JANE AUSTEN 20 страница

however, in believing the housekeeper; and they soon became

sensible that the authority of a servant who had known him

since he was four years old, and whose own manners indicated

respectability, was not to be hastily rejected. Neither had

any thing occurred in the intelligence of their Lambton friends

that could materially lessen its weight. They had nothing to

accuse him of but pride; pride he probably had, and if not, it

would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants of a small

market-town where the family did not visit. It was

acknowledged, however, that he was a liberal man, and did much

good among the poor.

 

With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was

not held there in much estimation; for though the chief of his

concerns with the son of his patron were imperfectly

understood, it was yet a well known fact that on his quitting

Derbyshire he had left many debts behind him, which Mr. Darcy

afterwards discharged.

 

As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening

more than the last; and the evening, though as it passed it

seemed long, was not long enough to determine her feelings

towards _one_ in that mansion; and she lay awake two whole

hours endeavouring to make them out. She certainly did not

hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she had almost

as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him that

could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of

his valuable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted,

had for some time ceased to be repugnant to her feelings; and

it was now heightened into somewhat of a friendlier nature by

the testimony so highly in his favour, and bringing forward

his disposition in so amiable a light, which yesterday had

produced. But above all, above respect and esteem, there was

a motive within her of good will which could not be overlooked.

It was gratitude. -- Gratitude, not merely for having once

loved her, but for loving her still well enough to forgive all

the petulance and acrimony of her manner in rejecting him, and

all the unjust accusations accompanying her rejection. He who,

she had been persuaded, would avoid her as his greatest enemy,

seemed, on this accidental meeting, most eager to preserve the

acquaintance, and without any indelicate display of regard, or

any peculiarity of manner, where their two selves only were

concerned, was soliciting the good opinion of her friends, and

bent on making her known to his sister. Such a change in a man

of so much pride excited not only astonishment but gratitude --

for to love, ardent love, it must be attributed; and as such,

its impression on her was of a sort to be encouraged, as by no

means unpleasing, though it could not be exactly defined. She

respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to him; she felt a

real interest in his welfare; and she only wanted to know how

far she wished that welfare to depend upon herself, and how far

it would be for the happiness of both that she should employ

the power, which her fancy told her she still possessed, of

bringing on the renewal of his addresses.

 

It had been settled in the evening, between the aunt and niece,

that such a striking civility as Miss Darcy's, in coming to

them on the very day of her arrival at Pemberley -- for she had

reached it only to a late breakfast -- ought to be imitated,

though it could not be equalled, by some exertion of politeness

on their side; and, consequently, that it would be highly

expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following morning.

They were, therefore, to go. -- Elizabeth was pleased, though,

when she asked herself the reason, she had very little to say

in reply.

 

Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing

scheme had been renewed the day before, and a positive

engagement made of his meeting some of the gentlemen at

Pemberley by noon.

 

__

 

<CHAPTER III (45)>

 

CONVINCED as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley's dislike of

her had originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how

very unwelcome her appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and

was curious to know with how much civility on that lady's side

the acquaintance would now be renewed.

 

On reaching the house, they were shewn through the hall into

the saloon, whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for

summer. Its windows, opening to the ground, admitted a most

refreshing view of the high woody hills behind the house, and

of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chesnuts which were scattered

over the intermediate lawn.

 

In this room they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting

there with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom

she lived in London. Georgiana's reception of them was very

civil; but attended with all that embarrassment which, though

proceeding from shyness and the fear of doing wrong, would

easily give to those who felt themselves inferior the belief of

her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and her niece,

however, did her justice, and pitied her.

 

By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, they were noticed only by a

curtsey; and on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such

pauses must always be, succeeded for a few moments. It was

first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a genteel, agreeable looking

woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind of discourse

proved her to be more truly well bred than either of the

others; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help

from Elizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy

looked as if she wished for courage enough to join in it; and

sometimes did venture a short sentence, when there was least

danger of its being heard.

 

Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss

Bingley, and that she could not speak a word, especially to

Miss Darcy, without calling her attention. This observation

would not have prevented her from trying to talk to the latter,

had they not been seated at an inconvenient distance; but she

was not sorry to be spared the necessity of saying much. Her

own thoughts were employing her. She expected every moment

that some of the gentlemen would enter the room. She wished,

she feared, that the master of the house might be amongst them;

and whether she wished or feared it most, she could scarcely

determine. After sitting in this manner a quarter of an hour

without hearing Miss Bingley's voice, Elizabeth was roused by

receiving from her a cold enquiry after the health of her

family. She answered with equal indifference and brevity, and

the other said no more.

 

The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by

the entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of

all the finest fruits in season; but this did not take place

till after many a significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley

to Miss Darcy had been given, to remind her of her post. There

was now employment for the whole party; for though they could

not all talk, they could all eat; and the beautiful pyramids of

grapes, nectarines, and peaches soon collected them round the

table.

 

While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of

deciding whether she most feared or wished for the appearance

of Mr. Darcy, by the feelings which prevailed on his entering

the room; and then, though but a moment before she had believed

her wishes to predominate, she began to regret that he came.

 

He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three

other gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and

had left him only on learning that the ladies of the family

intended a visit to Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he

appear, than Elizabeth wisely resolved to be perfectly easy and

unembarrassed; -- a resolution the more necessary to be made,

but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she saw that the

suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them, and

that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his

behaviour when he first came into the room. In no countenance

was attentive curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss

Bingley's, in spite of the smiles which overspread her face

whenever she spoke to one of its objects; for jealousy had not

yet made her desperate, and her attentions to Mr. Darcy were by

no means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother's entrance, exerted

herself much more to talk; and Elizabeth saw that he was

anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and

forwarded, as much as possible, every attempt at conversation

on either side. Miss Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in

the imprudence of anger, took the first opportunity of saying,

with sneering civility,

 

"Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ----shire militia removed

from Meryton? They must be a great loss to _your_ family."

 

In Darcy's presence she dared not mention Wickham's name;

but Elizabeth instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in

her thoughts; and the various recollections connected with him

gave her a moment's distress; but, exerting herself vigorously

to repel the ill-natured attack, she presently answered the

question in a tolerably disengaged tone. While she spoke,

an involuntary glance shewed her Darcy with an heightened

complexion, earnestly looking at her, and his sister overcome

with confusion and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss

Bingley known what pain she was then giving her beloved friend,

she undoubtedly would have refrained from the hint; but she had

merely intended to discompose Elizabeth, by bringing forward

the idea of a man to whom she believed her partial, to make her

betray a sensibility which might injure her in Darcy's opinion,

and perhaps to remind the latter of all the follies and

absurdities by which some part of her family were connected

with that corps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss

Darcy's meditated elopement. To no creature had it been

revealed, where secrecy was possible, except to Elizabeth; and

from all Bingley's connections her brother was particularly

anxious to conceal it, from that very wish which Elizabeth had

long ago attributed to him, of their becoming hereafter her

own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and without meaning

that it should affect his endeavour to separate him from Miss

Bennet, it is probable that it might add something to his

lively concern for the welfare of his friend.

 

Elizabeth's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his

emotion; and as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not

approach nearer to Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time,

though not enough to be able to speak any more. Her brother,

whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely recollected her interest

in the affair, and the very circumstance which had been

designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth, seemed to have

fixed them on her more, and more cheerfully.

 

Their visit did not continue long after the question and

answer above-mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending

them to their carriage, Miss Bingley was venting her feelings

in criticisms on Elizabeth's person, behaviour, and dress.

But Georgiana would not join her. Her brother's recommendation

was enough to ensure her favour: his judgment could not err,

and he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth as to leave

Georgiana without the power of finding her otherwise than

lovely and amiable. When Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss

Bingley could not help repeating to him some part of what she

had been saying to his sister.

 

"How very ill Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy," she

cried; "I never in my life saw any one so much altered as she

is since the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa

and I were agreeing that we should not have known her again."

 

However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address,

he contented himself with coolly replying that he perceived no

other alteration than her being rather tanned -- no miraculous

consequence of travelling in the summer.

 

"For my own part," she rejoined, "I must confess that I never

could see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her

complexion has no brilliancy; and her features are not at all

handsome. Her nose wants character; there is nothing marked in

its lines. Her teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common

way; and as for her eyes, which have sometimes been called so

fine, I never could perceive any thing extraordinary in them.

They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do not like at all;

and in her air altogether, there is a self-sufficiency without

fashion which is intolerable."

 

Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth,

this was not the best method of recommending herself; but angry

people are not always wise; and in seeing him at last look

somewhat nettled, she had all the success she expected. He was

resolutely silent however; and, from a determination of making

him speak she continued,

 

"I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how

amazed we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and

I particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had

been dining at Netherfield, ``_She_ a beauty! -- I should as

soon call her mother a wit.'' But afterwards she seemed to

improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at

one time."

 

"Yes," replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer,

"but _that_ was only when I first knew her, for it is many

months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest

women of my acquaintance."

 

He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the

satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one

any pain but herself.

 

Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred

during their visit, as they returned, except what had

particularly interested them both. The looks and behaviour of

every body they had seen were discussed, except of the person

who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked of his

sister, his friends, his house, his fruit, of every thing but

himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner

thought of him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly

gratified by her niece's beginning the subject.

 

__

 

<CHAPTER IV (46)>

 

ELIZABETH had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a

letter from Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this

disappointment had been renewed on each of the mornings that

had now been spent there; but on the third, her repining was

over, and her sister justified, by the receipt of two letters

from her at once, on one of which was marked that it had been

missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as

Jane had written the direction remarkably ill.

 

They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in;

and her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set

off by themselves. The one missent must be first attended to;

it had been written five days ago. The beginning contained an

account of all their little parties and engagements, with such

news as the country afforded; but the latter half, which was

dated a day later, and written in evident agitation, gave more

important intelligence. It was to this effect:

 

"Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred

of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of

alarming you -- be assured that we are all well. What I have

to say relates to poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last

night, just as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster,

to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland with one of his

officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! -- Imagine our

surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly

unexpected. I am very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on

both sides! -- But I am willing to hope the best, and that his

character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet I

can easily believe him, but this step (and let us rejoice over

it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at

least, for he must know my father can give her nothing. Our

poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How

thankful am I, that we never let them know what has been said

against him; we must forget it ourselves. They were off

Saturday night about twelve, as is conjectured, but were not

missed till yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent

off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have passed within ten

miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect him

here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her

of their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from

my poor mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it

out, but I hardly know what I have written."

 

Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely

knowing what she felt, Elizabeth, on finishing this letter,

instantly seized the other, and opening it with the utmost

impatience, read as follows -- it had been written a day later

than the conclusion of the first:

 

"By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried

letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not

confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot

answer for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what

I would write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be

delayed. Imprudent as a marriage between Mr. Wickham and our

poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has

taken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are

not gone to Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having

left Brighton the day before, not many hours after the express.

Though Lydia's short letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand

that they were going to Gretna Green, something was dropped by

Denny expressing his belief that W. never intended to go there,

or to marry Lydia at all, which was repeated to Colonel F.,

who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B. intending to

trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham, but no

farther; for on entering that place they removed into a

hackney-coach and dismissed the chaise that brought them from

Epsom. All that is known after this is that they were seen to

continue the London road. I know not what to think. After

making every possible enquiry on that side London, Colonel

F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all

the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but

without any success; no such people had been seen to pass

through. With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and

broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to

his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F., but no

one can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy,

is very great. My father and mother believe the worst, but I

cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make it

more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to

pursue their first plan; and even if _he_ could form such a

design against a young woman of Lydia's connections, which is

not likely, can I suppose her so lost to every thing? --

Impossible. I grieve to find, however, that Colonel F. is not

disposed to depend upon their marriage; he shook his head when

I expressed my hopes, and said he feared W. was not a man to be

trusted. My poor mother is really ill and keeps her room.

Could she exert herself it would be better, but this is not to

be expected; and as to my father, I never in my life saw him so

affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having concealed their

attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence, one cannot

wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have been

spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as the

first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return?

I am not so selfish, however, as to press for it, if

inconvenient. Adieu. I take up my pen again to do what I have

just told you I would not, but circumstances are such, that I

cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as soon as

possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well that I am not

afraid of requesting it, though I have still something more to

ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel

Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to

do, I am sure I know not; but his excessive distress will not

allow him to pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and

Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again to-morrow

evening. In such an exigence my uncle's advice and assistance

would be every thing in the world; he will immediately

comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness."

 

"Oh! where, where is my uncle?" cried Elizabeth, darting

from her seat as she finished the letter, in eagerness to

follow him without losing a moment of the time so precious;

but as she reached the door, it was opened by a servant, and

Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous manner made

him start, and before he could recover himself enough to

speak, she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia's

situation, hastily exclaimed, "I beg your pardon, but I must

leave you. I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business

that cannot be delayed; I have not a moment to lose."

 

"Good God! what is the matter?" cried he, with more feeling

than politeness; then recollecting himself, "I will not detain

you a minute, but let me, or let the servant, go after Mr. and

Mrs. Gardiner. You are not well enough; -- you cannot go

yourself."

 

Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her, and

she felt how little would be gained by her attempting to

pursue them. Calling back the servant, therefore, she

commissioned him, though in so breathless an accent as made

her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and mistress

home instantly.

 

On his quitting the room, she sat down, unable to support

herself, and looking so miserably ill that it was impossible

for Darcy to leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone of

gentleness and commiseration, "Let me call your maid. Is there

nothing you could take, to give you present relief? -- A glass

of wine; -- shall I get you one? -- You are very ill."

 

"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 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 any one. 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 is 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; every thing

_must_ sink under such a proof of family weakness, such an

assurance of the deepest disgrace. She should 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 every

thing 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