Pride and Prejudice (The Wild and Wanton Edition) (36 page)

“Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your sister at once. Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would have been able to do something for him, and his situation must have been 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 settled between them, Mr. Darcy’s next step was to make your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in Gracechurch Street the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardiner 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, but as soon as it was, the express was sent off to Longbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I fancy, Lizzy, that obstinacy is the real defect of his character. 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 your uncle would most readily have settled the whole affair.

“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. 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, Lizzy, this must go no farther than yourself, or 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 Lizzy, 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, he returned again to his friends, who were still staying at Pemberley. 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 behavior while she stayed with us, if I had not perceived, by Jane’s letter last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home was exactly the same, 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 Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying — what I was never bold enough to say before — how much I like him? His behavior to us has, in every respect, been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire. 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, for he hardly ever mentioned your name. But slyness 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 round the park. A low phaeton, with a nice little pair of ponies, would be the very thing.

“But I must write no more. The children have wanted me this half hour. Yours, very sincerely, M. Gardiner.”

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 share. The vague and unsettled suspicions 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 being just, 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 loathe and despise, and where he was reduced to frequently meet, reason with, 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. Every kind of pride must revolt from the connection of him as brother-in-law. Darcy 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. She would not place herself as his principal inducement, but could believe that a remaining partiality for her might assist his endeavors in a cause where her peace of mind must be materially concerned. It was exceedingly painful to know 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 honor, 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. 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 that had nothing to do with him, “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?” She made a move to walk back to the house, so as not to be forced too long in his company.

“I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to Meryton. 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? Poor 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 you 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 he 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 Miss de Bourgh,” 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 Lambton?

I thought I understood from the Gardiners that you had.”

“Yes, he introduced us to his sister.”

“And do 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 daresay she will. She has got over the most trying age.”

“Did you go by the village of Kympton?”

“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, an 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? It was not wholly without foundation. You may remember what I told you on that point, when first we 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-humored 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.

M
R. WICKHAM WAS SO PERFECTLY SATISFIED with this conversation that he never again distressed himself, or provoked Elizabeth, by introducing the subject of it. She was pleased to find that she had said enough to keep him quiet. The day of his and Lydia’s departure soon came. 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 Newcastle, was likely to continue at least a twelvemonth.

“Oh, my dear Lydia,” she cried. “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 adieus were much more affectionate than his wife’s. 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 when it comes to absurdities.”

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 children. 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 because her 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.

When Mrs. Philips first brought her the news, Mrs. Bennet replied, “Well, so much the better. Not that I care about it. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am sure
I
never want to see him again. But, 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. Nicholls was in Meryton last night. I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose to know the truth of it. She told me that it was certain. He comes down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was going to the butcher’s 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 color. It was many months since Jane had mentioned his name to Elizabeth, but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said, “I saw you look at me today, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the present report. I know I appeared distressed. But do not imagine it was from any silly cause. I was only confused for the moment. 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 the 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. However, she still thought him partial to Jane, and she wavered as 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 in 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 canvassed between their parents, about a twelvemonth 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 neighboring 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 neighbors 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. We must have Mrs. Long and the Gouldings 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 neighbors might all see Mr. Bingley before they did.

As the day of his arrival drew near, Jane said to her sister, “I begin to be sorry that he comes at all. It would be nothing for 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.”

Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of servants, contrived to have the earliest tidings of it. 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. Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother, went to the window and that saw Mr. Darcy with him. Breathless, she sat down again by her sister.

“There is a gentleman with him, mamma,” said Kitty. “Who can it be?”

“Some acquaintance or other I suppose, my dear. 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! So it does, I vow. Well, any friend of Mr. Bingley’s will always be welcome here, to be sure, but I must say 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. 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. Gardiner’s letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him. To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals 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 and 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 behavior in Derbyshire.

The color which had been driven from her face, returned for half a minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added luster 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,” thought 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 approached the door. Jane looked a little paler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the gentlemen’s appearing, her color increased. Yet she received them with tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behavior equally free from any symptom of resentment or any unnecessary complaisance.

Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow. She ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious, as usual, more as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, 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 curtsey and address to his friend.

Elizabeth, particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the latter the preservation of her favorite daughter from irremediable infamy, was hurt and distressed to a most painful degree by a distinction so ill applied.

Darcy, after inquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a question which she could not answer without confusion, said scarcely anything. He was not seated by her, and perhaps that was the reason of his silence. Several minutes elapsed without bringing the sound of his voice, and when she was unable to resist the impulse of curiosity she raised he eyes to his face. She as 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?” she thought.

She was in no humor for conversation with anyone 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. “Yes, it is.”

“I began to fear you would never come back again. People did say you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas. However, I hope it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighborhood 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, Esq. 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 Gardiner’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. Every fiber of her being seemed pulled in his direction and she wanted nothing more than to banish the others from the room so that she may speak freely to him. But, what would she say? How to begin such a conversation? Insecurity thickened her tongue and she merely stared at the tips of her shoes.

“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 from me. They are gone down to Newcastle, a place quite northward, and there they are to stay. His regiment is there. I suppose you have heard of his leaving the militia, and of his being gone into the regulars. 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 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. She asked Bingley, “Do you mean to stay in the country?”

“A few weeks,” he answered with a boyishly charming smile.

“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. Bennet’s manor. 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 unnecessarily officious attention. At that instant, she felt that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself amends for moments of such painful confusion. Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no compensation, received material relief, as Elizabeth observed how much her sister’s beauty 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, as unaffected, though not quite so talkative. 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 gentlemen 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.