Chapter 5
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 of 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 Forster? 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. Gardiner, “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 it. I cannot
think so very ill of Wickham. Can you, yourself, Lizzy, 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. Gardiner, “there
is no absolute proof that they are not gone to Scotland.”
“Oh, but their removing from the chaise into a
hackney coach is such a presumption! And, besides, no traces of
them were to be found on the Barnet road.”
“Well, then,—supposing them to be in London. They
may be there, though for the purpose of concealment, for no more
exceptionable purpose. It is not likely that money should be very
abundant on either side; and it might strike 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 attractions has she beyond youth,
health, and good humour, that could make him for her sake forego
every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what
restraint the apprehensions of disgrace in the corps 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 every
thing but love of him, as to consent to live with him on any other
terms 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
twelvemonth, 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 Meryton, nothing
but love, flirtation, and officers, have been in her head. She has
been doing every thing 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 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
believe 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 do you really know all this?” cried Mrs.
Gardiner, 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 worth while 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 seem so well to understand?”
“Oh yes!—that, that is the worst of all. Till I was
in Kent, and saw so much both of 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 neighbourhood had of him,
should then be overthrown? And even when 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 should 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 any thing of the kind been
perceptible, you must be aware that ours is not a family on which
it could be thrown away. When first he entered the corps, she was
ready enough to admire him; but so we all were. Every girl in or
near Meryton was out of her 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 favourites.”
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 Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a
chaise, 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 stairs 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 any thing had been heard of the fugitives.
“Not yet,” replied Jane. “But now that my dear
uncle is come, I hope every thing 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 once. 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 up stairs, 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. Gardiner were engaged with their children, was
now put an end to by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to
her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and thanked them both, with
alternate smiles and tears.
When they were all in the drawing-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
her 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 the 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 villanous conduct of Wickham, and complaints
of her own sufferings and ill usage; blaming every body but the
person to whose ill-judging indulgence the errors of her daughter
must be principally 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 very unfit to have the charge of
her; but I was over-ruled, 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 what is to
become of us all? The Collinses 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. Gardiner, 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; and till 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 Gracechurch 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 things, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting. Tell
him what a dreadful state I am in—that I am frightened out of my
wits; and have such tremblings, 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. Gardiner, 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 fears; and after
talking with her in this manner till dinner was on table, they left
her to vent all 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 the business, had given something more of
fretfulness than usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she
was mistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a
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 false 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 undeserving 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 enquiries 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 impossible, the former continued the subject,
by saying, “But tell me all and every thing about it which I have
not already heard. Give me further particulars. What did Colonel
Forster say? Had they no apprehension of any thing before the
elopement took place? They must have seen them together for
ever.”
“Colonel Forster 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 their
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
Forster seen Denny himself?”
“Yes; but when questioned by him Denny
denied knowing any thing of their plan, 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.”
“And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of
you entertained a doubt, I suppose, of their being really
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 been always 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 Forster appear to think ill 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 Meryton 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 Forster 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 to-morrow 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 to them, and sign
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 ball 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. Good-by. Give my love to Colonel Forster. I hope you
will 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 in the object of her 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 it 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 from me my faculties.”
“Your attendance upon her has been too much for
you. You do not look well. Oh that I had 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 Philips 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 could 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 enquire 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
postilions, and try if any thing 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 fare from
London; and as he thought the circumstance of a gentleman and
lady’s removing from one carriage into another might be remarked,
he meant to make enquiries at Clapham. If he could any how discover
at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he
determined to make enquiries 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 spirits so greatly discomposed, that I
had difficulty in finding out even so much as this.”