“Oh, that is all right,” Miss Hartsbury assured her lightly. “I do not mind; I fear the habit goes too far back to be broken. My mother, you know, was stricken in my youth, and it is so hard on her to speak, poor dear, that I necessarily provided all of our discussion, and now, well, I just cannot seem to stop. How fortunate you are to have had both a brother and a sister growing up: what lovely talks you must have had together, especially as your brother is so affable—and your sister, too, of course.” She smiled cordially at Miss Bingley, blinking at her usual rapid pace, but Darcy thought he detected some tinge of irritation beneath her words.
“Miss Bingley is a lady of vast conversational resources,” he put in mischievously, glad of the opportunity to repay Miss Bingley for her very obliging remark that afternoon, “and has the ability to weigh in on almost any topic with considerable strength of opinion. In fact, I do believe my friend’s amiable nature was largely formed under the influence of the lengthy addresses he often hears from his sisters in concert. Her understanding of what constitutes a well-bred, accomplished lady, is, in particular, highly developed: you must correct me if my memory is in error, Miss Bingley, but did you not hold that it was founded on a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages?” Miss Bingley nodded to this, her smile indicating her pleasure that his memory was so exact on the point. “What say you, Miss Hartsbury?” Darcy asked. “What is your opinion of such a definition?”
That lady, still blinking and smiling, said, “I am a great advocate of accomplishment in any of those endeavours, you know, where there is either genius or application to give proficiency and enjoyment, both to the performer and her audience.”
Darcy looked inquisitively at her; he asked, “You agree, then? Does this definition guarantee social ability and ease?”
“No, I cannot allow that it guarantees one proficient in these accomplishments social grace. Of course, I make no claim to it, either, by any means. Heavens, no; I am the least adept of any one I know in social settings. But I have observed those who are, and I have to say, they were not all in possession of your list accomplishments; in some cases, you know, they were not in possession of any of them.”
“Without accomplishment, what character do they possess, then, to give them grace and ease?” asked Miss Bingley. “High station?”
“Oh no, not that, either,” said Miss Hartsbury. “Not at all. No, every one I have known who could lay claim to social ease and ability knew the limits of their understanding, and made no assertions on things beyond their knowledge.”
“My dear Miss Hartsbury,” Miss Bingley chided, “this can be no definition of social powers; a person with no accomplishment at all might understand that they know but little.”
“Yes: odd, is not it? One would certainly think so, but the only people I have met who seem to know their limits are people of notable ability. Observe…” she called to her uncle, “Mr. Hartsbury! —forgive my interrupting you, Uncle, but what had one best do in the face of a query on a subject unknown to them?”
“It is my invariable habit to turn to the scriptures on such an occasion, my dear,” he replied with dignity. “I can always find the sought-for guidance there, no matter the topic.” His niece beamed at him. “Thank you; I know you do, Uncle dear, and I was sure I could count on your reply. Master Pender, I have a question for you, too: would you call yourself a man of great ability?”
Darcy laughed and warned, “I shall hold you to what you have told me about false modesty, Pender.”
Pender acknowledged Darcy with a wry expression, and told Miss Hartsbury: “I would have to say, with all due modesty, that I am a man of great ability; however, my abilities cover only a very limited subject matter.”
“And may I ask, in the face of an unknown situation outside your abilities, and requiring an expedience of action too great for study, what should you do?”
“It is my invariable habit, in such circumstances, to turn to the biggest fool present, and ask his opinion; I then do the opposite. Ergo…Darcy, how do you think I ought to answer this question?”
As the company laughed, Darcy cried: “Why, you old reprobate…I shall have Reynolds put nettles in your sheets! Pepper in your tea!”
Pender shook his head with a great show of sorrow. “I rest my case: you can take the boy out of Eton, but you…” Darcy finished for him by flinging a pillow from his chair at him, which Pender easily deflected, laughing. Miss Bingley, who had started it all, looked rather at sea in the midst of this sort of quick-witted banter, half play and half serious; she joined in the laughter as best she could, then went off to sit with her sister. Between Pender, Bingley, and Miss Hartsbury, with occasional contributions from Darcy and his sister, the evening passed pleasantly away; Darcy retired in a mellow mood, and thought back over the day, especially Elizabeth’s visit, with a good deal of satisfaction.
The morning following, Darcy was up early; breaking his fast lightly, he took to horse well before mid-morning and rode to Lambton. His purpose in going, or so he told himself, was that it was absolutely necessary to express his thanks to Elizabeth for her very collected defence of Georgiana during Miss Bingley’s baiting. When he entered the inn, the proprietor, smiling and bowing, began to come towards him; Darcy shook his head and pointed enquiringly up to the floor above; the proprietor, nodding, called for his daughter to fetch the Gardiner’s manservant, who escorted Darcy to the Gardiner’s apartments.
On his opening the door, however, Darcy was brought up short, and his intention of once more demonstrating his improved civility dashed, by the sight of Elizabeth standing immediately before him, just in the act of reaching for the latch, her face bearing witness to great distress and a desperate urgency. Said she in accents breathless and exigent: “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 a moment to lose.” As she spoke she had to support herself on the doorway, her body weakened and her face so pale as to be almost bloodless.
Darcy, alarmed by her frantic expression and frail appearance, cried: “Good God! what is the matter?” But taking himself in hand, determining that he must be more help than hindrance, he said more collectedly, “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 tried to command herself forward, but her legs began to fail under her weight, and she clung to the door-frame for support. She called to the servant: “John! John, you must fetch Mr. Gardiner immediately—make haste; oh, make haste!” Darcy, though standing nearly at her side, could scarcely make out what she said, so quick and feeble were her words. With this, all strength left her and she sank speechless into a chair, her face pallid, her eyes wandering, focused on objects far away. Under the circumstances Darcy could not leave her, whether she wished for his presence or not; in truth, however, she hardly seemed to realise he was still there. After a moment’s concerned observation, he gently urged, “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.”
Elizabeth strove to be more in control of herself, saying, “No, I thank you. 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.”
At this she dissolved into tears completely; Darcy, shocked and apprehensive, hating to imagine what might have brought on such affliction, and fearing he hardly knew what, wished he could do anything rather than sit by in ineffectual solicitude, waiting until she should be able to speak again; but he could bring to mind nothing profitable to the situation. He endeavoured to speak comfort, but his words tripped over themselves, and he felt the perfect uselessness of all stale, worn, trifling words, to moderate such overwhelming sorrow as this.
After giving way to her emotions for some moments, Elizabeth spoke, her voice low and despairing,
“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 connexions, nothing that can tempt him to—she is lost forever.”
At the sound of Wickham’s name, Darcy’s world heaved beneath him; that devil! —still he would reach out and work ruin on every thing he touched! He stared at Elizabeth, unable to speak; he knew not whether his most exigent object should be to hunt Wickham down and prove his anger on his person, or to cast aside all personal concerns that he might marshal every relief at his command to Elizabeth’s aid and comfort.
“When I consider,” she said in a piteous voice that quite pierced him through, “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.”
Darcy was transfixed with horror and guilt when he realised what she was saying: her words made it obvious that she had, in fact, given full credence to his letter, and, as he had requested, had not shared his secret, had not revealed Georgiana’s disgrace, even to her own sisters; her whole family was now to pay a terrible price for her most faithful defence of his family’s honour. Nor could he disregard the fact that her words might very well have been his own—had he but taken it upon himself to make Wickham’s character known in Meryton, and even before, this ruinous misfortune could never have overtaken her family.
“I am grieved, indeed,” he cried, his sense of guilt growing by the moment, “grieved—shocked. But is it certain, absolutely certain?” He vainly hoped that, somehow, some propitious error might befriend him, however hidden or improbable, and save him from the burden of guilt he presently laboured under.
“Oh yes!” replied Elizabeth. “They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to Scotland.”
In the time it took for her to speak this, Darcy let go his weakness, his foolish hopes and useless self-reproach, and became resolute: he would not suffer this to stand. What he wanted first was information: “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!”
Shaking his head silently, Darcy realised how true this was; in his whole life he had never found the means of curbing Wickham and bringing him to heel to face his misdeeds; short of bribery or violence, how did one check an unprincipled man? No, not even bribery, for had not Wickham reneged on their agreement regarding the living? Once the money was gone, so would be the understanding between them.
“When my eyes were opened to his real character,” Elizabeth went on. “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!”
Her words lashed Darcy with an acute consciousness of his accountability in the business, and of his obligation. Elizabeth, who had the least reason of any one to protect him, had sacrificed her family for the sake of his—not with this outcome in mind, doubtless, but that was of no comfort to Darcy: he was responsible for this state of affairs, as surely as though he had delivered her sister into Wickham’s hands directly. Her pain was his doing, and while accusation was far from her intention, Darcy could not have felt more at fault had she levelled a finger at his breast and proclaimed him villain.
This was the end, he swore to himself; he would finish this: Wickham would pay, and Elizabeth and her family would be released from his influence. This, he promptly realised, could not be done by means of the law without exposure and disgrace for the Bennets; but by any means—fair or foul—he meant to undo Wickham. The pair were in London: that would mean Mrs. Younge would likely know their whereabouts, for he knew from his dealings with her the year before that she and Wickham were close; as close as the deceitful may be, at any rate.
At this point he stopped in his deliberations and looked over at Elizabeth; she had covered her face with her handkerchief and given herself over entirely to grief. To say that she was in distress, and that he felt for her, would do justice to neither: he would gladly have lifted this burden from her at any cost to himself, even unto his utter dissolution; and she, seeing no future but misery and disgrace for all her family, felt every thing that the worst sinner might, when facing the infernal Abyss. Darcy ached to hold her, to offer her his strength, to comfort her with the warmth of his arms when words could not avail; but he had no right, no warrant to do so—nor would she welcome the attempt, he was well assured. He therefore had to rely on words alone, no matter how insufficient they must be: “I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence,” said he with gentle compassion, “nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing, concern. Would to Heaven that anything 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.”
Elizabeth, her emotions having been momentarily slaked by her tears, now struggled to respond with propriety: “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.” Casting down her eyes, she finished hopelessly: “I know it cannot be long.”
He instantly assured her: “I beg you will not distress yourself on that account—you may be certain I will honour your confidence.” Conscious of his resolve, he offered her what little solace he dared: “I am so very sorry; I only wish there were anything I might offer in support of you and your family; but allow me to express my hope for a happier conclusion than we might reasonably foresee at present.” So saying, he took up his hat and gloves and prepared to take leave: he had a great deal to do, if he were to be in time to stave off this latest of Wickham’s outrages against decency, and certainly Elizabeth could have no wish for him to stand by, watching her suffer without having anything to offer that might comfort her pain. He turned at the door to look a last time into her eyes, to charge his resolution with the pain he saw there, and to offer her his silent oath that he would preserve her family as she had his. Many thoughts vied for expression within him at such a moment, but, with all propriety, all he could offer was: “Please, extend my compliments and regrets to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner.” With that, he left her.
Chapter Thirteen
He rode slowly back to Pemberley, thinking hard; he wanted a tool—a weapon—and the truth would not serve: truth was too malleable in Wickham’s hands, and would damage the very ones Darcy sought to protect. But at least in this case, his way forward had not the frustrations he had faced in his youth—he was no longer that boy in his father’s study; no longer the one trying to convince those in authority of Wickham’s misdeeds—it was he who now wielded the authority, and held the resources. And, he swore to himself, as Elizabeth had protected his sister from disgrace, so would he defend hers.
But there was something in that former thought—resources—that gave pause; Wickham was always profligate, always in need of funds; and, a child no longer, he had no patron to protect him from the consequences of his over-reaching. Beyond any doubt, his most vulnerable point was that of his finances: he left debts wherever he went, and no amount of charm or artifice could alter or eradicate them. Perkins had mentioned his gaming in Meryton: that meant Wickham would have accumulated debts of honour, and probably amongst his brother officers; this would
deny him the benefit of their protection as well, thereby increasing his vulnerability. As long as the debts remained, Wickham’s flanks would be exposed: therein lay an exceptionally durable lever for use against him, if Darcy could secure those debts to himself. Wickham was not a man to be sparing and frugal that he might reimburse his debtors. Whoever controlled those debts, controlled Wickham: the threat of debtor’s prison was a powerful one, and would be Darcy’s so long as he held Wickham’s debts; this would be his weapon, and one that would remain useful for years. It was not, perhaps, as gratifying to his more primitive urges as contriving a quietly violent end, but it would allow him to honour his father’s intentions and expectations for Wickham’s future. It was sure, ready to hand, and—as a threat—quick to be enacted: he could bring it to bear almost as soon as he could find Wickham and the youngest Miss Bennet—Lydia? —yes, that was her name; and speed was of the essence if he were to save Lydia from the effects of her imprudence.
But if his weapon against Wickham were to last for years, he would need a way to keep track of his whereabouts; while it might be possible to track him down once he had fled, if he were to flee it would be best to know about it right away. And it would be particularly useful if whatever profession he followed involved a degree of scrutiny over its practitioners. When put in those terms, the thing was obvious: the military was the answer. But not a militia: the regular army—extensive, regulated, with stricter code of conduct, and far more likely to hunt down and punish deserters. And Colonel Fitzwilliam would be useful, both in getting him in, and in keeping him in.
On reaching home, he went directly to the library and brought out pen and paper. He wrote an express to Colonel Forster, explaining the essentials of his plan and asking him to discover and procure all the debt Wickham had left behind in Brighton and the regiment, for which he pledged himself; he asked that it all be sent to him in London, not excepting the debts of honour, additionally pledging his own honour that they should be held in confidence. It then occurred to him that the Bennet family might also look to Colonel Forster for aid, and he made it clear in his letter that their requests should be given priority over his, and asked that his efforts be kept in confidence from them especially, lest he should hinder them in any way, or they be given false hope by his endeavours. He also realised how critically important it was that Elizabeth should never be apprised of the rôle he meant to play: her sense of obligation under the circumstances must be crushing, and completely preclude any future comfort between them.
Darcy's Tale, Volume III_The Way Home Page 11
