Chương Chương 47 · 第47章

“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, Lizzie, 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 everything 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

everything 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 anyone, 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 anything 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 downstairs 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 anything had been

heard of the fugitives.

“Not yet,” replied Jane. “But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope

everything 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 upstairs, 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 villainous

conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill-usage;

blaming everybody 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 my

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 inquiries 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 everything about it which I

have not already heard. Give me further particulars. What did Colonel

Forster say? Had they no apprehension of anything 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 anything 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:--

/* NIND “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-bye. 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 anyone 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 inquire 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 anything 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 inquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow

discover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he

determined to make inquiries 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.”

[Illustration:

The Post

]