Chapter 4
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 mis-sent
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 mis-sent must be first
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, which
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. An express came at twelve last night,
just as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us
that she was gone off to Scotland 12 with
one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! 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 Forster 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 a 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 Forster 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., intending to trace their route. He did trace them
easily to Clapham,bd but
no farther; for on entering that place, they removed into a
hackney-coach, and dismissed the chaise that brought them from
Epsom. 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 enquiry on that side London, Colonel F. came on into
Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at
the inns in Barnet 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 Lizzy, 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 every thing? 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 Lizzy,
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 aunt 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 Forster
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 Forster is
obliged to be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such an
exigence my uncle’s advice and assistance would be every thing 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 enough 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. Gardiner
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. Gardiner. 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 as 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 youngest 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;
his brow contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and
instantly understood it. Her power was sinking; every thing
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 every thing
else; and, after a pause of several minutes, was only recalled to a
sense of her 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 any thing to plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though
unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that any thing 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 sister’s having the pleasure of seeing you
at Pemberley to-day.”
“Oh yes. Be so kind as to apologise 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 formerly 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 the 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, had
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 all her feelings on this
development. While the contents of the first letter remained on 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
elopement, 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 had wanted only encouragement to attach
herself to any body. Sometimes one officer, sometimes another, had
been her favourite, as their attentions raised them in her opinion.
Her affections had been continually 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, and till he
entered the room the misery of her impatience was severe. Mr. and
Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing, by the
servant’s account, that their niece was taken suddenly 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 postscript of the last with trembling energy,
though Lydia had never been a favourite with them. Mr. and Mrs.
Gardiner could not but be deeply afflicted. Not Lydia only, but all
were concerned in it; and after the first exclamations of surprise
and horror, Mr. Gardiner readily 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, every
thing 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. Gardiner. “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 best, could serve only
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 Lambton, with false excuses for their sudden departure.
An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr. Gardiner,
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.