Pride and Prejudice (The Wild and Wanton Edition) (35 page)

L
YDIA’S WEDDING DAY ARRIVED. Jane and Elizabeth felt for her probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to meet the newlyweds, and they were to return in it by dinnertime. When they arrived, the family assembled in the breakfast room to receive them. A smile decked the face of Mrs. Bennet as the carriage drove up to the door. Her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed, anxious, and uneasy.

Lydia’s voice was heard in the vestibule as the door was thrown open. She ran into the room. Her mother stepped forward, embraced her, and welcomed her with rapture. Mrs. Bennet then gave her hand, with an affectionate smile, to Wickham, who followed his lady. She wished them both joy with an alacrity which showed no doubt of their happiness.

Their reception from Mr. Bennet was not quite so cordial. His countenance gained in austerity and he scarcely opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple was enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Jane was shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their congratulations.

When at length they all sat down, Lydia looked eagerly round the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and observed, with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been there. Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself. His manners were always so pleasing, that had his character and his marriage been exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy address would have delighted them all.

There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither of them talk fast enough. Wickham, who happened to sit near Elizabeth, began inquiring after his acquaintances in that neighborhood, with a good humored 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 said, “since I went away. It seems but a fortnight I declare, and yet there have been things enough that have happened in that 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, mamma, do the people hereabouts know I am married today? I was afraid they might not. When we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, I was determined he should know it and so I let down the side-glass next to him, and took off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled.”

Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up and left the room, not bothering to rejoin the party until she heard them passing through the hall to the dining parlor. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with anxious parade, walk up to her mother’s right hand, and say to her eldest sister, “Ah! 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 the embarrassment which she currently lacked. Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Philips, the Lucases, and all their other neighbors, and to hear herself called “Mrs. Wickham” by each of them. In the mean time, she went after dinner to show her ring, and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.

“Well, mamma,” said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast room, “and what do you think of my husband? Is he not a charming man? I am sure my sisters must 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.”

“Lydia, I do not like that you are going such a way off. Must it be so?”

“Oh, yes, there is nothing in that. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We shall be at Newcastle all winter, and I daresay there will be some balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all.”

“I should like it beyond anything!” said her mother.

“And when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters behind you. I shall get husbands for them before the winter is over.”

“I thank you for my share of the favor,” 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. Wickham 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. She made the most of the time by visiting about with her daughter, and having very frequent parties at home.

Wickham’s affection for Lydia was just as Elizabeth had expected to find it — not equal to Lydia’s for him. Their elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather than by his. 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.

One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth, “Lizzy, I never gave you an account of my wedding, I believe. You were not by, when I told mamma and the others all about it. Are not you 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! I must tell you how it went off. We were married, you know, at St. Clement’s, because Wickham’s lodgings were in that parish. 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 something would happen to put it off. And there was my aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word, for I was thinking of my dear Wickham. I longed to know whether he would be married in his blue coat.”

“I will not listen,” insisted Elizabeth.

“We breakfasted at ten as usual and I thought it would never be over, for my uncle and aunt were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. 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 the Little Theatre was open.”

“Can you not comprehend the necessity of it?” Elizabeth demanded, only to again be ignored by Lydia’s telling of her story.

“So just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon business to that horrid man Mr. Stone. You know when once they get together there is no end of it. I was so frightened I did not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away. 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. It was to be 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 leaving the room. 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 her 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, yet 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 to request an explanation of what Lydia had hinted at, 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 among you at such a time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it — unless it is, for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to think necessary. Then I must endeavor to be satisfied with ignorance.”

“Not that I shall,” she added to herself, as she finished the letter, “and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honorable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it out.”

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 copse, 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.

She read, “Gracechurch Street, Sept. 6. My dear niece, 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
. Do not think me angry, 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 racked as yours seems to have been. He came to tell Mr. Gardiner 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 to his mistaken pride, and confessed that he had before thought 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 endeavor 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. Younge, 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. Younge 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 Bailey 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, wanted no help of his, and 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 honor, 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.