"If I had been able to carry my point of 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 you are going away, Mr. Bennet, and I know you will fight Wickham, wherever you meet him, and then you will be killed, and what is to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out, before you are cold in your grave.”
With these cheerful tones still ringing in my ears I sped off towards the capital.
I know not how long I spent wandering fruitlessly around the outskirts of London before Gardiner found me and persuaded me to go with him to Gracechurch Street.
What a change there was in Gracechurch Street! It had been used to be a resort of pleasure and diversion, but was now become all solemn faces and grim, embarrassed words.
At dinner, there could be only one subject of conversation, but only general comments could be made in the presence of the servants. As soon as the cloth was drawn, however, we began in earnest.
“I saw your servant bringing in a flat, mahogany case of whose contents there could be very little doubt.” Gardiner remarked, “Do you really mean to fight Wickham?”
“I may have to.” I replied. “At the least I must consider the prospect, and be prepared for it. I could cheerfully tear Wickham limb from limb with my bare hands, that he should dare to insult my child so. A bullet through the brain is far too good for him, but I may have to be content with that. And then I think of the consequences to my family of an unfavourable outcome of such an affair, and, I confess, my ardour cools somewhat. My father would not have hesitated. He would have shot Wickham, cast off his errant daughter and consigned the whole affair to history. They saw things more clearly in those days, but I am made of weaker stuff. I want my daughter back, with some semblance of honour if it may be contrived, but, at any rate, safe and well with her family. How it may be contrived I have very little notion, I fear.”
“One thing is clear, at all accounts,” said Gardiner. “Before anything can be contrived, they must be found. My own enquiries so far have been unsuccessful, but there are clever, discreet men in London who may be hired as agents in such matters, and whose expertise is far greater than mine…”
“No!” I interrupted, my anxiety overriding politeness, “Agents whose discretion is for sale can be bought by others as well as us. No suspicion of any discredit to Lydia must become public. It must all be kept in the family.”
“Well, then, we must enquire further. I have already established that the Mail Coach offices have no record of any passengers answering to the description of the runaways travelling to Scotland in the weeks since they left Brighton. But there are other avenues we may follow. There are hotels to enquire at. There are private stagecoach firms; there are carriage hire establishments, livery stables; there are ships sailing from Wapping and Tilbury to Leith. If they have been really ingenious, there are even canal boats that will take them to the industrial cities of the North of England far quicker than any coach, and there is no shortage of ships from, say, Liverpool to the Clyde, nor, indeed, of coach services to take them further. We must explore all these possibilities, and I dare say more will occur to us as we progress.”
What occurred to me was that if there were really so many avenues to explore, then we had set ourselves a truly hopeless task, but to say so would not profit anything, and I could think of nothing else.
So we set to our enquiries. What dismal yards we trudged through, how many smelly offices we sat in while greasy clerks thumbed interminably through their ledgers before telling us precisely nothing! I have never been fond of London, and those days did nothing to improve my opinion of it.
While we were thus wearying ourselves to no good end, a letter arrived from Colonel Forster in reply to one which Gardiner had addressed to him.
He had nothing of a pleasant nature to tell us. It was not known that Wickham had a single relation, with whom he kept up any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one living. His former acquaintance had been numerous; but since he had been in the militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship with any of them. There was no one therefore who could be pointed out, as likely to give any news of him. And in the wretched state of his own finances, there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in addition to his fear of discovery by Lydia's relations, for it had just transpired that he had left gaming debts behind him, to a very considerable amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than a thousand pounds would be necessary to clear his expenses at Brighton. He owed a good deal in the town, but his debts of honour were still more formidable.
Gardiner did his best. He took at least as much of a share in all the enquiries as I did, he conducted all the correspondence, both with Brighton and with Longbourn, and also put himself out of his way to keep my spirits up, but even his best efforts, at both causes, were doomed to failure.
He came in one evening with theatre tickets, and insisted that, for one night, at least, we should all enjoy ourselves. I fail to recall the theatre, but cannot forget the performance, for it was The Beggar’s Opera, not the best choice in the circumstances, and we none of us got past the scene where Mrs. Peachum says -
“How the mother is to be pitied who hath handsome daughters! Locks, bolts, bars, and lectures of morality are nothing to them: they break through them all. They have as much pleasure in cheating a father and mother, as in cheating at cards.”
I resolved the following morning to return to Longbourn and leave further enquiries to Gardiner. I was doing no good in that scene of dissipation and vice, and I began already to find my morals corrupted. My presence was merely adding to his burden by giving him a guest to entertain as well as our quest to pursue, and all this on top of the cares of his own business. I could best assist by taking myself out of his way, and curtailing the constant stream of letters from Longbourn urging me to make Wickham marry Lydia and on no account to fight him, and not to forget to match that calico pattern and remember the Berlin wool.
The last two of those errands I could at least perform, but it was the other two, as might be expected, that exercised Mrs. Bennet upon my return.
"What, are you come home, and without poor Lydia!" was her greeting to me "Surely you have not left London before you have found them. Who is to fight Wickham, and make him marry her, if you are come away?"
And she immediately took herself back to bed, where it appeared that she had spent the chief of the time since my departure.
Chapter Twenty-nine Waiting
My daughters provided rather more comfort. I could not bring myself to speak to them for some time, and they seemed cast down by my appearance and demeanour, and lacking the courage to speak to me, so that it was not till the afternoon, when I joined them at tea, that Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and only then, on her briefly expressing her sorrow for what I must have endured, could I bring myself to reply.
"Say nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing, and I ought to feel it."
"You must not be too severe upon yourself," replied Elizabeth.
"You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone to fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression. It will pass away soon enough."
"Do you suppose them to be in London?"
"Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?"
"And Lydia used to want to go to London," added Kitty.
"She is happy, then," I answered, drily; "and her residence there will probably be of some duration."
Then, after a short silence, I continued,
"Lizzy, I bear you
no ill-will for being justified in your advice to me last May, which, considering the event, shows some greatness of mind."
We were now interrupted by Jane, who came to fetch her mother's tea.
"This is a parade," I observed, "which does one good; it gives such an elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit in my library, in my night cap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble as I can,--or, perhaps, I may defer it, till Kitty runs away."
"I am not going to run away, Papa," said Kitty, fretfully; "if I should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia."
"You go to Brighton! I would not trust you so near it as East Bourne for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter my house again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be absolutely prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters. And you are never to stir out of doors, till you can prove, that you have spent ten minutes of every day in a rational manner."
Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry.
"Well, well," said I, "do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of them."
I could not help but notice, however, that while she was busy weeping and protesting, Kitty’s cough was notable by its absence, and took comfort from the thought that perhaps we had now heard the last of it.
So do we clutch at straws, and fix our minds on trivial things, when the subjects which ought to occupy them are too unbearable to be contemplated.
Our time of waiting was not enlivened by a letter from Mr. Collins, which Jane had, quite rightly, opened in my absence and which she presented to me the morning after my arrival.
“I did not give you this yesterday,” she said, “because it seemed to me that you already had enough to trouble your spirit, but you ought to read it, nonetheless.”
How Mr. Collins had heard of our misfortune I could not at first make out, but I soon recollected that Charlotte must be in correspondence with her family. How they had heard there was no knowing, but no doubt Wickham’s doings were now the talk of the town. So much for our pitiful attempts at secrecy!
Mr. Collins was not one to neglect such a God-given opportunity.
“My dear Sir,” he began
"I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear Sir, that Mrs. Collins and myself sincerely sympathise with you, and all your respectable family, in your present distress, which must be of the bitterest kind, because proceeding from a cause which no time can remove. No arguments shall be wanting on my part, that can alleviate so severe a misfortune; or that may comfort you, under a circumstance that must be of all others most afflicting to a parent's mind. The death of your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison of this. And it is the more to be lamented, because there is reason to suppose, as my dear Charlotte informs me, that this licentiousness of behaviour in your daughter, has proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence, though, at the same time, for the consolation of yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think that her own disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be guilty of such an enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever that may be, you are grievously to be pitied, in which opinion I am not only joined by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by lady Catherine and her daughter, to whom I have related the affair. They agree with me in apprehending that this false step in one daughter, will be injurious to the fortunes of all the others, for who, as lady Catherine herself condescendingly says, will connect themselves with such a family. And this consideration leads me moreover to reflect with augmented satisfaction on a certain event of last November, for had it been otherwise, I must have been involved in all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me advise you then, my dear Sir, to console yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy child from your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of her own heinous offence.
"I am, dear Sir, &c. &c.”
At this rate my daughter’s elopement would be the talk not only of Meryton, but of all the Home Counties.
I began seriously to contemplate fulfilling my promise of giving as much trouble as may be by emulating Mrs. Bennet and retreating to my own chamber. I gave the option serious consideration for two whole days, and was just about resolved upon it when a second epistola grandis et verbosa arrived, but this time from London.
Chapter Thirty Lydia Redux
This letter was an express from Mr. Gardiner, and in it another face of things was seen, at last.
At first sight it would appear that it heralded an end to our troubles, and a thoroughly satisfactory end, at that, but on second reading it raised as many, frankly disturbing, questions as it answered.
I was at a loss what to make of it, and took a walk out into the garden, hoping that the fresh air and freedom from domestic distractions might clear my head.
Vain hope, for I had scarce left the house when I was accosted by my daughter Elizabeth, who eagerly cried out,
"Oh, Papa, what news? what news? have you heard from my uncle?"
"Yes, I have had a letter from him by express."
"Well, and what news does it bring? good or bad?"
"What is there of good to be expected?" said I, taking the letter from my pocket; "but perhaps you would like to read it."
Elizabeth impatiently caught it from my hand. Jane now came up.
"Read it aloud," I said, "for I hardly know myself what it is about."
"Gracechurch-street, Monday,
August 2.
"My dear Brother,
At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such as, upon the whole, I hope will give you satisfaction. Soon after you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what part of London they were. The particulars, I reserve till we meet. It is enough to know they are discovered, I have seen them both——"
"Then it is, as I always hoped," cried Jane; "they are married!"
Elizabeth read on;
"I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find there was any intention of being so; but if you are willing to perform the engagements which I have ventured to make on your side, I hope it will not be long before they are. All that is required of you is, to assure to your daughter, by settlement, her equal share of the five thousand pounds, secured among your children after the decease of yourself and my sister; and, moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her, during your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions, which, considering every thing, I had no hesitation in complying with, as far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by express, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You will easily comprehend, from these particulars, that Mr. Wickham's circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to be. The world has been deceived in that respect; and I am happy to say, there will be some little money, even when all his debts are discharged, to settle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune. If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers to act in your name, throughout the whole of this business, I will immediately give directions to Haggerston for preparing a proper settlement. There will not be the smallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore, stay quietly at Longbourn, and depend on my diligence and care. Send back your answer as soon as you can, and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it best, that my niece should be married from this house, of which I hope you will approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as any thing more is determined on. Your's, &c.
"Edw. Gardiner."
"Is it possible!" cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. "Can it be possible that he will marry her?"
"Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we have thought him;" said her sister. "My dear father, I
congratulate you."
"And have you answered the letter?" said Elizabeth.
“No; but it must be done soon."
Most earnestly did she then entreat me to lose no more time before I wrote.
"Oh! my dear father," she cried, "come back, and write immediately. Consider how important every moment is, in such a case."
"Let me write for you," said Jane, "if you dislike the trouble yourself."
"I dislike it very much," I replied; "but it must be done."
And so saying, I turned back with them, and walked towards the house.
"And may I ask?" said Elizabeth, "but the terms, I suppose, must be complied with."
"Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little."
"And they must marry! Yet he is such a man!"
"Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there are two things that I want very much to know: one is, how much money your uncle has laid down, to bring it about; and the other, how I am ever to pay him."
"Money! My uncle!" cried Jane, "what do you mean, Sir?"
“I mean, that no man in his senses, would marry Lydia on so slight a temptation as one hundred a-year during my life, and fifty after I am gone."
"That is very true," said Elizabeth; "though it had not occurred to me before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh! it must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this."
"No," said I, "Wickham's a fool, if he takes her with a farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship."
"Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be repaid?"
I could make no answer, and each of us, deep in thought, continued silent till we reached the house. The girls then walked into the breakfast-room, and I went to the library to write.
To Make Sport for our Neighbours Page 14
