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“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.”




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