by michael sand
“You may think that my intentions towards Mr Wickham must be inimical, and that it would be to his disadvantage if you were to disclose his direction to me. But you have my word for it that the reverse is the case. You will be promoting his welfare, not injuring it. And you will have the added gratification of saving the character — perhaps the life — of the young lady he has abducted. I think you should wish to take pity on her youth, and preserve her from degradation.”
In his heart, Mr Darcy thought that the preserving of one young lady from degradation would be the most appropriate amends Mrs Younge could make for having abetted the plot against another young lady! — But Mrs Younge appeared unmoved by the plight of young ladies in peril, and Darcy saw that a more powerful inducement must be brought into play. Taking a banknote of large denomination from his pocket, he placed it on the table before him, adding dryly — “That he considered it only right that so good a deed should not go unrewarded.”
Mrs Younge’s face coloured as she stared at the note. Darcy could only guess at what emotions she might be struggling with. — Was she torn by loyalty, reluctant to betray her confederate? Or did she merely feel divided between longing to possess the reward, and not wanting to oblige him? For a time, Mrs Younge remained silent. Then, in a voice repressed, and almost choking,—
“I should have no objection to giving you the intelligence you seek, Mr Darcy, but I am sorry — exceedingly sorry — to have to admit that I do not know where Mr Wickham is at present. I only wish I did!” —
And then, the anger of selfish feelings suddenly overcoming all possibility of reserve, — “You are right,” she broke out. “The wretch dared to come to this house, and to bring that girl with him. — ‘Miss Bennet’, he said. ‘The daughter of friends — under his protection.’ — As though I should not know what his protection was worth! — And he tried to borrow money of me. ‘Only till next week,’ he said, cool as you please. ‘I shall be in funds next week. You can trust me, Selina.’ — He dared to call me Selina — in front of her!” —
Here Mrs Younge burst into tears of rage so clearly the fruit of jealousy, that the guilty nature of her past connection with Wickham was in the instant made equally clear. The realization produced a deep repugnance in Darcy, which might have been less if he could have thought that passion merely had overcome Mrs Younge’s virtue; but he believed that calculation and self-deception had played as great a part in occasioning her misconduct as ardour. Lydia Bennet’s arrival must enrage her; — she must feel jealous, seeing Wickham favour a girl so much younger than herself. — “And yet, had not she been a willing accomplice in his plot against Georgiana? — Georgiana, whom Wickham would have married, if he could! — But she might expect to profit from such a marriage; and perhaps she had managed to persuade herself — perhaps Wickham’s mercenary views had convinced her to believe — that he felt nothing for Georgiana. About Lydia she could not delude herself — Lydia, who was as penniless as Wickham, and had only her youth to tempt him!”
The thorough-going baseness of all these views was giving Mr Darcy increased disgust. He seemed to have passed an eternity breathing the miasma of a vile, ignoble sensibility. — And Wickham’s place of concealment still undiscovered! — To lower himself, and to no purpose, was bitter indeed! He picked up his hat, and prepared to withdraw. The movement caused a convulsion in the weeping woman, who, abruptly ceasing to weep, started up, and laid a hand upon his arm, her anger at him lost in the greater anger she felt towards another. — She would earn that reward if it was the last thing she did! Wickham had robbed her of every thing, including her peace of mind, but he would not rob her of that! — “He was in the quarter, she was sure of it! She had seen him passing, more than once. If Mr Darcy would come back tomorrow, she would have the direction for him. — She would find the villain out, wherever he was concealed!”
Mr Darcy hastily agreed, and left the house in a profound depression of spirits, relieved be out of the presence of so much passionate and wrong-minded resentment.
Chapter Five
When, the following day, Mr Darcy returned to Edward-street, Mrs Younge handed him a card inscribed with Wickham’s direction (at an inn a few streets distant), and received her promised reward. In London, the traversing of a few streets may seem like the exchange of kingdoms; and passing from the tolerable respectability of Edward-street to the shabby passage in which stood Wickham’s present dwelling, recalled the contrast between Beer-lane and Gin-alley in the print. Entering, Darcy inquired, “Whether Mr Wickham was at home,” and was told that he was sitting in the parlour at that moment; the gentleman might walk in, if he wished.
The parlour was empty except for the figure of George Wickham, sitting at a small table, staring into an empty grate. Wickham turned with dull incuriosity; — then recognizing who it was that had entered, jumped up, knocking over his chair in the process. “Darcy!” he exclaimed. Then, with an attempt at recovering his customary ease, — “What brings you here? I did not think you visited in this part of town.”
“Perhaps it would be as well to sit down, Mr Wickham,” Darcy said, righting the overturned chair, “as our discussion may require some time.”
“I am not aware (with an air of carelessness) there is any thing we need discuss.” But after a moment, sinking down upon the settle opposite, “Long time since we met,” he said, affecting to yawn.
The other agreed. “Our meeting at Meryton surprised you as much as it did myself, I suppose? You had no idea of my being in the neighbourhood when you joined the ——shires.”
“None, on my honour.”
Wickham had, in all probability, been less troubled by the fortuitous encounter than Darcy. He had known that he need not fear his history being published; had even been prepared, as the event shewed, to make that history appear to his own advantage. The recollection of how Wickham had deceived Elizabeth Bennet, and gained, for a while, her sympathetic belief, — gave Mr Darcy a stab. But such daring had always been instinct in Wickham’s nature. “How came you to be leaving your regiment?” he inquired, after a short silence.
The confusion which Wickham had shewn at Darcy’s entrance appeared to have been done away. It seemed to occasion him no surprise that Darcy should know of his having left Brighton, or of his being to be found in that place. “It was not by my desire, I can assure you,” he said, with energy. “I had no choice.”
This deficiency of choice was the result of a rising tide of debt. Debt, in the usual way, might not trouble him; but these were debts of honour, by which misleading name gaming debts are designated. — This was a fatal circumstance. Debts to tradesmen, his soul could bear with equanimity, but brother-officers must be paid or he could not continue in the regiment. — “Darcy need not frown. He had nothing to live on — he must live by play.” At first, all had gone well. He had had such luck as could scarce be believed. Every thing he had touched turned to gold. — For months he could not lose! Then, suddenly, what a reverse! Fortune had turned against him. It was the change to Brighton — Brighton had done it all! Now, instead of living on his gains, Mr Wickham had been obliged to sign markers. Still, he had been sure that something would come up, that favouring something which gamesters live always in hope of. Fortune would turn again — he would recover his losses.
Instead, calamity had overset him. Calamity had taken the form of a horse — a horse kept under wraps — a horse sure to win — and at tremendous odds! Wickham had wagered every penny he had, and a great deal more that he borrowed, and had lost it all. In an instant, he was ruined; there was nothing left for him but to flee the regiment.
“If you were short of money,” Darcy interrupted, unable to contain himself, “why did you take Miss Bennet with you? Why add the expense of a travelling companion?”
That had been all Lydia’s doing! He had gone round to Colonel Forster’s that last day to keep up appearances, and Lydia had demanded his attention: for weeks she had been carrying on the most extravagant flirtati
on with him — a flirtation so extravagant that it was impossible to take it in earnest; — he certainly had not done so. He could not keep his end up on this occasion, however, and she had seen that he was out of spirits. — “Oh! Lieutenant, why so downcast?” had been her question. “How should a young man so handsome ever be sad? He must tell her what was wrong.” — With a great deal more to the same effect, all in the most languorously sentimental tone. It had been gratifying to receive sympathy when every event had been against him; and he had found himself telling Lydia as much as he thought it admissible for her to know, after he had sufficiently coloured the affair in his own favour: how he must flee — must leave Brighton that very night — and that his only regret in leaving, the only object he left behind that he would account a loss, would be herself — &c, &c. “He knew not what else he might have said,” Wickham acknowledged ruefully. Once begun in that vein, the words came of their own.
But Lydia had been prepared — nay, anxious — to take his words seriously. She had insisted on accompanying him; he had been unable to prevent her. — “He was not to think of going on his own! She would come with him — he was her angel, the only man she loved! — would ever love. She would dare every thing for his sake!”
“What was I to do? She would not hear of resting where she was, she would come. — Besides, it would be dull, going off by myself, and I stood in need of amusement.”
Darcy thought with indignation of the mind that could contemplate stealing a young woman away from her home — could ruin her chance in life, and call it amusement!
“What purpose had drawn him to town?” Darcy then inquired. Had Wickham some view of improving his fortunes here?
Not a bit of it. He must go some where, and town seemed as good as any place. Though what he could find to live on, now that he was arrived, remained as obscure as ever. A man could not live on air.
“Why did not you appeal to the Bennets? Mr Bennet would do something for his son-in-law. — There must have been some decent provision made for a married daughter.”
“Marry Lydia! (with astonishment.) — Impossible!” It would be the ruin of him. What could Mr Bennet give them, a beggarly hundred a year? “I must marry well — it is my only chance.” If he could only set up at some watering place. Brighton was dished for him, but Bath would do very well. A little money was all he needed (with an insinuating glance at Darcy).
“And Miss Bennet?” that gentleman inquired.
“What of her? I cannot carry her with me to Bath. Lydia must go home.”
Darcy was obliged to breathe hard a moment before he could reply. “Do you suppose that Miss Bennet will be welcome at home — or that she would have any prospect there, now that her character is lost?”
“What you say is very true. If the Bennets do not like to take her in, who can blame them? Perhaps her best course would be to go some place where she is not known — Southend, yes, or Ramsgate.”
Anger was rare in Mr Darcy; to a natural evenness of temper, he joined a conscious effort to avoid the extremes of sensibility, and he prided himself on maintaining the steadiness requisite to a gentleman. But at this moment, restraint was over. The name of Ramsgate had been sufficient.
“Mr Wickham,” he began in a quiet voice, — anger always manifesting in him in a repressed articulation, “two courses lie open before you: you may marry Lydia Bennet, or you may refuse to do so; but if you refuse, you had better understand what shall then be my course. I shall make it my office to pursue you wherever you go, and publish your guilt, so that no decent society will receive you, and no respectable family suffer your presence.”
Wickham’s face wore a sarcastic smile, and he would have spoken had Darcy not waved him to silence. “However, if you agree to marry Lydia Bennet, a very different prospect opens before you.” In that circumstance, Darcy was prepared to make certain arrangements: he would pay Wickham’s debts; provide him an allowance of two hundred a year, and see to it that Mr Bennet allowed him a further hundred; and purchase an ensign’s commission for him in one of the regular regiments. “Respectable employment and a sufficient income to live in modest decency — that is what you are offered. Accept, and you may live safe and happy. Refuse, and a miserable end awaits you. I shall return for your decision to morrow, and I advise you to consider carefully of it in the mean while; but before I leave, I wish to speak to Miss Bennet, if you will have the kindness to conduct her here.”
Wickham rose, still smiling sarcastically, and left the room without a word. Darcy sat on with closed eyes. The scene had seemed to prove more painful to him than to his interlocutor. After some minutes, he was roused by sounds at the door, and turned to see Wickham holding it open, and to hear him say, — “This way, my dear. There is some one who is desirous of meeting you.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when Lydia Bennet burst into the room.
“Lor, Mr Darcy!” she cried. “To think of its being you! How d’ye do? It’s been ages since we met. Fancy your being to meet us in town. I did not think anyone had been in town right now. (Turning to Wickham) Are we to dine with Mr Darcy, my love? Or the theatre — are we going to the theatre at last? How I long to see the theatre!”
Wickham adroitly handed her into a chair, saying, “Not tonight, my dear. But Mr Darcy wishes to speak with you.”
“Pleased, I’m sure. Did you pass through Meryton on your way to town, Mr Darcy? And Longbourn — did you call? How are they all? Did they not think it a good joke, for me to go away to Brighton and not be to return till I was married?”
Lydia Bennet was unchanged: the same noisy, unguarded spirit Darcy had met in Hertfordshire, prepared to be airily conversable, where a bent head, an averted gaze, a conscious demeanour, might have been expected. Darcy hardly knew which way to look, or how to answer. He glanced at Wickham in a way which invited him to leave the room. Wickham proved ready enough to do so, fatigued with Lydia’s animation. “If you will excuse me, my dear, I shall just be commanding our dinner.” (with a loving smile for her, and a grin of undiminished impudence at Darcy).
Darcy stood by the fireplace, unsure how to proceed. Consciousness he had been prepared to meet with, but ease left him baffled; and ease where all should have been consciousness, he was at a loss to understand. After a little silence, he began, —
“Miss Bennet, I hope you will allow me to speak as a friend of your family, — as any member of your family would speak, if they chanced to be here. You must understand that your present course of behaviour cannot continue.”
“Dear me, Mr Darcy! (colouring slightly.) Whatever do you mean?”
“Do not you know the danger you are placing yourself in, by living with a man to whom you are not married — or the grief you are causing your family? Have you no idea what people will be saying?”
“Oh! people talk a great deal of nonsense. I and Wickham are bound to be married some day, so what does it signify, when? People are a great deal too nice, an’t they, Mr Darcy?”
For a moment or two, Darcy had done. Then —
“Miss Bennet, you must not remain in this place. If you will allow me, I shall speak to your uncle and aunt on your behalf. Mr and Mrs Gardiner are your friends, and I am sure that they will be willing to take you into their house, in spite of every thing.”
But at the mention of her connections, Lydia only looked offended. “I pray you will do nothing of the kind, Mr Darcy,” she said. “I do not need your help, I assure you — and I want none of my Uncle and Aunt Gardiner’s, neither.”
After one or two more attempts to convince Lydia of the impropriety of her behaviour, as vigorously opposed, Darcy abandoned the effort. He took his leave with what politeness he could muster, outfaced by the effrontery of a being at once so young, so pre-assured, and so blind to all decency. To Wickham, who had been listening at the door to catch what he might, he only said, that he should return the following day to receive his answer.
Chapter Six
When the elde
r Mr Darcy had suggested bringing George Wickham to Pemberley, to be instructed along with his own child, Lady Anne, his wife, had not approved of the plan. “Such indiscriminate mixing of ranks did injury to the rites of society.” Her husband assured her that all would be well: there must naturally be a difference made between the heir to Pemberley, and the son of his steward. But in his heart, he had hoped that this difference should be softened by the two boys becoming such friends as their fathers had once become.
George and Harry were almost of an age; Wickham the older by a year, but always much older in experience. He was a boy who revelled in taking risks: to tell him that a tree might not be climbed, was to guarantee that he would break some limb in the attempt. George was continually getting into scrapes with cooks, grooms, butlers, and gamekeepers — all the petty tyrants of boyhood. With time, though, Darcy came to see that Wickham’s escapades got more people into scrapes than just himself. Daring lost some of its glamour when the gardener George had bribed to keep his ferrets, lost his place by it. Mr Darcy had taught his son that it was the duty of the fortunate to be in charity with those less favoured, and that marvels of virtue were not to be expected from those whom education had never served: “A poor man might be tempted by no worse a motive than the wish to feed his children.”
Three or four years after George Wickham’s introduction to Pemberley, events of equal joy and tragedy befell. Lady Anne gave birth to a daughter — and died soon after. Her son was grief-stricken by the loss of his mother, and might have resented this child as its cause, had Mr Darcy not taken time from his own sorrow to help his son to a better view. They had both suffered an irreparable loss; she had been the best of wives and mothers, and had loved them both exceedingly; but she had loved her new daughter too, and she had left them Georgiana as her legacy, to guard and care for. Georgiana would never replace her mother in their hearts, but she would give them another object to love. The death of Lady Anne, and the birth of Georgiana, made less effect on George Wickham. He shewed some resentment for the new child at first, as adding a third in competition for whatever of attention and favour were going; but he quickly perceived that this would lose him the regard of those whom he wished to conciliate. From that time on, he took pains to be seen playing with Georgiana, and devoted (as he afterwards boasted) hours and hours to her amusement.
