Gay Pride and Prejudice (41 page)

“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. Perhaps there was some truth in this. 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 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 piece 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 and Miss Bingley, who was also in town, dined with us the next day, and were 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 Mr. Darcy? His behaviour 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 marries
prudently
, his wife may teach him. I thought him very sly—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 been wanting 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 her 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! On what must have been Caroline’s instigation, he had followed Lydia and Wickham to town and taken on 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 frequently meet, reason with, persuade, and finally bribe the man whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had done all this, at Caroline’s entreaty, for a girl whom neither could possibly regard or esteem. Her heart did whisper that the lady 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 Caroline’s affection for her—for a woman who had already refused her—as able to persuade Darcy to overcome a sentiment so natural as abhorrence against any connection with Wickham.

While Caroline had undoubtedly informed Darcy of Wickham’s latest descent into scandal, Darcy was the one who had taken action. Given that he seemed much changed since their first meeting, and that those who knew him swore by his goodness and generosity, Elizabeth knew she had better believe the reasons he had offered 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 cast it as the principal inducement, she could, perhaps, believe that Darcy’s sympathy to Caroline’s former partiality toward her might have contributed in his decision to assist in a cause where her peace of mind must be materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that her family was under obligation to persons who could never receive a return. They owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, everything, to Darcy and Caroline. How heartily did Elizabeth now grieve over every ungracious sensation she had ever encouraged regarding the two friends, every saucy speech she had ever directed toward either. For herself she was humbled; but she was grateful to Caroline and Darcy for their assistance in resolving a matter that would never elicit the approbation so clearly deserved.

She read over her aunt’s commendation of Darcy again, wondering if she should discourage the false assumptions of an attachment between the gentleman and herself. She was sensible of some regret on finding how steadfastly her aunt and uncle had been persuaded that affection and confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself, while, all along, the attachment lay in quite another area. Had they known of Caroline’s professions of love at Hunsford Parsonage, what would have been their reaction? Certainly not a cheerful reference to someday visiting their shared home for a turn about the park. Were Elizabeth and Caroline to choose each other above all others, such a choice would have to remain secret; an open secret to friends, family, and even strangers, perhaps, but an unspoken secret nonetheless. Romantic friendship between women of their class was a grudgingly tolerated tradition, as the example of the Ladies of Llangollen, the celebrated Welsh couple, had proven. But even Eleanor Butler and Sarah Ponsonby stringently denied any intimacy that went beyond the accepted boundaries of friendship.

Neither Elizabeth nor Charlotte, both amply pleased by the physical nature of their own love, had ever believed the Ladies’ claims to innocence. In the early months of their attachment, they had read everything on the Ladies they could find, imagining a future for themselves based on just such a model. Or, at least, Elizabeth had pictured herself living in pastoral bliss with Charlotte, far from the notice of those who would have them settled in unwanted marriages. Her friend had been contemplating a very different type of life, as her actions clearly attested. What, wondered Elizabeth, did Caroline Bingley want? To be rescued from society’s censure, like Charlotte, by entering into a marriage of expediency? Or did she, as Elizabeth had once done, dream of running away with the woman she loved?

In the wake of her sister’s elopement, Elizabeth’s old dream had lost any possible remaining shine of nobility or appeal. After considering further the pain Lydia’s actions had inflicted, she was convinced that she could never exact from her family the significant toll required should she give in to the longing to share her life with the person of her preference. Perhaps Charlotte had been right to sacrifice real affection for respectability, after all. If only they were not required to make such a choice—but it was useless, and not in Elizabeth’s character, to waste time wishing for such a revolution in social mores.

She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by someone’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 politely; “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.”

“Are the others coming out?”

“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 had—not turned out well. At such a distance as that, you know, things are strangely misrepresented.”

“Certainly,” he replied, biting his lip. 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 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 dare say 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! 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 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-humoured 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.

Chapter Fifty-Three

M
R.
W
ICKHAM 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 that, 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, “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 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.”

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 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. When Mrs. Phillips first brought her the news, 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. 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?”