Bettina protested that she did not know what would become of her without her protector, and Jeremy stepped in, full of importance and pride, masked as gallantry, and promised that she should not want for anything while he lived. As his allowance was substantially less than that of the heir of Pemberley, hers must be proportionately reduced, to not more than one hundred fifty pounds per annum; but she swore that it was an immense sum, vastly enough, and they had been eternally happy together for rather more than a week, when Henry arrived and found them in the midst of a pleasant domestic dispute about who would pay her hat bill.
Jeremy was not quite past being worked upon by reason; and when it was represented to him that by cutting a figure as a man about town with a mistress, he was distressing his parents dreadfully, there was a flicker of compunction; and when assured that Mr. Bingley could be counted upon to reduce his allowance in consequence of this behavior - a reduction that would be singularly inconvenient as Jeremy had begun to realize the expensiveness of Bettina's wants, frivolities, and debts - the flicker fanned to a stronger expression of comprehension.
A very little more talk, reminding him of the greater wealth of his rivals, and the more than likelihood of Bettina's accepting one of them, did its work; and by the time Henry had listened to a rambling account of their daily bickering, of her unreasonableness and continued demands for more money, Jeremy had been brought to as tractable a state as Henry could wish, and he agreed to accompany him on his return to the north. He was not so lost a soul as to be entirely contemptuous of the unfailing kindness of such tender and indulgent parents as the Bingleys, and he was almost desirous of a reconciliation with them. His only scruple was that he should leave poor Bettina broken-hearted, but Henry knew better, and comforted him with promises to see to her.
To bring Bettina to reform and reason was, Henry knew, likely to be a far harder task, and one probably out of his power to achieve; but once Jeremy was safely away from her, and established at the Gardiners', preparatory to the journey home, Henry visited in Half Moon Street and made the attempt.
He was presented with a scene daunting enough to discourage even a very determined young man, certain of what was right; for Miss Wickham, in her ringlets, and bare shoulders, and drooping leg-of-mutton sleeves, and lace mitts, was a fan-fluttering coquette in full flourishing sail, entertaining a roomful of dashing young eligibles, and not looking as though she cared for Jeremy's defection in the least. She showed tolerable interest in Henry, however, marking him with attentions that infuriated her other cavaliers; and when they departed, she begged Henry to remain with her alone, to talk over family business.
"I did not, you may imagine, suspect her meaning at first," Henry told his mother, "for I considered her Jeremy's property, so to speak, and only thought this a chance to make her listen to some grave subjects." grave subjects."
"And did you succeed?"
"You shall hear. I spoke to her as a clergyman, and as one of the family; but to little purpose. She lifted up her shoulders and turned away, and I could see there was no use talking to her of her mortal soul and hope of heaven, because they were no concern of hers. I judged, therefore, that practical matters might influence her more; and I spoke to her of the future that she could expect, if she continued in such a course."
"And did this have no effect?"
"It had an effect, but quite different from what I hoped. At the suggestion that a woman who chose to be a mistress to a succession of men, rather than a wife to one, would end pitiably, she replied that we all come to bad ends; and there was no reason why she should be poor, as she might be if she had remained in her so-called proper sphere. That lovers gave her gifts; and rich and noble lovers could be counted on to give her the largest ones; and a shrewd woman might put enough aside to keep her, when her stock in trade, her beauty, had diminished."
"Really," cried Elizabeth, disdainfully, "it is a case of the cow not knowing what her tail is worth, until she has lost it. Did you not tell her what we all know - how profligacy and want always dissipate what little savings such creatures ever can accrue?"
"Of course I did, but she was different, she claimed; so sought after that she knew she should do very well, and in any event she did not mean to be at the mercy of any man's whim for long, for she should earn her living upon the stage."
"Worse and worse! Has she actually acted?"
"Yes, indeed she has; and in a manner most unhappily calculated to bring forward attention to her person. It is not Shakespeare that has attracted my cousin; no, her first appearance, as I understand, was in the pantomime, 'Harlequin and Old Gammer Gurton,' at the Drury-lane, in which I am sorry to say, she wore the breeches."
"You don't mean it!"
"But to some purpose. The number of men that have been attracted by this exposure of her handsome figure, has been astonishing. But this was by no means her only display."
"Well; what else?"
"You have heard of the accident to Madame Louise Irvine at the Covent-garden Theatre, January last?"
"No; - stay. There was something of it in the newspapers."
"Yes, well, you must know, it was in the pantomime, 'Harlequin and Georgy Barnwell' - very popular piece - has a flying omnibus balloon, and a rook pie containing a Jim Crow, and heaven knows what; it is said to be like nothing ever seen on this Earth, and I well believe it. Well, Miss Irvine ascended a tight rope, and was seized with an attack of giddiness twenty feet up, and - do you remember the incident now?"
"Yes; the poor creature broke her limbs, did not she?"
"Only an arm; but she was fortunate to survive, and you must know who went on as the Columbine dancer in her place."
"Good God! No - Impossible!"
"Yes, it was Bettina; of course she could not do all Madame Louise's tricks, but she did climb the rope, and down again; and her admirers were in extacies. They are talking of it still."
"Has the girl gone mad, then? - is she trying to destroy herself? It seems the only explanation."
"Do not distress yourself on her behalf; the pantomime is closed. No; her latest triumph has been in a novelty piece at the Adelphi - the Arab Leap - it is all about one Osman who bears off a child, and fires a pistol on the stage; and another Arab does a summersault across a moat. Bettina is said to look very well as an Arab lady; but she does no dangerous movements."
"I collect," said Mrs. Darcy dryly, "that my niece is not to rival Ellen Tree or Miss Kemble, and that she is more likely to break her neck in reality, than to succeed as a tragedy queen. Ought not someone to remonstrate, before she is killed outright?"
"It would be of no use. I saw myself that there was no discouraging her when everything was so roseate, according to her way of looking at things. Only when I spoke of her position in society, did she show any anger."
Elizabeth was surprised. "Did she? I wonder why. I should not think she would care very much about society, when she flouts its rules so thoroughly, and takes irrevocable steps to alienate herself from all decent company."
"I will tell you what she said. 'Mr. Henry,' said she, 'let us make no mistake. I know what you are talking about because I have led a virtuous life, until lately - how lately, is none of your business - but you, for your part, cannot understand me, because you know nothing of my experiences.' I said I hoped heaven would preserve me from ever having any so wicked, but she laughed and went on, 'You must understand, if you can, that I have learned a very great deal since I adopted my new profession; and I am in a position to tell you things that would surprise you. I admit that when I came away with Fitz, my motives were light enough: only to have a good time, and to make him marry me if I could. When he went away, I had to think hard about my situation and so I have.'"
" 'If you thought about it,' I said, 'I wonder that you continued it.' "
"She replied, 'In the first place, you must see that I had not much choice. You cannot go back again and be a chaste and virtuous lady once you have left off. You would have me come back a
mongst your people, who would then coldly cast me out again: or, since they call themselves charitable folks, they would see me shut up in a cottage somewhere for the rest of my life, with no society, no pleasures, no prospects. For diversion I might be allowed to take in sewing, or keep sheep. You may be sure I would be kept away from all decent gentlemen, lest I pollute their pure homes; and there would be no hope of my ever again enjoying the free and open companionship of any one of the sex. But your family is merciful; and I have no doubt I should be given a small pension, to enable me to live in this poor and retired way - like a prisoner in a solitary cell, to think over my sins and rue them for the rest of my days. This, I suppose, is the sort of thing you had in mind?' "
"I told her that no one wanted to make prisoner of her, and if she truly repented, there was every chance, she might always hope to make a respectable marriage, in time; but she said that in such circumstances she knew very well that no one in the country would have her but some cow keeper or other - no gentleman would take a penitent in a cottage. I could not deny that it was so, and she concluded, 'I think we will agree that what I have described is no life at all, to be scorned and reviled by all the good folk around me. But consider: in town, I possess a degree of acceptance. Not, perhaps, as much as a great lady would; but my position is not altogether disagreeable. People enjoy my society - people who like a good time, and are not glum and Church-ridden - and I decidedly prefer a city life to that of an anchorite.' That was her answer, and I must admit I did not know what to say."
"What could you say?" asked Elizabeth, all curiosity.
"I tried to talk about right and wrong; but there is where she grew vehement. Why was it wrong, she asserted, to be a man's mistress? It was only nature; and what was nature, made by God, could not be indecent. Dogs didn't worry about marriage, nor people in ancient societies; in Turkey, she believed, a woman's duty was to have as many children as possible, married or not. She knew a gentleman who had been to Turkey, and it was so. And that if we are Christians, she did not think it Christian to treat some folks like inferior beings. 'The mere fact of being married by a preacher,' said Bettina, 'cannot determine if one is a virtuous, innocent woman; some properly wed in the sight of God are miserably wicked, and some who would be called - never mind what - have many virtues. Committing fornication does not make you bad, and chastity does not make you good.' She might be good or bad, depending; but it had nothing to do with her lovers."
"That is amazing," said Elizabeth presently. "Who would have thought that Bettina, so idle, so frivolous, would have thought so much on that subject - or any subject? It is as strange as the idea of her becoming a rope-dancer. Her reasoning is wrong, it is perverted, in support of a false truth; and yet somehow it almost makes you respect her. I am not sure why. Oh! What a pity she did not learn to think before bringing about so much misery. For I cannot be at all sanguine about her future, whatever she says."
"No. And I fancy she has been meeting with some of the unpleasant side of her role in life, for she did mention the awkwardness of mixing in with other ladies. Gentlemen were never discourteous, she said, but she would receive invitations and cards from ladies in society, who believed her to be a wife, and then she would have to refuse the invitation or be exposed to the humiliation of confessing what she was; which is hard for anyone. 'I would not,' said she, 'intrude upon any immaculate creature, or besmirch any lady who was pure by reason of being a virgin or a wife; but to be shunned, as I am, is unfair and undeserved, when I can behave as properly as any other lady.' "
"I wonder she thinks that," said Elizabeth, "she could never behave with the least propriety before. Perhaps she has improved in her manners, since living in the great world."
"You would not say that, if you saw her; she is just what she always was. Well, I saw no reason for the continuance of such a fruitless conversation. I could not bring her to God, nor to a sense of right, nor any thing; rather, she was winning me to a sense of sympathy with unfortunate creatures like herself, reviled as they are. Compassion for all should be my aim, but as achieving it was not my mission on this particular occasion, I was not sorry to bring the interview to an end. When I prepared to withdraw, it was then that she made her proposal - one which I would as soon forget, but as I am telling you everything, my dear mother, as extraordinary as it may seem, I shall not omit it."
"You don't mean that your cousin tried to - " Elizabeth broke off.
"She told me that I was much handsomer than either my brother or my cousin Jeremy (I was not so vain as to believe her), and she knew that, with her new wisdom and sense about the world, she could make me happy - much happier than her untaught sister, the little governess. She did not scruple to mention that."
"Oh! I would not have believed it. And she is not fit even to say Cloe's name," said Elizabeth indignantly.
"In short, it was plain to me that she saw me in the light of the soon-to-be new heir of Pemberley, and as such, considered me worth her attentions; but I would not remain to be sported with, and so I departed, much to my sorrow, for I would very much like to have done better with her, and made some impression. I told her to call upon us when she was in trouble, or any need, and," (with a sigh) "I have no doubt that she will."
"Yes. It is an interesting portrait that you paint - we can see that no one becomes thoroughly bad at once, it happens by degrees. You have done your duty, Henry. I do not think anyone could have won her over," said his mother decidedly. "I am glad you brought Jeremy back; and I am most of all glad that your sister, and Cloe, are not at home to hear and suffer all this."
"Yes, there is Cloe," said Henry, with heightened colour, striving to be calm, "I would not for worlds have her know what her sister has become, or if she must know, then not the extent of it. Mother, how is she? Have you at all heard?"
Elizabeth explained the contents of her latest letter, but could say nothing encouraging, either of Cloe's situation, or of Henry's prospects. The openness which had characterized the conversation between mother and son now abruptly came to an end, with an unwonted strain descending, neither knew from whence, and after a moment, with a polite bow, Henry withdrew from her sitting room and went downstairs to make preparations to return to his parish church at Manygrove.
CHAPTER XIV
Misfortunes, it is said, come in threes, and Mrs. Darcy had no wish for a third, when a second broke upon her in an express Mmessage from Mrs. Smith in Hertfordshire Elizabeth's sister Mary. Their father, Mr. Bennet of Longbourn House, was dying. Past seventy and of feeble health in recent years, too frail to stir from home, he had lived a retired life since the loss of his wife ten years before, indulging in almost no society, but shutting himself up with his books, waited on only by the dutiful Mrs. Smith, herself a widow. Both Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Bingley had made the journey south as frequently as the claims of their own families would allow, to be certain of Mr. Bennet's comfort, and to cheer his spirits; and he had continued tolerably the same, until one night after retiring, he was taken with a seizure in the head, from which he was not expected to recover.
It was fortunate that the Bingleys were actually at Pemberley, so that the families might confer as to what was to be done. Elizabeth felt herself torn between remaining near Fitzwilliam, and her exceeding desire to see her dear father one last time; and after much deliberation it was decided that Mr. Darcy should accompany his wife to Longbourn, leaving Fitzwilliam in Henry's charge, thus freeing the elder Darcys to pay their respects and to assist Mrs. Smith. The Bingleys, with Jeremy and the Babcocks, were to return to Swanfield. So large a party at Longbourn was not what Mr. Bennet could want, even when in the best of health; and to find such surrounding his deathbed would alarm him extremely.
It was not felt necessary, or grateful to Elizabeth's feelings, which were all on the side of privacy, to attempt to travel by train, and Mr. Darcy's excellent coach and fast animals brought him and his wife to Longbourn with such expeditiousness that they reached its gates in the afternoon o
f the second day from setting out from Pemberley, only spending one night at an inn, at Oxford. They were not too late; Mr. Bennet was awake and aware; and inexpressibly relieved to see his favourite child.
"I am glad you are here, my Lizzy," he said, "it was all that was wanting." Unable to speak, she pressed his hand, and he continued, "I confess I have been in terror of joining your mother, and hence I have kept off the eventuality as far as was possible; but I think I have reached some sort of peace, and can accept anything now. You are happy, Lizzy, yourself?"
"Oh, yes," she managed to say, thankful that he had never been told about Fitzwilliam. "You know I am, Papa; Mr. Darcy is the best husband I could ever have wanted, and I have been so very fortunate - " She could not finish.
"That is right," he said, pleased, "better than Wickham. Well, Lizzy, I shall sleep a little now, I think."
Elizabeth sat with him, and did all that she could for his comfort, and a little more than a week from her arrival, with only a few more opportunities for conversation, he died peacefully, in his sleep.
Elizabeth, and Darcy, and Mary, sat solemnly in their grief and awe; but they were not left to relish this period of quiet and privacy for long, for almost as soon as was possible, after the news being received and digested by the Collinses, did the entire family descend upon Longbourn, with admirable promptness in taking up their new residence.
"Please do not think, my dear cousin Elizabeth," said Mr. Collins formally, establishing himself firmly upon the fire-mat, and leaning on the mantelpiece with a proprietary air, "that I seek to turn you out untimely. Indeed I am aware that there is no turning out about it, as Longbourn has not been your home for many, many years. There is no one here, indeed, that I displace, but my cousin Mary; and I am sure that we will find room for her somewhere, as long as she should care to stay, within reason; so long as she knows that she is not mistress in the house any more."
Mrs. Darcy's Dilemma: A Sequel to Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice Page 13
