeth. You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone to fall into it. No, Lizzie, let me once in my life feel how much I have been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression. It will pass away soon enough. Do you suppose them to be in London? Yes. Where else can they be so well concealed? And Lydia used to want to go to London, added Kitty. She is happy, then, said her father dryly, and her residence there will probably be of some duration. Then, after a short silence, he continued, Lizzie, I bear you no ill will for being justified in your advice to me last May, which, considering the event, shows some greatness of mind. They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her mother's tea. This is a parade, he cried, which does one good. It gives such an elegance to misfortune. Another day I will do the same. I will sit in my library in my night-cap and powdering-gown, and give as much trouble as I can. Or, perhaps, I may defer it till Kitty runs away. I am not going to run away per power, said Kitty fretfully. If I should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia. Hugh, go to Brighton. I would not trust you so near it is east-born for fifty pounds. No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter into my house again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be absolutely prohibited unless you stand up with one of your sisters, and you are never to stir out of doors till you can prove that you have spent ten minutes of every day in a rational manner. Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry. Well, well, said he, do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of them. CHAPTER 49 Two days after Mr. Bennet's return, as Jane and Elizabeth were walking together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper coming towards them, and concluding that she came to call them to their mother, went forward to meet her. But instead of the expected summons, when they approached her, she said to Miss Bennet, Are they your pardon, madam, for interrupting you? But I was in hopes you might have got some good news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask. What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town. Dear madam, cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, don't you know there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He has been here this half hour, and master has had a letter. Away ran the girls, too eager to get in, to have time for speech. They ran through the vestibule into the breakfast room, from thence to the library. Their father was in neither, and they were on the point of seeking him upstairs with their mother, when they were met by the butler, who said, If you are looking for my master, ma'am, he is walking towards the little cops. Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall once more, and ran across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately pursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of the paddock. Jane, who was not so light nor so much in the habit of running as Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for breath, came up with him, and eagerly cried out, 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. Grace Church Street, Monday, August 2nd. My dear brother, at last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and as such 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 will 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. But 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 your daughter by settlement her equal share of the five thousand pounds secured among your children after the decease of yourself and my sister, and 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 shall send this by express that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You will easily comprehend from these particulars that Mr. Wickham's circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to be. The world has been deceived in that respect, and 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 own fortune. If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers to act in your name throughout the whole of this business, I will immediately give directions to Hagerston 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 today. I shall write again as soon as anything more is determined on, yours, etc., Edward Gardner. 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 his 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 entreat him to lose no more time before he wrote. Oh, my dear father, she cried, come back and write immediately. Consider how important every moment isn't 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, and the other, how am I ever to pay 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, said Elizabeth, though it had not occurred to me before. 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, replied Jane, that he certainly would not marry Lydia if he had not a real regard for her. 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 we were ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been, said Elizabeth, and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall know exactly what Mr. Gardner has done for them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be required. They are taking her home, and affording her their personal protection, and countenance 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 has come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them, and I flatter myself they will settle so quietly and live in so rational a manner, as may in time make their past imprudence forgotten. Their conduct has been such, replied Elizabeth, as neither you nor I nor anybody can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it. It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library, therefore, 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 upstairs 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. Gardner'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 felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct. My dear, dear Lydia, she cried, this is delightful indeed. She will be married. 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 Gardner about them directly. Lizzie, my dear, run down to your father and ask him how much you 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 endeavored to give some relief to the violence of these transports, by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr. Gardner's behaviour had laid them all under. For we must attribute this happy conclusion, she added, in a great measure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has pledged himself to assist Mr. Wickham with money. Well, cried her mother, it is all very right. Who should do it but her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my children must have had all his money, you know. And it is the first time we have ever had anything from him except a few presents. Well, I am so happy. In such 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't write, so I will dictate a new right for me. We will settle with your father about the money afterwards, but the thing should be ordered immediately. She was then proceeding to all the particulars of Calico, Muslim, and Cambridge, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had not Jane, though with some difficulty, 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 Merriton, said she, as soon as I am dressed, and tell the good, good news to my sister Phillips, and 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 Merriton? 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 among the rest, and then, sick of this folly, took refuge in her own room that she might think with freedom. Poor Lydia's situation must, at best, be bad enough. But that it was no worse she had need to be thankful. She felt it so, neither rational happiness nor worldly prosperity could be justly expected for her sister. In looking back to what they had feared only two hours ago, she felt all the advantages of what they had gained. CHAPTER 50 Mr. Bennet had very often wished before this period of his life that, instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an annual sum 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 any one should be forwarded at the sole expense of his brother-in-law, and 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 perfectly 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, and 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. And Mrs. Bennet, for many years after Lydia's birth, had been certain that he would. This event had at last been disbared of, but it was then too late to be 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 were 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 exceeding to the proposal before him. In terms of grateful acknowledgement for the kindness of his brother, though expressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfill the engagements that had been made for him. He had never before supposed that, could Wickham 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. For what were their board and pocket allowance, and the continual presence in money which passed to her through her mother's hands, Lydia's expenses had been very little within that sum. That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was another very welcome surprise. For 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, for, though dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick in its execution. He begged to know further particulars of what he was indebted 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 neighborhood. It was born in the latter with decent philosophy. To be sure it would have been more for the advantage of conversation had Miss Lydia Bennett 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, and the good-natured wishes for her well-doing which had preceded before from all the spiteful old ladies in Merriton lost but a little of their spirit in this change of circumstances, because with such a husband her misery was considered certain. It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennett had been downstairs, but on this happy day she again took her seat at the head of her table, and in spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object of her wishes since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of accomplishment, and 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 situation for her daughter, and without knowing or considering what their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and importance. Hey, Park might do, said she, if the goldings could quit it, or the great-house it 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, but when they had withdrawn he said to her, Mrs. Bennett, before you take any or all of these houses for your son and daughter, 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. Bennett was firm. It soon led to another, and Mrs. Bennett found with amazement and horror that her husband would not advance a guinea to buy a clothes for his daughter. He protested that she should receive from him no mark of affection whatever on the occasion. Mrs. Bennett could hardly comprehend it, that his anger could be carried to such a point of inconceivable resentment as to refuse his daughter a privilege without which her marriage would scarcely seem valid, exceeded all she could believe possible. She 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 a fortnight before they took place. 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. For since her marriage would so shortly give the proper termination to the elopement, they might hope to conceal its unfavourable beginning from all those who were not immediately on the spot. She had no fear of it spreading farther through his means. There were few people on whose secrecy she could have more confidently depended. But at the same time, there was no one whose knowledge of a sister's frailty would have mortified her so much. Not, however, for many fear of disadvantage from it individually to herself, for at any rate there seemed a gulf impassable between them. Had Lydia's marriage been concluded on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that Mr. Darcy would connect himself with a family where, to every other objection, would now be added 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, which she had assured herself of his feeling in Darbyshire, 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 be benefited 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. What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that the proposals which he had spurned only four months ago would now have been most gladly and gratefully received. He was as generous, she doubted not, as the most generous of his sex. But while he was mortal there must be a triumph. 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, and from his judgment, information, and knowledge of the world she must have received benefit of greater importance. But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what cannubule felicity really 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. But how little of permanent happiness could belong to a couple who were only brought together because their passions were stronger than their virtue, could she easily conjecture. Mr. Gardner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennett's acknowledgement he briefly replied with assurance of his eagerness to promote the welfare of any of his family, and concluded within treaties that the subject might never be mentioned to him again. The principal purpose of his letter was to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved on quitting the militia. It was greatly my wish that he should do so, he added, as soon as his marriage was fixed on, and I think you will agree with me in considering the removal from that core as highly advisable both on his account and my nieces. It is Mr. Wickham's intention to go into the regulars, and among his former friends there are still some who are able and willing to assist him in the army. He has the promise of an ensancy in General's regiment now quartered in the north. It is an advantage to have it so far from this part of the kingdom. He promises fairly, and I hope among different people, where they may each have a character to preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have written to Colonel Foster to inform him of our present arrangements, and to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr. Wickham in and near Brighton, with assurances of speedy payment, for which I have pledged myself. And will you give yourself the trouble of carrying similar assurances to his creditors in Merriton, of whom I shall sub-join a list according to his information? He has given in all his debts. I hope at least he has not deceived us. Haggaston has our directions, and all will be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment, unless they are first invited to Longbourn, and I understand from Mrs. Gardner that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all before she leaves the south. She is well and begs to be dutifully remembered to you and her mother—yours, etc.—E. Gardner. Mr. Bennett and his daughter saw all the advantages of Wickham's removal from the shire as clearly as Mr. Gardner could do. But Mrs. Bennett was not so well pleased with it. Lydia's being settled in the north, just when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her company, for she had by no means given up her plan of there residing in Hartfordshire, was a severe disappointment. And besides, it was such a pity that Lydia should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted with everybody and had so many favourites. She is so fond of Mrs. Foster, said she, it will be quite shocking to send her away. And there are several of the young men too that she likes very much. The officers may not be so pleasant in the general's regiment. His daughter's request, for such it might be considered, of being admitted into her family again before she set off for the north, received at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth, who agreed in wishing for the sake of their sister's feelings and consequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by her parents, urged him so earnestly yet so rationally and so mildly to receive her and her husband at Longbourn as soon as they were married, that he was prevailed on to think as they thought, and act as they wished. And their mother had the satisfaction of knowing that she would be able to show her married daughter in the neighbourhood before she was banished to the north. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore, he sent his permission for them to come. And it was settled that as soon as the ceremony was over, they should proceed to Longbourn. Elizabeth was surprised, however, that Wickham should consent to such a scheme, and that she consulted only her own inclination, any meeting with him would have been the last object of her wishes. CHAPTER 51 Their sister's wedding day arrived, and Jane and Elizabeth felt for her probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to meet them, and they were to return in it by dinnertime. Their arrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennet's, and Jane more especially, who gave Lydia the feelings which would have attended herself had she been the culprit, and was wretched in the thought of what her sister must endure. They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room to receive them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet as the carriage drove up to the door. Her husband looked impenetrably grave, her daughter's alarmed, anxious, uneasy. Lydia's voice was heard in the vestibule. The door was thrown open, and she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and welcomed her with rapture, gave her hand with an affectionate smile to Wickham, who followed his lady, and wished them joy with an alacrity which showed no doubt of their happiness. Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity, and he scarcely opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple indeed was enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was shocked. Lydia was Lydia still, untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their congratulations, and when at length they all sat down, looked eagerly round the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and observed with the laugh that it was a great while since she had been there. Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his manners were always so pleasing that had his character and his marriage been exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he claimed their relationship, would have delighted them all. Elizabeth had not before believed him quite equal to such assurance, but she sat down, resolving within herself to draw no limits in future to the impudence of an impudent man. She blushed, and Jane blushed, but the cheeks of the two who caused their confusion suffered no variation of colour. There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither of them talk fast enough, and Wickham, who happened to sit near Elizabeth, began inquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood, with the good-humoured ease which she felt very unable to equal in her replies. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the world. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain, and Lydia led voluntarily to subjects which her sisters would not have alluded to for the world. Only think of its being three months, she cried, since I went away. It seems but a fortnight, I declare, and yet there have been things enough happened in the time. Good gracious! When I went away, I am sure I had no more idea of being married till I came back again. Though I thought it would be very good fun if I was. Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked expressively at Lydia, but she, who never heard nor saw anything of which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, Oh, Mama! Do the people hear about know I am married today? I was afraid they might not, and we overtook William Golding in his caracal, so I was determined he should know it, and so I let down the side-glass next to him, and took off my glove and at my hand just rest upon the window-frame, so that he might see the ring, and that I bowed and smiled like anything. Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up and ran out of the room, and returned no more till she heard them passing through the hall to the dining-parler. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with anxious parade, walk up to her mother's right hand, and hear her say to her eldest sister, Our Jane, I take your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a married woman. It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Phillips, the Lucases, and all their other neighbours, and to hear herself called Mrs. Wickham by each of them, and in the meantime she went after dinner to show her ring and boast of being married to Mrs. Hill and the two house-mates. Well, Mama, said she when they were all returned to the breakfast room, and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get husbands. What a pity it is, Mama, we did not all go. Very true, and if I had my will we should. But, my dear Lydia, I don't at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so? O Lord, yes. There is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things. You and Papa and my sisters must come down and see us. We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some bores, and I will take care to get good partners for them all. I should like it beyond anything, said her mother. And then when you go away you may leave one or two of my sisters behind you, and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the winter is over. I thank you for my share of the favour, said Elizabeth, but I do not particularly like your way of getting husbands. Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wilcombe had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join his regiment at the end of a fortnight. No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so short, and she made the most of the time by visiting about with her daughter, and having very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to all. To avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did think than such as did not. Wickham's affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth had expected to find it, not equal to Lydia's for him. She had scarcely needed her present observation to be satisfied from the reason of things, that their elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather than by his. And she would have wondered why, without violently caring for her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain that his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances, and if that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity of having a companion. Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every occasion. No one was to be put in competition with him. He did everything best in the world, and she was sure he would kill more birds on the first of September than anybody else in the country. One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth, Lizzie, I never gave you an account of my wedding, I believe. You were not by when I told Mamar and the others all about it. Are you not curious to hear how it was managed? Not really, replied Elizabeth. I think there cannot be too little said on the subject. La, you are so strange. But I must tell you how it went off. We were married, you know, at St. Clements, because Wickham's lodgings were in that parish, and it was settled that we should all be there by eleven o'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together, and the others were to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss, I was so afraid, you know, that something would happen to put it off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And there was my aunt all the time I was dressing, preaching, and talking away just as if she were reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to know whether he would be married in his blue coat. Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual. I thought it would never be over, for, by the bar, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you'll believe me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a fortnight, not one party or scheme or anything. To be sure, London was rather thin, but however the little theatre was open. Well, and so just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon business to that horrid man, Mr. Stone. And then you know when once they get together there is no end of it. While I was so frightened I did not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away, and if we were beyond the hour we could not be married all day. But luckily he came back again in ten minutes time, and then we all set out. However, I recollected afterwards that if he had been prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well. Mr. Darcy? repeated Elizabeth in utter amazement. Oh, yes! He was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious me, I quite forgot. I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised them so faithfully. What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret. If it was to be secret, said Jane, say not another word on the subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further. Oh, certainly, said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity, we will ask you no questions. Thank you, said Lydia, for if you did I should certainly tell you all, and then Wickham would be angry. On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her power by running away. But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible, or at least it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at his sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people, where he had apparently least to do and least temptation to go. Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her brain, but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as placing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She could not bear such suspense, and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short letter to her aunt who request an explanation of what Lydia had dropped, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been intended. You may readily comprehend, she added, what my curiosity must be to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and, comparatively speaking, a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such a time. Pray right instantly, and let me understand it, unless it is, for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to think necessary, and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with ignorance. Not that I shall, though, she added to herself as she finished the letter, and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it out. Jane's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall. Elizabeth was glad of it. Till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidant. CHAPTER 52 Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter as soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it than, hurrying into the little cops, where she was least likely to be interrupted, she sat down on one of the benches and prepared to be happy, for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not contain a denial. GRACE CHURCH STREET SETTEMBER 6 MY DEAR NEES, I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole morning to answering it, as I foresee that a little writing will not comprise what I have to tell you. I must confess myself surprised by your application. I did not expect it from you. Don't think me angry, however, for I only mean to let you know that I had not imagined such inquiries to be necessary on your side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am, and nothing but the belief of your being a party concerned would have allowed him to act as he has done. But if you are really innocent and ignorant, I must be more explicit. On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up with him several hours. It was all over before I arrived, so my curiosity was not so dreadfully wrapped as yours seems to have been. He came to tell Mr. Gardner that he had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were, and that he had seen and talked with them both. Wickham repeatedly, Lydia, once. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day after ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting for them. The motive professed was his conviction of its being owing to himself that Wickham's worthlessness had not been so well known as to make it impossible for any young woman of character to love or confide in him. He generously imputed the whole of his mistaken pride, and confessed that he had before fought it beneath him to lay his private actions open to the world. His character was to speak for itself. He called it therefore his duty to step forward and endeavour to remedy an evil which had been brought on by himself. If he had another motive, I am sure it would never disgrace him. He had been some days in town before he was able to discover them, but he had something to direct his search, which was more than we had, and the consciousness of this was another reason for his resolving to follow us. There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Young, who was some time ago governess to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed from her charge on some cause of disapprobation, though he did not say what. She then took a large house in Edward Street, and has since maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs. Young was, he knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham, and he went to her for intelligence of him as soon as he got to town. But it was two or three days before he could get from her what he wanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery and corruption, for she really did know where her friend was to be found. Wickham, indeed, had gone to her on their first arrival in London, and had she been able to receive them into her house, they would have taken up their abode with her. At length, however, our kind friend procured the wished-for direction. They were in... Street. He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia. His first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade her to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her, offering his assistance as far as it would go. But he found Lydia absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared for none of her friends. She wanted no help of his. She would not hear of leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some time or other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were her feelings, it only remained, he thought, to secure and expedite a marriage, which, in his very first conversation with Wickham, he easily learned had never been his design. He confessed himself obliged to leave the regiment on account of some debts of honour, which were very pressing, and scrupled not to lay all the ill consequences of Lydia's flight on her own folly alone. He meant to resign his commission immediately, and as to his future situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He must go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew he should have nothing to live on. Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your sister at once. Though Mr. Bennett was not imagined to be very rich, he would have been able to do something for him, and his situation must have benefited by marriage. But he found, in reply to this question, that Wickham still cherished the hope of more effectually making his fortune by marriage in some other country. Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely to be proof against the temptation of immediate relief. They met several times, for there was much to be discussed. Wickham, of course, wanted more than he could get, but at length was reduced to be reasonable. Everything being subtle between them, Mr. Darcy's next step was to make your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in Grace Church Street the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardner could not be seen, and Mr. Darcy found, on further inquiry, that your father was still with him, but would quit town the next morning. He did not judge your father to be a person whom he could so properly consult as your uncle, and therefore readily postponed seeing him till after the departure of the former. He did not leave his name, and till the next day it was only known that a gentleman had called on business. On Saturday he came again. Your father was gone, your uncle at home, and, as I said before, they had a great deal of talk together. They met again on Sunday, and then I saw him too. It was not all settled before Monday. As soon as it was, the express was sent off to Longbourn, but our visitor was very obstinate. I fancy, Lizzie, that obstinacy is the real defect of his character after all. He has been accused of many faults at different times, but this is the true one. Nothing was to be done that he did not do himself, though I am sure, and I do not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it, your uncle would most readily have settled the whole. They battled it together for a long time, which was more than either the gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your uncle was forced to yield, and instead of being allowed to be of use to his niece, was forced to put up with only having the probable credit of it, which went sorely against the grain. And I really believe your letter this morning gave him great pleasure, because it required an explanation that would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where it was due. But Lizzie, this must go no farther than yourself for Jane at most. You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done for the young people. His debts are to be paid amounting, I believe, to considerably more than a thousand pounds, another thousand in addition to her own settled upon her, and his commission purchased. The reason why all this was to be done by him alone was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his reserve and want of proper consideration, that Wickham's character had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he had been received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth in this, though I doubt whether his reserve or anybody's reserve can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all this fine talking, my dear Lizzie, you may rest perfectly assured that your uncle would never have yielded if we had not given him credit for another interest in the affair. When all this was resolved on, he returned again to his friends who were still staying at Pemberley, but it was agreed that he should be in London once more when the wedding took place, and all money matters were then to receive the last finish. I believe I have now told you everything. It is a relation which you tell me is to give you great surprise. I hope at least it will not afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to us, and Wickham had constant admission to the house. He was exactly what he had been when I knew him in Hertfordshire, but I would not tell you how little I was satisfied with her behaviour while she stayed with us, if I had not perceived, by Jane's letter last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home was exactly of a peace with it, and therefore what I now tell you can give you no fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most serious manner, representing to her all the wickedness of what she had done and all the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If she heard me it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not listen. I was sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my dear Elizabeth and Jane, and for their sakes, had patience with her. Mr. Darcy was punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you, attended the wedding. He dined with us the next day, and was to leave town again on Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my dear Lizzie, if I take this opportunity of saying what I was never bold enough to say before—how much I like him. His behaviour to us has, in every respect, been as pleasing as when we were in Darbyshire. His understanding and opinions all please me. He wants nothing but a little more liveliness, and that, if he marry prudently, his wife may teach him. I thought him very sly. He hardly ever mentioned your name. But slinness seems the fashion. Pray forgive me if I have been very presuming, or at least do not punish me so far as to exclude me from P. I shall never be quite happy till I have been all around the park. A low faton with a nice little pair of ponies would be the very thing. But I must write no more—the children have been wanting me this half-hour. Yours very sincerely, M. Gardner. The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits, in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the greatest chair. The vague and unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had produced of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister's match, which she had feared to encourage as an exertion of goodness too great to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just from the pain of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true. He had followed them purposely to town. He had taken on himself all the trouble and mortification attendant on such a research, in which supplication had been necessary to a woman whom he must abominate and despise, and where he was reduced to meat—frequently meat, reasonwith, persuade, and finally bribe—the man whom he always most wished to avoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had done all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her heart did whisper that he had done it for her. But it was a hope shortly checked by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her vanity was insufficient when required to depend on his affection for her—for a woman who had already refused him, as able to overcome a sentiment so natural as abhorrence against relationship with Wickham. Protheran law of Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from the connection. He had to be sure done much. She was ashamed to think how much. But he had given a reason for his interference, which asked no extraordinary stretch of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel he had been wrong. He had liberality, and he had the means of exercising it, and though she would not place herself as his principal inducement, she could perhaps believe that remaining partiality for her might assist his endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that they were under obligations to a person who could never receive a return. They owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, everything to him. Oh, how heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation she had ever encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed towards him. For herself she was humbled. But she was proud of him. Proud that, in a cause of compassion and honour, he had been able to get the better of himself. She read over her aunt's commendation of him again and again. It was hardly enough, but it pleased her. She was even sensible of some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how steadfastly both she and her uncle had been persuaded that affection and confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself. She was roused from her seat and her reflections by some one's approach, and before she could strike into another path she was overtaken by Wickham. I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister, said he as he joined her. You certainly do, she replied with a smile. But it does not follow that the interruption must be unwelcome. I should be sorry indeed, if it were. We were always good friends, and now we are better. True. Are the others coming out? I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to Merritton. And so, my dear sister, I find from our uncle and aunt that you have actually seen Pemberley, she replied in the affirmative. I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the old housekeeper, I suppose. Paul Reynolds, she was always very fond of me. But, of course, she did not mention my name to you. Yes, she did. And what did she say? That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had not turned out well. At such a distance as that, you know, things are strangely misrepresented. Certainly, he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had silenced him, but he soon afterwards said, I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other several times. I wonder what he can be doing there. Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Mr. Berg, said Elizabeth, it must be something particular to take him there at this time of year. Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lampton? I thought I understood from the gardeners that you had. Yes. He introduced us to his sister. And you like her? Very much. I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year or two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad you liked her. I hope she will turn out well. I dare say she will. She has got over the most trying age. Did you go by the village of Kimpton? I do not recollect that we did. I mention it because it is the living which I ought to have had. A most delightful place. Excellent Parsonage House! It would have suited me in every respect. How should you have liked making sermons? Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty, and the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to repine, but to be sure it would have been such a thing for me. The quiet, the retirement of such a life would have answered all my ideas of happiness. But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the circumstance when you were in Kent? I have heard from authority which I thought as good, that it was left you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron. You have? Yes. There was something in that. I told you so from the first you may remember. I did hear, too, that there was a time when sermon-making was not so palatable to you as it seems to be at present, that you actually declared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business had been compromised accordingly. You did, and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember what I told you on that point when we first talked of it. They were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked fast to get rid of him, and unwilling for her sister's sake to provoke him, she only said in reply with a good, humid smile. Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let us quarrel about the past. In future, I hope, we shall be always of one mind. She held out her hand. He kissed it with affectionate gallantry, though he hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house. Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation that he never again distressed himself or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth by introducing the subject of it, and she was pleased to find that she had said enough to keep him quiet. The day of his and Lydia's departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet was forced to submit to a separation which, as her husband by no means entered into her scheme of their all-going-to-new castle, was likely to continue at least a twelve-month. Oh, my dear Lydia, she cried. When shall we meet again? Oh, Lord, I don't know. Not these two or three years, perhaps. Write to me very often, my dear. As often as I can. But, you know, married women have never much time for writing. My sisters may write to me. They will have nothing else to do. Mr. Wickham's ideas were much more affectionate than his wives. He smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things. He is as fine a fellow, said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of the house, as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to us all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas himself to produce a more valuable son-in-law. The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days. I often think, said she, that there is nothing so bad as parting with one's friends. One seems so forlorn without them. This is the consequence, you see, madam, of marrying a daughter, said Elizabeth. It must make you better satisfied that your other four are single. It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is married, but only because our husband's regiment happens to be so far off. If that had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon. But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was shortly relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope, by an article of news which then began to be in circulation. The housekeeper at Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the arrival of her master, who was coming down in a day or two, to shoot there for several weeks. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and smiled, and shook her head by turns. Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister, for Mrs. Phillips first brought her the news. Well, so much the better. Not that I care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am sure I never want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome to come to Netherfield if he likes it, and who knows what may happen. But that is nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to mention a word about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming? You may depend on it, replied the other, for Mrs. Nichols was in Merritton last night. I saw her passing by and went out myself on purpose to know the truth of it, and she told me that it was certain true. He comes down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was going to the butchers, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat on Wednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks just fit to be killed. Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without changing colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to Elizabeth, but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said, I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzie, when my aunt told us of the present report, and I know I appeared distressed. But don't imagine it was from any silly cause. I was only confused for the moment, because I felt I should be looked at. I do assure you that the news does not affect me either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing—that he comes alone—because we shall see less of him. Not that I am afraid of myself, but I dread other people's remarks. Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him in Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming there with no other view than what was acknowledged. But she still thought impartial to Jane, and she wavered us to the greater probability of his coming there with his friend's permission, or being bold enough to come without it. Yet it is hard, she sometimes thought, that this poor man cannot come to a house which he has legally hired without raising all this speculation. I will leave him to himself. In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be her feelings and the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed, more unequal, than she had often seen them. The subject which had been so warmly canvased between their parents about a twelve-month ago, was now brought forward again. As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear, said Mrs. Bennet, you will wait on him, of course. No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised, if I went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it ended in nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool's errand again. His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen on his returning to Netherfield. "'Tis an etiquette I despise,' said he. If he wants our society, let him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not spend my hours in running after my neighbours every time they go away and come back again. Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do not wait on him. But, however, that shan't prevent my asking him to dine here. I am determined. We must have Mrs. Long in the Golding soon. That will make thirteen with ourselves, so there will be just room at table for him.' Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her husband's incivility, though it was very mortifying to know that her neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley in consequence of it, before they did. As the day of his arrival drew near, I begin to be sorry that he comes at all, said Jane to her sister. It would be nothing. I could see him with perfect indifference, but I can hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually talked of. My mother means well, but she does not know—no one can know—how much I suffer from what she says. Happy shall I be when his stay at Netherfield is over. I wish I could say anything to comfort you, replied Elizabeth. But it is wholly out of my power. You must feel it, and the usual satisfaction of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied me, because you have always so much. Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of servants, contrived to have the earliest tidings of it that the period of anxiety and fretfulness on her side might be as long as it could. She counted the days that must intervene before their invitation could be sent, hopeless of seeing him before. But on the third morning after his arrival in Hertfordshire, she saw him from her dressing-room window enter the paddock and ride towards the house. Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane resolutely kept her place at the table, but Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother, went to the window. She looked. She saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat down again by his sister. There is a gentleman with him, Mama, said Kitty. Who can it be? Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose. I am sure I do not know. La! replied Kitty. It looks just like that man that used to be with him before. Mr. What's his name? That tall, proud man. Good gracious! Mr. Darcy! And so it does, I vow. Well, any friend of Mr. Bingley's will always be welcome here, to be sure, but else I must say that I hate the very sight of him. Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness which must attend her sister, in seeing him almost for the first time after receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable enough. Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves, and their mother talked on of her dislike of Mr. Darcy and her resolution to be civil to him only as Mr. Bingley's friend, without being heard by either of them. But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to show Mrs. Gardner's letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him. To Jane he could be only a man whose proposal she had refused, and whose merit she had undervalued. But to her own more extensive information, he was the person to whom the whole family were indebted for the first of benefits, and whom she regarded herself with an interest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable in just as what Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his coming—at his coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again—was almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing his altered behaviour in Derbyshire. The colour which had been driven from her face returned for half a minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to her eyes, as she thought for that space of time that his affection and wishes must still be unshaken. But she would not be secure. Let me first see how he behaves, said she. It will then be early enough for expectation. She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without daring to lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of her sister as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little paler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the gentlemen's appearing, her colour increased, yet she received them with tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any symptom of resentment or any unnecessary complacence. Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down again to her work with an eagerness which it did not often command. She had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious, as usual, and she thought, more as he had been used to look in heartfelture, than as she had seen him at Pemberley. But perhaps he could not in her mother's presence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but not an improbable, conjecture. Bingley she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs. Bennet with a degree of civility, which made her two daughters ashamed, especially when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of her curtsy and address to his friend. Elizabeth particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the latter the preservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy, was hurt and distressed to a most painful degree by a distraction so ill-applied. Darcy, after inquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardner did, a question which she could not answer without confusion, said scarcely anything. He was not seated by her—perhaps that was the reason of his silence—but it had not been so in Derbyshire. There he had talked to her friends when he could not to herself. But now several minutes elapsed without bringing the sound of his voice, and when occasionally unable to resist the impulse of curiosity she raised her eyes to his face, she has often found him looking at Jane, as at herself, and frequently on no object but the ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please than when they last met were plainly expressed. She was disappointed and angry with herself for being so. Could I expect it to be otherwise? said she. Yet why did he come? She was in no humour for conversation with any one but himself, and to him she had hardly courage to speak. She inquired after his sister, but could do no more. It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away, said Mrs. Bennet. He readily agreed to it. I began to be afraid you would never come back. People did say you meant to quit the place entirely at Mikkelmus. But, however, I hope it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood since you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled, and one of my own daughters. I suppose you have heard of it. Indeed, you must have seen it in the papers. It was in the times and the courier, I know, though it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, lately George Wickham Esquire to Miss Lydia Bennet, without there being a syllable said of her father or the place where she lived or anything. It was my brother Gardner's drawing up, too, and I wonder how he came to make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it? Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could not tell. It is a delightful thing to be sure to have a daughter well married, continued her mother. But at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very hard to have her taken such a way from me. They are gone down to Newcastle, a place quite northward, it seems, and there they are to stay. I do not know how long. His regiment is there, for I suppose you have heard of his leaving the Shire, and of his being gone into the Regulus. Thank heaven he has some friends, though perhaps not so many as he deserves. Elizabeth, who knew this to be leveled at Mr. Darcy, was in such a misery of shame that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew from her, however, the exertion of speaking, which nothing else had so effectually done before, and she asked Bingley whether he meant to make any stay in the country at present. A few weeks, he believed. When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley, said her mother, I beg you will come here and shoot as many as you please on Mr. Bennett's manner. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you, and will save all the best of the covies for you. Elizabeth's misery increased at such unnecessary, such a vicious attention. Were the same fair prospect to arise at present as it flattered them a year ago, everything, she was persuaded, would be hastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant she felt that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself amends for moments of such painful confusion. The first wish of my heart, said she to herself, is never more to be in company with either of them. Their society can afford no pleasure that will atone for such wretchedness as this. Let me never see either one or the other again. Yet the misery for which years of happiness were to offer no compensation received soon afterwards material relief from observing how much the beauty of her sister rekindled the admiration of her former lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little, but every five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He found her as handsome as she had been last year, as good-natured and as unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no difference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded that she talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged that she did not always know when she was silent. When the gentleman rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at Longbourn in a few days' time. You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley, she added, for when you went to town last winter you promised to take a family dinner with us as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see, and I assure you, I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep your engagement. Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of his concern at having been prevented by business. They then went away. Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine there that day, but, though she always kept a very good table, she did not think anything less than two courses could be good enough for a man on whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride of one who had ten thousand a year. As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits, or, in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her. Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent, said she, did he come at all? She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure. He could be still amiable, still pleasing to my uncle and aunt when he was in town, and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teasing, teasing, man! I will think no more about him. Her resolution was, for a short time, involuntarily kept by the approach of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look, which showed her better satisfied with their visitors than Elizabeth. Now, said she, that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by his coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly seen that, on both sides, we meet only as common and indifferent acquaintance. Yes, very indifferent indeed, said Elizabeth, laughingly. O Jane, take care! My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak as to be in danger now. I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with you as ever. They did not see the gentleman again till Tuesday, and Mrs. Bennet, in the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes which the good humour and common politeness of Bingley in half an hour's visit had revived. On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourne, and the two who were most anxiously expected to the credit of their punctuality as sportsmen were in very good time. When they repaired to the dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take the place which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him by her sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forebore to invite him to sit by herself. On entering the room he seemed to hesitate, but Jane happened to look round and happened to smile. It was decided. He placed himself by her. Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend. He borrowed with noble indifference, and she would have imagined that Bingley had received his sanction to be happy had she not seen his eyes likewise turn towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half- laughing alarm. His behaviour to her sister was such during dinner-time as showed an admiration of her which, though more guarded than formerly, persuaded Elizabeth that if left wholly to himself, Jane's happiness and his own would be speedily secured. Though she dared not depend upon the consequence, she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It gave her all the animation that her spirits could boast, for she was in no cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her as the table could divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little such a situation would give pleasure to either, or to make either appear to advantage. She was not near enough to hear any of their discourse, but she could see how seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and cold was their manner whenever they did. Her mother's ungraciousness made the sense of what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth's mind, and she would at times have given anything to be privileged to tell him that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of the family. She was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity of bringing them together—that the whole of the visit would not pass away without enabling them to enter into something more of conversation than the mere ceremonial salutation attending his entrance. Anxious and uneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room before the gentleman came, was wearisome and dull to a degree that almost made her uncivil. She looked forward to their entrance as the point on which all her chance of pleasure for the evening must depend. If he does not come to me then, said she, I shall give him up for ever. The gentleman came, and she thought he looked as if he would have answered her hopes, but alas, the ladies had crowded round the table where Miss Bennet was making tea and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee, in so closer confederacy that there was not a single vacancy near her which would admit of a chair. And on the gentleman's approaching, one of the girls moved closer to her than ever, and said in a whisper, The men shan't come in part as I am determined. We want none of them, do we? Darcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed him with her eyes, envied everyone to whom he spoke, had scarcely patience enough to help anybody to coffee, and then was enraged against herself for being so silly. A man who has once been refused, how could I ever be foolish enough to expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex who would not protest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman? There is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings. She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his coffee-cup himself, and she seized the opportunity of saying, Is your sister at Pemberley still? Yes, she will remain there till Christmas. And, quite alone, have all her friends left her? Mrs. Ansley is with her. The others have gone on to Scarborough these three weeks. She could think of nothing more to say, but if he wished to converse with her he might have better success. He stood by her, however, for some minutes in silence, and at last, on the young lady's whispering to Elizabeth again, he walked away. When the two things were removed and the card-tables placed, the ladies all rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined by him, when all her views were overthrown by seeing him fall a victim to her mother's rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated with the rest of the party. She now lost every expectation of pleasure. They were confined for the evening at different tables, and she had nothing to hope but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side of the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself. Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to supper, but their carriage was unlackily ordered before any of the others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them. Well, girls, said she, as soon as they were left to themselves, what say you to the day? I think everything has passed off uncommonly well, I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The venison was roasted to a turn, and everybody said they never saw so fat a haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the Lucases last week, and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged that the partridges were remarkably well done, and I suppose he has two or three French cooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater beauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And what do you think she said besides, Ah, Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her at Netherfield at last. She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good a creature as ever lived, and her nieces are very pretty behaved girls, and not at all handsome. I like them prodigiously. Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits. She had seen enough of Bingley's behaviour to Jane to be convinced that she would get him at last, and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy humour, was so far beyond reason that she was quite disappointed in not seeing him there again the next day to make his proposals. It has been a very agreeable day, said Miss Bennet to Elizabeth. The party seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we may often meet again. Elizabeth smiled. Lizzie, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me. I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied from what his manners now are, that he never had any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally pleasing than any other man. You are very cruel, said her sister. You will not let me smile and are provoking me to at every moment. How hard it is in some cases to be believed, and how impossible in others. But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I acknowledge? That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive me, and if you persist in indifference, do not make me your confidant. End of chapter 54