- char_end
- 542240
- char_start
- 534347
- chunk_index
- 75
- chunk_total
- 108
- estimated_tokens
- 1974
- source_file_key
- pride-and-prejudice
- text
-
“No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. “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.”
She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could
not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say
something indistinctly of his
[Illustration:
“I have not an instant to lose”
]
concern, and observe her in compassionate silence. At length she spoke
again. “I have just had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful news. It
cannot be concealed from anyone. 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 connections, nothing that
can tempt him to--she is lost for ever.”
Darcy was fixed in astonishment.
“When I consider,” she added, in a yet more agitated voice, “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.”
“I am grieved, indeed,” cried Darcy: “grieved--shocked. But is it
certain, absolutely certain?”
“Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced
almost to London, but not beyond: they are certainly not gone to
Scotland.”
“And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?”
“My father has 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!”
Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.
“When _my_ eyes were opened to his real character, 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!”
Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking up
and down the room in earnest meditation; his brow contracted, his air
gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. Her power
was sinking; everything _must_ sink under such a proof of family
weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither
wonder nor condemn; but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing
consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It
was, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own
wishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved
him, as now, when all love must be vain.
But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia--the
humiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all--soon swallowed up
every private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief,
Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else; and, after a pause of
several minutes, was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the
voice of her companion, who, in a manner which, though it spoke
compassion, spoke likewise restraint, said,--
“I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence, 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.”
“Oh, yes! Be so kind as to apologize for us to Miss Darcy. Say that
urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as
long as it is possible. I know it cannot be long.”
He readily assured her of his secrecy, again expressed his sorrow for
her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present
reason to hope, and, leaving his compliments for her relations, with
only one serious parting look, went away.
As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they
should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as had
marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a
retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of
contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those
feelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would
formerly have rejoiced in its termination.
If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth’s
change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if
otherwise, if the regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or
unnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on a
first interview with its object, and even before two words have been
exchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she had given
somewhat of a trial to the latter method, in her partiality for Wickham,
and that its ill success might, perhaps, authorize her to seek the other
less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go
with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia’s infamy must
produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched
business. Never since reading Jane’s second letter had she entertained a
hope of Wickham’s meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought,
could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least
of all her feelings on this development. While the contents of the first
letter remained on her mind, she was all surprise, all astonishment,
that Wickham should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry
for money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared
incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment
as this, she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not
suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement, without the
intention of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither
her virtue nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy
prey.
She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that
Lydia had any partiality for him; but she was convinced that Lydia had
wanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one
officer, sometimes another, had been her favourite, as their attentions
raised them in her opinion. Her affections had been continually
fluctuating, but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and
mistaken indulgence towards such a girl--oh! how acutely did she now
feel it!
She was wild to be at home--to hear, to see, to be upon the spot to
share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a
family so deranged; a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and
requiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing
could be done for Lydia, her uncle’s interference seemed of the utmost
importance, and till he entered the room the misery of her impatience
was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing,
by the servant’s account, that their niece was taken suddenly ill; but
satisfying them instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the
cause of their summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on
the postscript of the last with trembling energy. Though Lydia had never
been a favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be
deeply affected. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after
the first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner readily
promised every assistance in his power.