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Chapter XX Posted on Wednesday, 3 April 2002
In 1795, John "Gentleman" Jackson defeated Daniel Mendoza in less than eleven minutes to become the champion boxer of England. In a sport patronized by the Quality but performed by bare-fisted, uneducated men, Gentleman Jackson was an unusual champion. He fought with a nice science that emphasized footwork and proper positioning, and had a cultured way of speaking that set him apart from his contemporaries. Shortly after he was named champion, he retired undefeated; Harry Angelo, who taught fencing at his Salle d'Armes at 13 Bond-street in London, offered to share his quarters with Jackson on alternating days, considering the manly art of self-defense as a fine counterpart to a fencing in a gentleman's repertoire. Young men of gentle birth flocked to Jackson's door, clamouring to spar with the champion and dreaming of the day that they would pop one in over his guard. A very few of them managed to do so, and usually only because the Gentleman permitted it.
Jackson's rooms normally were not open so late in the summer, as most of the gentlemen who patronized them had departed for their country seats or the seaside to escape the heat of the city. Henry suspected that Darcy had been at great pains--and expense--to persuade Jackson to make the rooms available so that Henry and Wickham could meet on a different sort of field of honour. Darcy also had the outcome of the bout entered into the betting book at White's: if Henry won the match, Wickham would marry Lydia, with whatever support the Bennets could give them; if Wickham won, then the complete ruin of Lydia's reputation was assured.
"Is it reasonable to expect that Wickham will honour such an obligation?" Henry asked his friend. "It would not be the first time that he failed to honour gaming debts."
Darcy smiled grimly. "He shall honour it. I will see to it."
Henry watched Wickham across the large main salon at 13 Bond-street. Wickham had stripped to the waist, and one of his attendants--a disreputable-looking half-pay officer whom Darcy had recruited and paid--tied padded gloves, called mufflers, onto his hands. Wickham had scorned the mufflers at first, demanding to fight bare-fisted, as was the style in prizefights of the day; but in Jackson's rooms, the champion informed him loftily, gentlemen did not fight without gloves. Henry certainly had never done so. When he sparred with his friends, they pulled their punches shy of the face and head, and the matches lasted only till the first knockdown. The rules that he and Wickham had agreed upon called for a fight, not to the death, but until one of the combatants could fight no more.
Wickham was a well-built man, muscular and strong; once the gloves were on, he sparred a bit with the attendant, and displayed a fighting style based upon overpowering his opponent with brute force. Henry was as tall as Wickham, but much lighter in build, and he could not compete on such a level. However, he had learned to box from older, bigger boys, and to compensate for his lesser size had developed a fleet, agile boxing style. Catherine always admired Henry's dancing, though she never knew that his light-footed grace was learned in such a brutal arena.
Darcy brought a pair of mufflers and helped Henry slip them on. "I have sparred with Wickham in the past," Darcy said under his breath. "His boxing has no elegance; it is a half step removed from pothouse brawling. Be on your guard against blows below the waist, and eye gouging."
"Wickham agreed to adhere to Broughton's rules," said Henry, referring to the rules of boxing laid down by Jack Broughton half a century earlier. "Such blows are not permitted."
"That will not deter Wickham. His native aggression will drive him to win at all cost." Darcy finished tying the gloves and looked Henry in the eye. "Be on your guard."
"I will. Thank you, Darcy."
Mr. Gardiner separated himself from a group of men standing nearby and approached them. "I have ten pounds on you, Henry," he said, his eyes twinkling. "Mrs. Gardiner mustn't find out, so do me the favour of not losing." This good-humoured raillery had the desired effect; Henry laughed, and the anxiety that had stiffened his neck and made his stomach rebel disappeared.
Jackson had measured out and chalked a square, one yard across, and he stood beside it as he beckoned the fighters to approach. Henry took a deep breath and walked up to the square, placing his feet upon one side of the box. Wickham stood on the opposite side, wearing a strange, menacing smile. A small knot of men gathered nearby; they had heard about the bout at White's, or perhaps Tattersall's, and having little other entertainment in town at that season, determined to attend, though there might not be as much sport as in a match featuring a Jack Bartholomew or a Jem Belcher.
"Gentlemen, you have agreed to adhere to Broughton's Rules," said the champion. "I will now review the rules in order to avoid any misunderstanding. A round will end when a fighter falls. A man on his knees is reckoned down. The fallen man has half a minute to 'come up to scratch;'"--here the champion cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with using vulgar cant--"or return to his side of the chalked square. If he fails to return, he is deemed a beaten man. If the fighter, or his second, indicates that he cannot continue to fight, he is deemed a beaten man. No fighter is to strike his adversary when he is down, and no wrestling holds are to be employed below the waist. No man is to strike a blow to his adversary below the waist." Jackson looked from Wickham to Henry and back again. "Are these rules understood, gentlemen?"
"Yes," said Henry. Wickham merely nodded.
"Very well. Mr. Tilney, I understand that you have issued the challenge in this fight. Mr. Wickham, please choose the gentleman you would have as your umpire."
"I hope that you will act as my umpire, Mr. Jackson," said Wickham, displaying the charm that had laid all female Meryton at his feet.
The champion appeared immune to any of Wickham's attractions; nevertheless, he bowed politely and said, "You do me great honour. Mr. Tilney, will you choose?"
"I will have Mr. Angelo," said Henry, nodding toward Jackson's partner. Mr. Angelo bowed as well, and placed himself where he could view the fight easily.
"Very well. If Mr. Angelo and I cannot reach an agreement in the event of a dispute, then we shall choose a third umpire. Gentlemen, please take your places."
Henry bent his knees and shifted his weight forward to the balls of his feet, poised to move quickly. He brought his gloves up before his face and bent slightly at the waist. The fighting stance was natural to him, and he was relaxed and yet ready to react to any motion made by his opponent.
Three feet away, Wickham sneered at Henry. "I hope you are prepared to receive your sister, Tilney. I will have you know that I was the undefeated champion at Cambridge."
"Please accept my compliments, sir," said Henry politely. "You will recall, however, that I was at Oxford."
"You may set to," cried Jackson, and Henry immediately crouched as Wickham directed a heavy swing at his head. Henry danced away before Wickham could recover; but recover he did, and advanced menacingly. Henry waited for an opening, and saw it as Wickham tried to land another blow. Henry avoided it easily, and landed a quick three-punch combination in his opponent's midsection. Wickham was off-balance, and he fell to one knee; Henry stepped back, and the first round was over.
Wickham rose to his feet, glaring at Henry, and took his place on one side of the chalk square. "Gentlemen, you may set to," said Jackson, and Wickham came at Henry again. Henry shifted from side to side, his feet moving quickly, and was able to land several punches, including one to the chin that rocked Wickham back on his heels.
In the first round, Wickham had been recklessly aggressive, and now he was angry and frustrated. He feinted, and Henry dodged away; Wickham moved in, seized Henry under the arms, and threw him violently to the ground.
Henry landed awkwardly on his left side; his elbow drove hard into his ribs, and the padded glove into his solar plexus. For a moment, he was unable to move or draw breath, and then Darcy was dragging him to his feet.
"Breathe," Darcy commanded in a low, strong voice. "You must get your wind back, Tilney."
"Fifteen seconds," said Mr. Angelo.
Darcy's footman, Joseph, who was acting as Henry's "knee man," held smelling salts under Henry's nose. Henry quickly turned away from the noxious fumes, sucking untainted air deeply into his lungs. He pushed Darcy away irritably and stepped up to the chalk square.
Jackson gave them leave to fight. Henry favoured his injured left side, and he was unable to move as quickly, yet he avoided all of Wickham's blows. Henry aimed a left at Wickham's head, trying to take him by surprise, but Wickham easily evaded the blow. Suddenly, Henry's vision exploded in red, and he reeled back and fell clumsily to the floor. Wickham had brought up his right as he feinted, and landed a hit squarely on Henry's left eye.
Darcy was with him in a moment, pressing a cool, wet cloth to Henry's face. There was a strange buzzing and tingling under the skin as the area around the eye filled with blood.
"Fifteen seconds," announced Angelo as Darcy drew away the cloth.
"How is it?" Henry asked him.
"You are cut," Darcy replied.
Henry could not feel the bleeding; the whole area was unnaturally hot. The skin around his eye was swollen taut and throbbing. One of the spectators, who had placed a wager on first blood, passed a roll of banknotes to his neighbour.
"I can no longer see from that eye," Henry said to Darcy. "Is there much blood?"
"No; it will stop soon. Do you continue?"
"I am not done yet."
"Very well. Keep your left up and protect your face. Wickham is weak on his left side. Concentrate on your right."
Henry nodded and took his place on the chalk square.
"Had enough yet, Tilney?" Wickham taunted. Henry ignored him, watching Jackson until he gave them leave to recommence the fight.
Henry followed Darcy's instructions, keeping his left hand protectively in front of his injured eye. The pain in his side had lessened, and he was able to move with more ease. Darcy was correct; clearly Wickham was not strong or coordinated with the left hand, and tried to overwhelm his opponent with a brutal right. However, as Henry instinctively protected his eye, Wickham was able to rain several punches on Henry's already tender side, driving him back several steps. Henry tried to get away, but the intensified pain in his side slowed his movements.
Wickham followed him, bent low; his right fist came up, aiming for an area rather lower than his opponent's ribs. An ancient male instinct made Henry bring his hand down to deflect Wickham's fist. Though he was able to redirect most of the force of the blow, he was not quick enough to stop it entirely.
Henry collapsed. Dimly he heard Jackson, Angelo, and Darcy shouting at Wickham, but he could not care. The pain in his side and his eye were utterly forgotten. Nothing could be worse than this. He closed his eyes as waves of nausea washed over him.
Then, Darcy was beside him; with his encouragement, Henry was able to raise himself to his knees, and even to stand, though it seemed a violation of both logic and nature.
"Do you require a basin?" Darcy asked with great sympathy.
"I think not," Henry replied weakly. The worst of the nausea had passed, but his legs were shaking.
Gentleman Jackson approached them. "Mr. Tilney, your opponent has violated the rules of engagement established prior to this bout. I am of a mind, and Mr. Angelo agrees, to name you winner by default."
Under the circumstances, Henry found this notion perfectly reasonable, and was about to voice his agreement when Wickham advanced on them, shouting, "It was an accident, I tell you! I will not consider myself beaten in this matter! If Tilney cannot fight, then he is the beaten man!" He put his face close to Henry's and said, "Take your sister with my compliments. She gave me fine sport for a fortnight, but I'd grown devilish tired of her."
Henry was sick, in pain, weak as a newborn, but Wickham's words caused a surge of anger to course through him. He raised his head. "Will you face me again, Wickham? Face me now, at this moment?"
Wickham laughed. "I'll face you. I'll finish you. I'll send you back to your fine parsonage with your tail between your legs, pup."
"Very well. Come up to scratch, sir."
"Tilney, are you sure about this?" asked Darcy urgently.
Henry shook him off and walked up to the chalk line. Wickham was already there, smiling unpleasantly. Henry looked at the champion, and found that Jackson was watching him earnestly. The older man nodded slightly, his demeanour all respect: not the common respect due a gentleman of Henry's station, but respect for Henry as a fellow pugilist. No matter the outcome of the fight, Henry understood that respect would remain his own.
Jackson backed away. "You may set to."
Henry took the pain and the anger and focused it upon the task at hand. He was careful to protect his eye, but he would give up a blow to the ribs to gain access to Wickham's weak left side. Confidence made Wickham arrogant, and arrogance bred poor science. "Boxing," Darcy had told Henry, "requires mental ability as well as physical ability. You must approach a bout as you would a chess game: guard against your opponent's present move while anticipating his future moves."
Henry bent his waist and knees, his weight balanced upon the balls of his feet, allowing him to easily shift from one foot to the other. He circled Wickham warily, looking for an opening. Wickham feigned several punches, but Henry did not fall for his ruses. The spectators--heavily in favour of Henry now, even those who had placed wagers on Wickham--shouted encouragement, but Henry did not hear them. All of his concentration was centered upon Wickham's gloved fists.
At last, the right hand struck. Henry avoided it easily, and struck out with his own right, landing a solid blow in Wickham's midsection. Startled, Wickham flung out another right. Henry nimbly evaded it. Wickham desperately followed with the left, and unwittingly exposed his queen. Henry quickly bent his knees, and Wickham's left circled harmlessly over his head. Henry clenched his right hand into a fist and brought it straight up. He did not make Wickham's mistake and rely on the strength of his arm alone; as he had learned from the patient Darcy years before, he brought the punch from the larger muscles in his shoulder and back, driven by the force of his legs as he came out of a crouching position. His fist crashed into his opponent's lower jaw with explosive power.
The force of the blow brought Wickham's head back sharply. He took two steps backward, his arms waving in an ineffective attempt at balance; he stood comically for a moment, his arms outstretched, and then he fell heavily to the floor.
Henry stood over Wickham as he attempted vainly to rise. He looked up at Henry; his eyes would not focus. He raised himself with his arms briefly, and collapsed again.
Jackson approached them. "I believe this fight is over," he said. "Mr. Wickham is beaten. Mr. Tilney has prevailed."
Wickham struggled once again to rise, but could not. The attendants that Darcy had hired were finally able to bring Wickham to a standing position, though his legs would not support him, and they half-carried, half-dragged him from the room. Henry stood, wounded but victorious, alone on the field of honour.
The surgeon summoned to Gracechurch-street--a large, jolly fellow by the name of Murtagh--treated the swelling around Henry's eye by carefully applying leeches to the area. It was a revolting process, and Henry was relieved when Mr. Murtagh pried away the fattened creatures and dropped them into a small bottle. Henry felt his eye gingerly, and was surprised to discover that the treatment had been quite effective. Most of the swelling was gone, though he was still unable to open his left eye, and the skin around it was badly bruised.
"Now, let me have a look at those ribs," said the surgeon. Henry raised his shirt, and Mr. Murtagh whistled softly. "You say you won this fight? The other fellow must be a sorry sight indeed." He prodded gently, and Henry clenched his teeth against the pain. "I do not believe the ribs are broken," said the surgeon. He placed a hearing-trumpet against Henry's chest and commanded, "Deep breath." Henry breathed deeply, held the breath, and released it upon the surgeon's instructions. "Your lungs are clear," said Mr. Murtagh. "You'll be hurting for a few days, though, I dare say. I can have some laudanum sent over if you like."
"No need," said Henry testily. "They are just bruises."
"Yes, you're on your way," said the indefatigably cheerful surgeon. "We always have hope for a full recovery when the patient becomes--impatient!" He laughed heartily at his joke as he placed his instruments in his bag. "You may call upon me if you have any questions." He left his card and departed, still chuckling.
Darcy smiled at Henry wryly. "I beg your pardon for inflicting Murtagh upon you, but he really is an excellent surgeon. If he says you are not badly injured, then you may be comfortable that there is no lasting harm done."
There was a soft knock on the door, and Mr. Gardiner came in and handed Henry a letter. "This arrived while we were gone. It is from your father."
Henry opened the letter eagerly. He had written to Longbourn to tell them that Lydia was well and at her uncle's house, though he had not mentioned the fight, wishing to spare Catherine, his sisters, and Mr. Bennet any undue anxiety. He said only that the negotiation of the marriage agreement had commenced, and wanted to know what his father would do for the newlyweds. Henry scanned the letter quickly. "My father agrees with my scheme for Lydia and Wickham. There is no suitable house in his estate, but he thinks an establishment can be formed inexpensively. Between us, we can contrive a small annuity for their ongoing expenses. If Wickham desires a better situation, he is free to seek employment and earn it himself." He looked at Mr. Gardiner. "I would like to send an express to Longbourn to tell my father that the marriage will take place in a fortnight, if I can obtain a special license. Wickham should have recovered from his concussion by then."
"Allow me to obtain the license," said Darcy. "I would like to be of service to your family."
Henry grinned. "You have been of great service already, Darcy!"
There was a commotion outside the bedchamber. The door opened, and Henry could hear Lydia saying, "No, I will see him!" She stormed into the room and faced her brother. She stared at him in shock. "It is true, then! My aunt told me that you beat my dear Wickham! You must take me to see him!"
"You will not see Wickham until your wedding, Lydia. Believe me, he is in no condition to make love to you, and will not be for a week at least." Henry smiled to himself, remembering Wickham's final fall with great satisfaction.
"What have you done to him? I swear to you, Henry, if you have hurt him I shall never forgive you!"
"He has a concussion, but will come to the altar without a mark on him."
"A concussion? How could you?"
"That is enough, Lydia," said Mrs. Gardiner, pulling her niece from the room. "Your brother needs his rest."
"I'll go," said Lydia petulantly. "I never want to see him again! I wish I had no brother!" She swept out of the room and slammed the door.
Henry glanced at Darcy, embarrassed. "I would not have had you see that."
"I have already learned to expect no gratitude from young ladies thwarted in love."
Henry laughed, then groaned at the misery it occasioned in his ribs.
Mrs. Gardiner came back into the room. "Will you dine with us, Mr. Darcy? If it aids your decision, Lydia has announced her intention to keep to her room until the wedding."
"I would be honoured," said Darcy. "A solitary meal at the club had little appeal, Mrs. Gardiner. I thank you for the invitation."
Mrs. Gardiner smiled warmly. "After all you have done for our family, it is the least we can do for you."
"I will send the message," said her husband, and they left the room together.
Henry looked at his friend. "Darcy, allow me to express my gratitude as well. Your assistance in this sad affair has been invaluable; well beyond the obligations of friendship."
Darcy said consciously, "You need feel no obligation, for as much as I esteem and value our friendship, and would render you any assistance within my power, I have not acted out of friendship toward you." He glanced sideways at Henry and looked away. "I confess I thought only of Elizabeth." He put his hand to his mouth, as if containing strong emotion. "Do you know what it is like, Tilney?" he asked in a low, urgent voice. "To see someone you have come to love in true distress, to know yourself the author of it, and to be unable to render any comfort besides the offer of a--glass of wine?"
Henry remembered standing in the gallery at Northanger Abbey, and Catherine running from him in tears after his harsh lecture, and understood his friend's vehemence. "Darcy, this cannot be laid solely at your door. You could not have prevented Lydia from eloping with Wickham."
"I could have prevented it," said Darcy bitterly. "If I had exposed Wickham in Meryton, he would not then have had the opportunity to ruin your sister, or any other girl. But my damnable pride kept me silent."
"No, Darcy. Regard for your sister's reputation kept you silent. You behaved properly as a brother then, and your actions on my behalf, and Lydia's--no matter what your motivation--were the actions of a brother as well. I shall rejoice on the day that I can call you my brother without reservation. I trust that day will not be long in coming; when Lizzy learns of your actions, any lingering doubts as to your character will be cast forth."
"I hope that Elizabeth will never know of my actions in this affair. I would not have her feel an obligation toward me that might lead her to act contrary to her true desires."
Henry was amused. "Your scruples are very proper, but I think they are misplaced. Gratitude and esteem are as good a foundation upon which to build a marriage as appearance, or fortune, or any other in common use. It was gratitude that led me to pay more attention to my Catherine than that due to common civility."
Darcy frowned at him. "Gratitude?"
"Indeed. I noticed Catherine because she noticed me, and saw something in me that she liked, and did not disdain to show it. Gratitude led to esteem, and esteem led to love. I am sorry if I offend your sensibilities; the novelists will have us believe that love is a flame that rises instantly in the heat of a first meeting, and perhaps that is sometimes the case. However, I believe that love that is built slowly from more mundane stuff, such as gratitude and esteem, will be all the stronger for it."
"Your sister was offered my esteem, my love, and my hand, and refused them," Darcy reminded him.
"Yes, but Lizzy was labouring under a delusion of which she has been disabused, and I dare say she is ready to allow simpler ideas to shape her feelings."
"Nevertheless, I would rather that she did not learn of my involvement in this affair, at least not at this time."
"Very well, Darcy. The least I can do is honour your wishes. I shall take all the credit upon myself, undeserving though I may be."
"You are not undeserving. I have never seen such courage as you displayed today."
"You will find acts of greater courage on any battlefield. However, I suppose that my military upbringing has served me at last." Henry smiled at his friend. "As well as your fine instruction, sir! If some disaster strikes Pemberley that compels you to earn your living, you should seek employment with Mr. Jackson. He could do much worse for an instructor."
Darcy was complimented into a better spirit, and the arrival of a servant to announce dinner ended the conversation, though it gave both men much to consider.
Despite the excellence of the dinner, Henry found he had little appetite. He refused most of the dishes, and pushed his food around on the plate as Darcy and the Gardiners watched him in concern. Finally Mr. Gardiner spoke. "Henry, it occurs to me that it would be uncomfortable for you to meet Wickham, after what has passed between you. I would be honoured if you would permit me to conduct what remains of the business on your behalf. Your father's directions are clear; Haggerston, my solicitor, will attend to the necessary documents. Why do you not return to Longbourn for your convalescence? I dare say that your wife would be the finest nurse you could wish for in this instance, and you will still be close enough to town to travel here easily if it should be necessary."
The notion of returning to Catherine, even if it were not at their own home, had instant appeal. "You have already done so much for us, sir. I cannot allow you to accept so much additional responsibility."
"You have done the most in bringing Wickham up to scratch, as it were. You need not stay any longer. If you wish to return for the wedding, naturally you are welcome, but Mrs. Gardiner and I would be pleased to accommodate our friends in Hertfordshire in any way that we can." He smiled at Henry. "You can return to Longbourn as soon as tomorrow."
Henry looked across the table at Darcy, who said, "I have some remaining business of my own, but I plan to set out for Pemberley on the day after tomorrow. Do not remain in town on my account. I tend to agree with Mr. Gardiner; you would undoubtedly be more comfortable at Longbourn."
It was impossible to remain firm in the face of such kind solicitude, and when dinner was finished, Henry took himself off to bed, in order to be well-rested for his trip to Hertfordshire.
Henry had expected a good night's rest to aid his recovery, but on the next morning he could hardly move without causing some part of his body to ache. The journey to Longbourn was difficult for him, though the roads were dry and smooth, and the post-chaise well-sprung. Normally a trip of several hours in such an equipage would be passed in relative comfort, but for Henry it was slow torture. Several times he considered asking the postilion to check the pace, but decided that the quicker the journey ended, the better; thus, he gritted his teeth and endured.
As the chaise rumbled up the drive, Henry was amused to see several faces at the sitting-room window. Likely the ladies had been gathered around the large table with their work, and the sound of an approaching carriage aroused their curiosity. The chaise stopped, the door opened, and the stairs were let down. As Henry turned back to the chaise to retrieve the portmanteau that he customarily kept with him, he heard Catherine's voice, and smiled. She must have recognized him from the window and run outside, matronly dignity abandoned for the moment.
"Henry!" she cried. "We received your express last night! I knew you would contrive it all!" As he turned away from the carriage to greet her, she came to a sharp stop, her expression changing in an instant from joy to astonishment. "What has happened?" she asked, reaching out gingerly to touch the bruising around his eye. "Was there an accident?"
Henry's mood had already improved at the sight of Catherine, and he could not resist a bit of raillery. "No, my sweet, there was no accident. I believe that Wickham quite acted quite to the purpose when he, er--'planted me a facer,' I believe is the popular expression."
Catherine's eyes grew wide. "Henry, do you mean--have you and Wickham been brawling?"
He replied with mock dignity, "I do not brawl, Catherine, I box. Gentlemen do not brawl."
Her expression remained grave. "Brawling, or boxing--whatever you call it, I cannot like it. Come inside, and I shall fetch you some tea."
Mr. Bennet had emerged from his library and was waiting in the entrance. Henry shook his father's hand, a little embarrassed at the frank scrutiny he received. "I see that you have kept busy in town, son," said Mr. Bennet. "I suspected that you employed more than mere reason when you persuaded Wickham to behave honourably."
"It is all for the best," said Henry. "It is over, and Lydia will be married, and there is no lasting harm done."
"One hopes," said Mr. Bennet dryly.
Catherine took Henry into the sitting-room, where his sisters all exclaimed over his injuries. He deflected their anxious questions with good humour and without imparting much in the way of information. Catherine took pains to sit by him, but remained grave and silent.
When the reunion began to lose its immediacy, Mr. Bennet summoned Henry into the library. He handed his son a glass of wine and said, "Do not imagine that I am displeased with your accomplishments, Henry, but I beg you would tell me how it all came about. By what means were Wickham and Lydia discovered?"
Henry had expected the question, and he had formulated an answer that was truthful, yet kept Darcy's involvement secret. "We were fortunate enough to discover one of Wickham's former connections who knew of their whereabouts. I went there and took Lydia away. Wickham made it clear that he had never meant to marry her, and I issued a challenge. We met by appointment at Jackson's Boxing Saloon. Many gentlemen are settling affairs of honour in the ring these days."
"We live in a degenerate age," remarked Mr. Bennet.
"Your command was that I should not fight a duel, sir."
"It was, indeed. I am gratified at the imagination you employed to comply with that command. Now I fear we must consider more mundane matters. Have the settlements been arranged?"
"Mr. Gardiner has kindly undertaken the whole. The settlement will be as you instructed in your letter: the annuity, and the lease of a modest establishment."
"Very good. My brother is a man of great energy and will see to it all. You said in the express that the wedding will take place in a fortnight?"
"Yes, I thought that the circumstances called for a special license. However, as Wickham is currently suffering from concussion, the wedding cannot take place before then, I think."
"Concussion, eh? Well, if we cannot provide Wickham with a fortune to marry Lydia, than addling his brains will have to serve." He took out his watch. "We shall be dining in half an hour or so. Go on and get dressed." Henry understood the dismissal, and rose to leave. As he reached the door, his father called him back. "Oh, and Henry?"
"What is it, sir?"
Mr. Bennet smiled. "You did well, son."
Henry nodded and left.
At the foot of the stairway he met Elizabeth, who was ascending to dress for dinner. She took his chin gently, turned his head to better see the bruised skin around his eye, and shook her head. "You shame me, Henry."
He took her hand and kissed it affectionately. "Why in the world should you be ashamed, Lizzy?"
"You tried to tell me about Wickham. Do you remember? It was at Mr. Bingley's ball. You told me not to trust Wickham, and I ranted at you and said that you were prejudiced and unfair. And now I know that it was I who was prejudiced."
"There really was no reason for you to believe me rather than Wickham."
Elizabeth smiled ruefully. "On the contrary. Wickham gave me sufficient evidence himself, had I but listened attentively. He told me that Mr. Darcy had importuned him, but that he would never publicly expose Mr. Darcy out of respect for his father--and then, once Mr. Darcy had left the neighbourhood and was unable to refute his charges, Wickham proceeded to tell the story to everyone who would listen. I should have known then that Wickham was not what he appeared to be, but I allowed myself to be guided by my first impressions. If I had listened to you, perhaps I could have warned Lydia against him, at least."
"Do you truly believe that Lydia would have listened to such a warning? Really, Lizzy, there is a great deal too much blame being assumed in this business by parties who bear no guilt. Any blame belongs solely to Lydia and Wickham."
"Yet we all bear the shame." She touched his cheek gently. "And you bear the scars. Well, at least you prevailed," she added with a proud smile. "It was really very clever of you to contrive such a method of persuasion! Although I never doubted for a moment that you would find a way."
Henry found his face growing warm, knowing that the cleverness that his sister praised truly belonged to Darcy. "Have you seen Catherine?" he asked by way of changing the subject.
"She has already gone up to get dressed."
In their bedchamber, Catherine had changed into a pretty gown and was fussing with her hair in front of the mirror. Henry's trunk had been brought up and unpacked, and it was quick work to find clean clothes to replace the ones he wore, which were dusty and creased from his journey. All was well until he tried to pull the shirt over his head: an involuntary gasp of pain made Catherine turn around curiously, and she had her first sight of the black and blue marks across his left side.
She cried out, dropped her comb, and hurried to him. Henry, strangely embarrassed, pulled the shirt down over the bruises, but Catherine raised it again, staring at the bruises in astonishment. "Wickham did this to you?" she asked.
"It is nothing," said Henry.
"Nothing?" she cried. "You can call this nothing?" She dropped the shirt and turned her head away, pressing her hand to her mouth. Henry steeled himself for tears, prepared himself to soothe them, but when Catherine turned back a moment later, her eyes were dry. "Here, let me help you," she said, her voice soft with compassion. With her assistance, Henry was soon dressed.
She turned away to finish her own toilette, but Henry took her hand. "I must beg your pardon, my sweet," he said. "I made you my promise that I would not fight a duel, and I kept the letter of that promise, but not the spirit."
"It does not signify. Women cannot understand the way men feel about such things, I suppose."
"Catherine, if the entire world operated on good sense such as yours, it would be a much better place. I know that you asked for my promise because you were concerned that I would be hurt. Therefore, I must beg your pardon."
"I was concerned that you would be killed," she said. "Your bruises will heal soon enough, and I would not have your sisters disgraced so that I might be comfortable. You did your duty, and you kept your promise, Henry. Thank you."
Henry reached out and pulled her close to his uninjured side. "I missed you this week, Cat. I missed your dependence upon the goodness in the world. I found myself greatly in need of it at times."
Catherine laid her head upon his shoulder. "I feel sorry for Lydia. I think of what kind of man she will marry and consider myself fortunate that I married an honourable man."
"I do not think that Lydia will ever miss what she does not understand. Lydia and Wickham both place too much importance on the material. Neither of them understands that a man can lose everything, and still have his honour; that it is something that cannot be taken from a man, but that he can only give away."
"I've no fear that you will ever give away yours." She kissed his cheek.
"I should not like to give it away. Then I might no longer be the nicest husband in the world," he murmured in her ear. Catherine giggled, and he added, "Are you ready to go down to dinner?"
"As soon as I finish my hair."
Henry sat down and crossed his legs with great deliberation. "If I must wait for you to finish primping your hair, I shall waste away to nothing. So much for my vaunted honour! It cannot even buy me a timely dinner."
"You know that you like me to look nice, Henry."
With an effort, he managed not to laugh. "Indeed I do, my sweet."
"There! I am finished." She turned away from the mirror and held out her hand. Henry took it, tucked it into his elbow, and led her down to the dining-room, despite his pains and troubles thinking himself very much a fortunate man.
Chapter XXI
Lydia's impending nuptials were understandably the prime topic of conversation around the Longbourn dinner table. Mrs. Bennet's joy led her to chatter on about fine muslins, new carriages, and servants. It was bad enough that the Longbourn servants, undoubtedly in possession of the salient facts of Lydia's circumstances, heard her raptures; but viewing his father's darkened brow and the mortification of his two eldest sisters, Henry could only be relieved that none of the neighbours were present.
As the cheese and fruit were brought in, Mrs. Bennet made verbal inventory of the houses in the neighbourhood, finding none sufficiently grand for her dear Wickham and her dear, dear Lydia. "Haye-Park might do," said she, "if the Gouldings would quit it, or the great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but Ashworth is too far off! I could not bear to have her ten miles from me; and as for Purvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful."
In other circumstances, Henry would have found great humour in his stepmother's catalogue, remembering the indignity of the situation in which he had found Wickham and Lydia; however, that very memory, and the truth of the happy couple's situation, effectively destroyed any amusement he might have enjoyed.
Mr. Bennet allowed his wife to talk on without interruption while the servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her, "Mrs. Bennet, before you take any or all of these houses for your son and daughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into one house in this neighbourhood they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage the impudence of either by receiving them at Longbourn."
Mrs. Bennet stared at her husband in horror. "My dear, how can you be so cruel to your own daughter? And what will the neighbours say?"
"My cruelty, as you call it, is in proportion to her crime. If you fear the neighbours' tongues, I fail to see why you insist upon presenting them with the opportunity to speculate on how the presence of a daughter married in such disgraceful circumstances might act upon the susceptibilities of her unmarried sisters."
"Sir," Henry interjected respectfully, "while I salute your fatherly scruples, your sanction of the marriage is public. To allow the Wickhams to visit Longbourn will lend the marriage countenance, which can only reflect well upon my sisters' reputations."
Mr. Bennet raised an eyebrow. "After what has passed between you and Wickham, Henry, I cannot imagine that you look forward to welcoming him to Longbourn."
"No, Father, I do not; but I will for my sisters' sake--Lydia's as well as the others."
Mr. Bennet looked shrewdly at Catherine, who said nothing, but stared at her plate and worried a grape into shreds. "I see that your notion of Christian charity is more advanced than mine, son. However, my decision is final."
"I do not understand you, Mr. Bennet," cried his wife. "Everyone knows that you have given permission for the marriage, and it will look very strange if you do not allow the Wickhams to visit! When you have given poor Lydia money for her wedding-clothes, everything done in the proper way--"
"Wedding-clothes?" Mr. Bennet interrupted. "I do not recall advancing any money for Lydia to buy wedding-clothes."
"You have not yet done so, but naturally you shall--which reminds me, my dear, how much shall you send? I will write to my sister Gardiner directly to tell her where to buy--"
Mr. Bennet interrupted once more. "You need not trouble yourself, madam. I have no intention of advancing Lydia a guinea for wedding-clothes. She shall receive from me no mark of affection whatever on the occasion."
Mrs. Bennet's astonishment rendered her nearly speechless. "No--no wedding clothes?" she faltered, more alive to the disgrace which the want of new clothes must reflect on her daughter's nuptials than to any sense of shame at her eloping and living with Wickham a fortnight before they took place.
Though his aspect remained outwardly sanguine, it soon became clear that Mr. Bennet's anger toward his youngest daughter was much advanced, and that he would remain firm in his pronouncements. Thus, Mrs. Bennet rose from the table rather hastily and said, "Come, girls, let us leave the gentlemen to their port." As she passed Henry's chair, she pressed a hand on his shoulder and whispered in his ear, "Talk to your papa, Henry, there's a good boy," and sailed out of the room.
When the ladies were gone, Mr. Bennet cast an ironic glance at Henry. "Save your arguments. You've no hope of changing my mind--certainly not while your bruises are still fresh."
"Then I must hope that time not only will cause the bruises to fade, but your anger as well. I do not like the connection that Lydia's imprudence has forced upon her, but I must accept it for her sake, and my sisters'. I beg you to do the same, sir."
"I fear that my loyalties are not so easily adjusted. Will you take some of the old port, Henry?"
Henry's bruises began to fade almost immediately, though neither Mr. Bennet nor Catherine felt more reconciled to them. The pain in his side faded as well; on the third day after his return, he awakened, sat up in bed, and stretched his arms over his head with the satisfied groan of a man who has slept deeply and well. He noticed Catherine, lying back on the pillow, watching him with a strange expression.
"What is it, my sweet? Has my nightshirt a rent? How mortifying. I shall turn off my valet directly." He pretended to check under the arms of the innocent garment.
Catherine giggled. "You look like you used to," she said.
"I find it impossible to determine if that is a compliment; however, I shall accept it as such, and pray forgive me if I err on the side of vanity. I feel a new man today, Cat! Positively middle-aged, rather than the decrepit elderly fellow who has been inhabiting my body of late. Could you stand a kiss from the broken-down creature you married?"
Catherine, her eyes sparkling, indicated that she could stand it very well; and Henry promptly obliged her.
With such pleasant distractions, it is not to be wondered at that the Tilneys should be later than usual descending to breakfast. Jane, Elizabeth and Mr. Bennet were already in the breakfast-room, and it was obvious from their expressions that something of great import had occurred.
Mr. Bennet did not keep them in suspense. "A letter arrived in the morning post from Mr. Gardiner," he said, handing the letter to Henry.
Gracechurch-street
Thursday, August --My dear Brother,
The arrangements for my niece's marriage have been completed, though unfortunately not with the ease and dispatch that I had expected. When the solicitor and I called upon Mr. Wickham with the agreement ready for his signature, he stated that he would not be held to the terms you authorized, and insisted that only a large monetary settlement, under his complete control, would persuade him to marry Lydia.
Henry, momentarily forgetting the presence of his wife and sisters, swore a most unclerical oath.
"Indeed," said his father dryly.
Haggerston and I withdrew, and I took the liberty of not sending a message to Longbourn, trusting that it was a temporary misunderstanding as a consequence of Mr. Wickham's concussion. My prudence was rewarded, for today I received a communication that Mr. Wickham was willing to go forward with the marriage with only a slight emendation of the particulars. 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 everything, I had no hesitation in complying with, as far as I thought myself privileged, for you. 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 or Henry's 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.Your's, &c.
EDW. GARDINER.
Henry handed the letter to Catherine and said, "I suspected that this would not be settled so easily."
"The terms, I suppose, must be complied with," said Elizabeth.
"Complied with!" exclaimed Mr. Bennet. "I am only ashamed of his asking so little. 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." Henry stared at his father in surprise, but said nothing.
"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. The original arrangement would have been more lucrative--an establishment, and a larger annuity."
"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 her father, "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?"
Henry remained silent throughout this discussion, his jaw clenched; he paced the room restlessly.
"Well," said Mr. Bennet, "if you will all run along to your breakfast, I will write to my brother and give him leave to go forward." He went to his library.
"Go on into the dining parlour," Henry said to the ladies. "I shall join you presently."
The girls looked at each other, and Elizabeth and Jane left the room, but Catherine stayed behind. She watched Henry pace for a few moments, and then ventured, "Is it so bad? You shall contrive a way to repay Mr. Gardiner, to be sure."
"It is not Mr. Gardiner whom I must repay." The words burst out of Henry.
"What do you mean? Do not you agree with Mr. Bennet that Wickham was paid what he demanded?"
"I believe it; but I do not think that Mr. Gardiner paid it. I believe it was Darcy."
"Mr. Darcy!" cried Catherine, very much surprised. "How came he to be involved? Is he not in Derbyshire?"
"Perhaps he is now; but a week ago, nay, but a few days ago, he was in town." Henry went to Catherine and took her hands in his. "I know I can trust you with a confidence, Cat; therefore, I must ask you to keep this information to yourself. The Bennets must not be told."
"I shall not tell; but now that you have raised my curiosity, please satisfy it!"
"Of course. I confess that it is a relief for me to speak of it. Darcy knew of an acquaintance of Wickham's who was living in town, and without my knowledge, he contacted the individual and bribed her to obtain intelligence about Wickham's whereabouts. When we called on Wickham, he made it clear that he would not voluntarily marry Lydia, and Darcy suggested that I challenge Wickham to a boxing match, rather than a traditional duel. Darcy arranged it all, stood by me, pulled from the floor when Wickham knocked me down--Catherine, I tell you, if it were not for Darcy's assistance, Lydia would still be lost to us."
"And after all that," she cried, "Wickham refused to honour his word!"
"I suspected he might, and expressed my fear to Darcy. He assured me that he would see to it. And so he has."
"Mr. Darcy is a great friend."
Henry smiled wryly. "Yes, but he tells me that he acted out of his affection for Lizzy, though knowing Darcy as I do, I dare say that there is a different sort of weight upon his conscience as well."
He would not betray Georgiana, even to Catherine; but her face showed perfect comprehension. "Do you mean the incident at Ramsgate?"
Henry looked his surprise. "Do you know about that?"
"Georgiana wrote to me and told me all about it when she heard about Lydia. Poor girl, she is very ashamed of her behaviour, and wishes that her brother had warned Lydia away, even if it was at the expense of her own reputation."
Henry smiled. "Georgiana is a sweet girl, and means well, as does her brother. Well, I shall endeavour to repay him, somehow."
"You may take some of my money, if it will help," Catherine offered virtuously, with only the slightest pang at the notion of having no new bonnets or gowns for many years.
"Nay, my sweet, your pin-money is safe. We shall contrive without it."
"Perhaps," said Catherine hopefully, "if Mr. Darcy marries Lizzy, he will not expect repayment."
"I dare say that he does not expect repayment, whether or not he marries Lizzy, but it must be so."
Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother.
Your gratitude was kindly expressed, though unnecessary. I am always glad to do whatever is in my power to promote the welfare of any of my family, and indeed my activity in this case has been negligible. I beg you to never mention it again. I do not write this letter to place a claim upon your gratitude, but to tell you that Wickham has resolved on quitting the militia. It was greatly my wish that he should do so as soon as his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me in considering a removal from that corps as highly advisable, both on his account and my niece's. It is Mr. Wickham's intention to go into the regulars; and, among his former friends, there are still some who are able and willing to assist him in the army. He has the promise of an ensigncy in General ----'s regiment, now quartered in the North. It is an advantage to have it so far from this part of the kingdom. He promises fairly; and, I hope, among different people, where they may each have a character to preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have written to Colonel Forster, to inform him of our present arrangements, and to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr. Wickham in and near Brighton with assurances of speedy payment, for which I have pledged myself. And will you give yourself the trouble of carrying similar assurances to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin a list, according to his information. He has given in all his debts; I hope at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions, and all will be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment, unless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from Mrs. Gardiner that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all, before she leaves the South. She is well, and begs to be dutifully remembered to you and her mother.
Henry admired the neatness of Darcy's arrangements, although he could not speak of them. Instead he said to his father, "I should have thought to purchase Wickham a commission in the regulars. He could not return to the militia regiment, of course, and this will at least provide them with an income. No wonder he was willing to take less in the settlement."
"I presume that the purchase of the commission was part of the settlement demands. My good brother Gardiner would not say so, of course. That is another debt that I owe him."
"I do not question Mr. Gardiner's generosity, sir, but there is no indication that Wickham was paid anything beyond the amount of his debts, the commission, and Lydia's settlement--which was wisely placed out of Wickham's control."
"I have often wished that, instead of spending my whole income, I had laid by an annual sum for the better provision of my children, and of my wife, if she should survive me. I now wish it more than ever. Had I done my duty in that respect, Lydia need not be indebted to her uncle for whatever of honour or credit can now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of prevailing on one of the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be her husband might have rested in its proper place." Mr. Bennet sighed and pushed aside the folio he had been aimlessly perusing. "I am seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage to anyone should be forwarded at the sole expense of my brother-in-law, and I am determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his assistance, and to discharge the obligation as soon as I can."
Henry had regrets of his own. Convinced as he was that their obligation was to Darcy, and not Mr. Gardiner, he wished to turn his father's mind from a useless concern. "I feel most strongly that Mr. Gardiner will not demand immediate repayment." Hopefully, Darcy will be successful in his suit, and all will be revealed. And the obligation of repayment will become mine. "Did you answer Mr. Gardiner's letter?"
"I did. I sent my approbation of all that was done, and my willingness to fulfill the engagements that had been made for me, and once again expressed my gratitude. I did not suppose that, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry Lydia, it could be done with so little inconvenience to myself as by the present arrangement. I shall scarcely be ten pounds a year the loser, by the hundred that they will receive; for, what with her board and pocket allowance, and the continual presents in money which pass to her through her mother's hands, Lydia's expenses have been very little within that sum. Everything is arranged, and with such trifling exertion on my side. 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished." Tolerably cheered by his reflections, he returned his attention to the folio, donning his spectacles and turning over a leaf with a sigh of satisfaction.
Mrs. Bennet's feelings on the occasion were rather different. "The North!" she cried fretfully when Jane had read the letter to her. "How provoking! Lydia is so fond of Mrs. Forster, it will be quite shocking to send her away! And there are several of the young men, too, that she likes very much. The officers may not be so pleasant in General ----'s regiment. But now, Mr. Bennet, you must allow poor Lydia to come to Longbourn. She will be going away, and who knows when we may see her again?"
Mr. Bennet was still very angry with Lydia, and at first, Mrs. Bennet's pleas received an absolute negative from her husband; but Henry's dependence upon time softening his father's resolution was rewarded. Faced with the rational and mild persuasion of his son and two eldest daughters, Mr. Bennet was prevailed upon to think as they thought, and act as they wished. Lydia and her new husband were to come to Longbourn on the very day of their wedding.
When Catherine heard the news, she said nothing, and gave her sewing a great deal more attention than usual. They had been married long enough for Henry to sense her moods with a high degree of accuracy; thus, the next time they were alone together, he asked for her opinion on the newlyweds' impending visit.
"Must we be here, Henry?" Catherine's eyes were large and imploring. "I cannot meet Wickham with any degree of comfort; not after what he has done to you. He is a dishonourable man."
"Yes, he is, but he will be married to my sister. If we were known to leave Longbourn before they arrive, after what has passed between Wickham and me, it will only occasion unkind gossip. We must stay here, and lend them what countenance we can."
"I am sure I do not know why you must always be the one to make sacrifices, Henry."
"Alas, Cat, that is the unfortunate responsibility of the firstborn. You should have married a younger son."
Catherine stared at Henry in stunned indignation for a moment; then she noticed the twinkle in his eye, and finally relaxed so much as to allow herself to smile.
Lydia's wedding-day arrived, and the emotions of the Longbourn party were understandably mixed. Mrs. Bennet was the picture of delight, knowing that she might show her married daughter off to the neighbours before Wickham carried her off to the North. Jane and Elizabeth felt for Lydia probably more than she felt for herself; Jane especially ascribed to her the very proper feelings which she would have felt had she found herself in similar circumstances, and was quite wretched on her sister's behalf.
Catherine would normally have felt much the same as Jane, but she found her natural sympathy overcome by feelings of resentment toward Wickham, and by extension Lydia. For Henry's part, he did not look forward to the visit, but was determined to show a good face to the world.
The carriage was sent to meet the newlyweds at -----, and they were to return in it by dinnertime. The family was assembled in the breakfast-room to receive them. Lydia's voice was heard in the vestibule, and in another moment she was being embraced by her mother.
Her husband was just behind her, smiling beatifically, without an ounce of embarrassment or consciousness. He greeted Mr. Bennet with an affability that was not returned; rather, Mr. Bennet's face grew more austere at the young couple's easy assurance. Not at all put out by his father-in-law's coldness, Wickham approached Henry with his hand out and a wide smile on his face. "No hard feelings, brother Henry," he said. "On this happy day, let us put the past behind us, and start fresh."
To spurn the handshake would have been churlish, but Henry had no intention of encouraging Wickham's pretensions. He shook his brother-in-law's hand and nodded silently.
Lydia was Lydia still, untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. Elizabeth's expression showed that she was disgusted with her sister's brash behaviour; even Jane seemed shocked. Catherine's expression was neutral, though to Henry's knowing eye a trifle masklike.
Lydia noticed Catherine. "You must be Cathy! La, you are prettier than I thought you would be. Do you like my ring?" She waved her hand under the older girl's nose. "Let me see yours. Lord, but Henry bought you a very fine ring! Well, he is the eldest. I dare say he has the right. You have not met my husband, have you? My love," she called imperiously to Wickham, "come here so that I may present you to Cathy."
Wickham good-naturedly responded to Lydia's command, stepping forward, smiling warmly and reaching out both his hands. "My dear Cathy, I am delighted to make your acquaintance at last!"
He would have taken Catherine's hands, but she deliberately clasped them behind her back and dropped the tiniest of curtseys. Henry had never seen Catherine's changeable eyes such a stormy shade of grey.
Wickham was no more put out by Catherine's repulsion than he had been by Mr. Bennet's or Henry's. He made a graceful bow and went to sit by Elizabeth, who did not appear happy to see or talk to him, but hid her resentment rather better than did Catherine.
Lydia and Mrs. Bennet carried the conversation. There were certain subjects to which Mrs. Wickham's sisters would not have alluded to for the world, but Lydia herself felt no embarrassment. "Oh, Mamma, do the people hereabouts know I am married today? I was afraid they might not; and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was determined he should know it, and so I let down the side-glass next to him, and took off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like anything."
Elizabeth rose, and ran out of the room. Jane looked as though she wished for the courage to follow her; but it was not long till they passed into the dining-parlour, and Elizabeth rejoined the party.
Instead of taking her customary chair, Lydia walked up to her mother's right hand--the place reserved for her eldest sister. "Jane, I take your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a married woman." She turned to Catherine and held out her hand. "Come, Cathy," she commanded. "Sit across from me, in Lizzy's place; the ummarried girls must give way to us."
Catherine was too astonished to speak for a long moment. When she found her tongue, she said, "I am a guest at Longbourn, Mrs. Wickham. I would never expect to receive precedence over Henry's sisters."
Lydia stared at her a moment, then burst out laughing. "La! You are an odd creature!" she cried, and to Catherine's relief, did not press the point any further, but sat down and chattered with her mother. Catherine stared at her plate, fearing that she had said too much, or the wrong thing; but the reassuring pressure of Henry's hand on hers beneath the table, and a look from Mr. Bennet that had something like approval writ in it, made her a great deal more comfortable.
Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join his regiment at the end of a fortnight. No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so short, and she made the most of the time by visiting about with her daughter. Catherine was always relieved when Mrs. Wickham was not about, as Lydia seemed to feel that their status as married women was sufficient to support intimacy, and Catherine still carried some resentment over the injuries Henry had suffered at Wickham's hands. Wickham, for his part, wisely avoided Catherine, though he was always perfectly cordial to her, but Lydia persisted in making a sort of pet of her sister-in-law. Catherine knew not which was worse: Lydia's seeming ignorance of the disgrace and trouble her behaviour had brought upon her family, or her patronizing attempts at sisterhood.
One morning, soon after their arrival, Lydia came into the room where Catherine and the two eldest Miss Bennets were quietly working. She picked up one of Kitty's bonnets and began to idly pull off the trimming. Unable to bear a silence for very long, after a few minutes she said to Elizabeth, "Lizzy, I never gave you an account of my wedding, I believe. You were not by, when I told mamma and the others all about it. Are not you curious to hear how it was managed?"
"I think there cannot be too little said on the subject," replied Elizabeth tartly.
"La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were married, you know, at St. Clement's, because Wickham's lodgings were in that parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven o'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others were to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss! I was so afraid, you know, that something would happen to put it off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And there was my aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to know whether he would be married in his blue coat."
"Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you'll believe me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a fortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or anything. To be sure London was rather thin, but, however, the Little Theatre was open. Well, and so just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon business to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we were beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he came back again in ten minutes' time, and then we all set out. However, I recollected afterwards that if he had been prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well."
"Mr. Darcy!" repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.
"Oh, yes! He was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!"
Catherine stared at Lydia indignantly, wondering if she should warn Lydia not to give away Mr. Darcy's secret, which he especially wished to keep from Elizabeth. How could Lydia be so careless?
Fortunately, Jane's nice sense of honour saved the day. "If it was to be secret," she said to Lydia, "say not another word on the subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further."
"Oh, certainly," said Elizabeth, to Catherine's relief. "We will ask you no questions."
"Thank you," said Lydia, "for if you did, I should certainly tell you all, and then Wickham would be angry."
Elizabeth hastily excused herself, bundled up her sewing, and fled the room. Soon after, Jane was called away by the housekeeper, and Catherine and Lydia were left alone.
After a moment, Catherine ventured to say, "Jane will not ask you, but if Lizzy should, do not tell her about Mr. Darcy's part in the arrangement of your marriage. Henry told me most particularly that Mr. Darcy does not wish her to know about it."
"And why, pray, should I care what Mr. Darcy wants?" asked Lydia with a toss of her head. "Henry told you. I fail to see why I should be expected to keep Mr. Darcy's secrets if his friends cannot."
Catherine blushed, regretting that she had brought up the subject at all. "Well then, remember that it shall anger your husband."
"Oh, Wickham will not stay angry for long; he never does. I am not married to an insufferable prig like my brother."
The breaking point was reached at last. "I would rather be married to an insufferable prig, if Henry is such," cried Catherine, "than to a man who ruined me, and whose honour could not be prevailed upon to make it right, but had to be beaten and bribed into it!" She was instantly ashamed, and dropped her sewing and ran from the room in tears, leaving Lydia to stare wonderingly behind her, and after a moment return to pulling apart Kitty's bonnet.
Mr. Bennet was to have gone shooting with Henry, Wickham, and some of the neighbouring gentlemen, but when the morning proved cold and rainy, he decided to stay in his library. The new brothers-in-law accordingly set out, and in the crowd, Henry was able to decently avoid Wickham's company, but he could not help overhearing Wickham's conversation with one of the young Lucases.
"Are you finding married life agreeable?" the young man asked Wickham with all the air of a practiced courtier, which Henry found alternately amusing and annoying from a wet-behind-the-ears pup who was cooling his heels at Lucas Lodge until the beginning of Michaelmas term.
"Very much so," said Wickham, with a glance in Henry's direction. Henry looked off into the distance, his hand shading his eyes, as though he could not hear, or was not listening, and was intent on sighting his quarry. "You will find out for yourself one day, I dare say."
"Not I," declared young Mr. Lucas. "I'm no marrying man. Let a woman rule the roost? Not I, faith!"
Wickham was apparently satisfied that his brother-in-law was not attending to the conversation, and took the opportunity to ingratiate himself with the younger man; not a difficult task, as Mr. Lucas was ready to be impressed. "You will find, Lucas, that there are ways to allow your lady to think that she is in charge, while still retaining the freedom of your bachelor days. It is not difficult; attend to her words when you are together, say 'yes, my love,' and 'no, my love,' when the occasion requires it, and she will be happy, and you may go your merry way. One must show subjection to one's wife before the world; but if a man is discreet, he may find his pleasures elsewhere, if you understand my meaning."
Mr. Lucas, who had hung onto every word, was clearly transfigured by this wisdom. He laughed loudly and cried, "I say, Wickham, that is capital! You are a deep one!" His unguarded shout caused several birds to rise from a nearby patch of brush, to the disgust of his fellows, who were not prepared to raise and sight their guns. The dogs ran off after the birds, barking aimlessly, and young Lucas lapsed into embarrassed silence.
The day was soon too far advanced for much sport, and the gentlemen trooped back to their respective houses. Henry allowed himself to drop well back of the attendants, and called Wickham to his side. "You have an admirable program for managing Lydia. You seem to be enjoying great success thus far, for you are still her dearest Wickham in every conversation."
Wickham glanced at Henry apprehensively. "That was just talk, you know, Tilney, between men."
"Then I cannot help but wonder why you conducted such a discussion with young Lucas, who is still a boy. Nonetheless, the philosophy you imparted to him was fascinating, and he probably attended it more closely than he attends his tutors at school. My philosophy, however, is rather different. You see, I liken marriage to dancing. Once a gentleman chooses his partner, he does not throw her aside for the first pretty face that passes, does he?"
Wickham said nothing, but watched Henry warily.
"No," Henry continued, "he does not. Fidelity and complaisance are the principal duties of both the husband and the dancing partner. A man has no business with any woman other than his partner--or his wife. I am always distressed to hear of a lady ill-treated at a ball. You may consider my notions quaint, but I have delivered severe dressings-down even to my friends when they fall short of my ideals in the ballroom." Henry's voice dropped lower, taking on a menacing tone, though his expression remained entirely good-natured. "Now, should I hear the least breath of domestic unhappiness from my sister, I could not vouch for my temper."
"You wanted this marriage," said Wickham carelessly. "You've no right to tell me how to conduct my affairs."
"Perhaps not. However, you will remember that I have a large military acquaintance. If word should reach me that Lydia has experienced conjugal disappointment, I fear that I would be moved to write to my acquaintances. I know your type of soldier, Wickham; you like to parade about in your scarlet coat, go to balls and dinners, without the least notion of engaging in battle. I put you on warning now: a few well-chosen words from me in the proper channels, and you shall find yourself at the front lines, facing French soldiers drunk on revolutionary fervour, liberté, égalité, et fraternité running hot in their veins. They will see Ensign Wickham, imperialism incarnate in his scarlet coat, come to snatch the bread from their mouths and return them to feudal servitude. They shall fix bayonets--so!" Henry lunged suddenly with his gun. Wickham let out a startled yelp, backing away from Henry in panic, his eyes wide with fear.
Henry's face remained grave, but internally he was very much amused. It appears that I have not lost my talent for storytelling, after all! "Oh, buck up, Wickham," he said genially. "I know better than to expect you to live like a monk. A healthy sense of discretion will be sufficient to guarantee you a comfortable billet far from Bonaparte."
Wickham swallowed convulsively. He seemed unable to meet Henry's eyes. "You will forgive me, I am sure. I still suffer from the headache occasionally; a lingering effect of the concussion."
Wickham's weak attempt to discompose his brother-in-law failed utterly. "That is unfortunate," agreed Henry. He held out his hand, his dark eyes dancing with mischief. "No hard feelings, eh, brother George?" There was nothing else for Wickham to do but shake Henry's hand, and beat a rapid retreat into the house.
Henry followed, more slowly, and once inside found a letter had arrived for him in the morning post. Recognizing the hand, he smiled, broke the wafer, and quickly read it through, then took the steps two at a time to the bedchamber he shared with Catherine. She was there, bathing her eyes in cool water. "I thought Mrs. Bennet was out visiting," said Henry, recognizing the signs that something had occurred in his absence to upset his wife.
"She is." Catherine dabbed at her face with her handkerchief. "I had a row with Lydia. I am very sorry, Henry."
"Do not apologize to me, Cat. You have had a deal to bear in that quarter, poor girl." He held out his arms, and she went to them willingly.
"Can we go home, Henry? Please?" Catherine sniffled into his lapel. "Home to Woodston? We have been married nearly three months, and I have yet to pass a night there!"
"As attractive a prospect as that may be, my sweet, I have another to present." He showed her the letter. "This is from Bingley, and tells me that he and Darcy will be coming to Netherfield--alone--only a few days after the Wickhams depart for the north."
Catherine looked up at him, her eyes wide. "Do you mean--they are coming to court Jane and Lizzy?" She took the letter from him and read it eagerly.
"Bingley does not say so, but I can think of no other reason. The lease on Netherfield is not binding, and there is plenty of sport to be had at Pemberley, if sport is all that they seek. I should like to be here when they arrive; imagine the fun, Catherine, of watching Bingley and Darcy cast themselves abjectly at the feet of my sisters!"
"It will be delightful! Indeed, let us stay! But Henry," she added, looking up from the letter, "we must take care not to let our partiality influence Jane and Lizzy. They must make up their own minds."
"What a romantic you are," said Henry with a fond smile. "Would you grudge my sisters extremely eligible matches for something so trifling as a want of affection?"
Not realizing that she was being teased, Catherine considered the question seriously. "Yes," she said gravely, "I believe that I would."
Henry found himself obliged to demonstrate that there was no want of affection in their own marriage; and, judging by Catherine's response, flattered himself that he did so tolerably well.