"Miss Bennet, I can only describe the blackness of Mr. Wickham’s character by laying before you the whole of his connection with my family. I fear that you may be astounded or shocked at some points in my speech; unless you cannot, I’d rather answer your questions – if you have any - once you’ve heard all of it." She looked up at him and nodded her agreement; he leaned on the other side of the mantel of the chimneypiece, stared absentmindedly at the clock, and went on.
"As you undoubtedly know, Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley estates; and whose good conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to him; and on Wickham, who was his god-son, his kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and afterwards at Cambridge - most important assistance, as his own father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to give him a gentleman's education. My father was not only fond of Wickham's society, whose manners were always engaging; he had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be his profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities—the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which my father could not have. Here I fear I shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it to me to promote his advancement in the best manner that his profession might allow, and, if he took orders, desired that a valuable family living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these events Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment by which he could not be benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished than believed him to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town, I believe, he chiefly lived, but his studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in question—of which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every appearance of acquaintance was dropt. How he lived I know not."
Elizabeth had maintained her composure on hearing those words. Her quick mind had put side by side the version she had heard in her aunt’s drawing-room all those months ago – after having barely met Mr. Wickham – and what Mr. Darcy was telling her now. She felt like when she was looking at Kitty’s shadowed face drawings and comparing them with the original; how could the same event be painted in so distinct colours? She refocused her attention on him as, after a lengthy pause, he carried on in a strained voice.
"But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I am about to mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself, and which no obligation less than the pain I’ve seen repeatedly in your eyes should induce me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your secrecy. Georgiana, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by her connivance and aid he so far recommended himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and to consent to an elopement."
Elizabeth couldn’t repress a horrified, "Oh!" Mr. Darcy went on, painfully reliving the memory, oblivious of her interruption, "She was then but fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her imprudence, I am happy to add that I owed the knowledge of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the intended elopement; and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed."
At last he looked back at her, "This, Miss Bennet, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as false, you will, I hope, agree that Mr. Wickham deserves neither admiration nor pity. Of course, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity to testify of the truth of what I’ve just told you."
He fixed her in his gaze and held her fast. He had noticed her absence of reaction at his last words; no ’Surely there’s no need’ to attest that, indeed, she did believe him. He saw in her eyes the remnants of the dismay she had felt at hearing the elopement part; he saw in her eyes flickering doubts; he saw in her eyes an incomprehensible pain. He felt helpless; how could he make her believe him? Was she so infatuated with Wickham that she couldn’t see the truth in his sincere words? He loathed his past behaviour; had he been less withdrawn, less proud, less … disdainful, Wickham would have had no fertile soil to sow his lies. He loathed his loathing – it was useless now, it only made him look backwards when he should be planning his next move. He remained confident that she had to know everything he had told her; yet, maybe it had been too long, too complex, maybe he should have written her instead. "Miss Bennet," he startled her, "I’m sorry if I overwhelmed you; yet I think you had the right to know my version of Mr. Wickham’s and my past dealings."
She wet her lips with her tongue. "I … I think I thank you, Sir… I’m… I’m sorry… I feel indeed quite overwhelmed by all you’ve told me…" She looked back into the hearth and paused, obviously trying to gather her thoughts; at last, she raised her gaze back to him. She tried to speak but had to swallow once to make her throat expel her plea, "Mr. Darcy, I don’t feel very well; would you mind leaving me alone?"
He sighed deeply and closed his eyes. He hadn’t meant to make her suffer – and, from the paleness of her face, he could tell he had. He realised he had foolishly thought she would immediately acknowlege how blind she had been; even more foolishly, he had half-expected her to fall into his arms, begging for his forgiveness and declaring her love for him… He almost chuckled at his own stupidity; she would probably outwardly laugh, if he were to tell her… She shifted in her chair and the scraping of the fabric drew him back to the present. He opened his eyes and bowing, asked her if she needed anything. She thanked him, replied that she only needed some time alone and, on hearing the door close, she sank back in her chair.
Elizabeth closed briefly her eyes, struggling against the headache that was threatening her. She could still hear his words, they came randomly, some more insistently than others, some more shocking than others. Mr. Darcy had made accusations of the strongest nature. When she replayed the relation of events, which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of Mr. Wickham’s worth, and, as she had previously acknowledged, which bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself, her feelings were acutely painful and difficult of definition. Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming to the empty room, "This must be false! This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!"
In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing else, she thought about going back to the drawing-room; but it would not do; she wouldn’t know how to behave with Mr. Darcy. She stared at the place he had been standing and relived – once again – the dreadful moments when she had listened to his speech. The account of Mr. Wickham’s connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own words. So far each recital confirmed the other; but when she came to the will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living was fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the other; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did not err. But the particulars immediately following of Wickham's resigning all pretensions to the living, of his receiving, in lieu, so considerable a sum as three thousand pounds, forced her to hesitate. On both sides it was only assertion. But every word proved more clearly that the affair, which she had believed it impossible that any contrivance could so represent as to render Mr. Darcy's conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole.
The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay to Mr. Wickham's charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his entrance into the Militia, in which he had engaged at the persuasion of the young man, who, on meeting him accidentally in town, had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life, nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As to his real character, had information been in her power, she had never felt a wish of enquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those casual errors, under which she would endeavour to class what Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many years continuance. But no such recollection befriended her. She could see him instantly before her, in every charm of air and address; but she could remember no more substantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and the regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After pausing on this point a considerable while, she once more continued her recollection.
She perfectly remembered every thing that had passed in conversation between Wickham and herself in their first evening at Mr. Philips's. Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was now struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear of seeing Mr. Darcy—that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that he should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball the very next week. She remembered also, that till the Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but herself; but that after their removal, it had been every where discussed; that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy's character, though he had assured her that respect for the father would always prevent his exposing the son.
How differently did every thing now appear in which he was concerned! His attentions to Miss King were now confirmed as the consequence of views solely and hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer the moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at any thing. His behaviour to herself was even more odious; he had either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most incautiously shewn. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not but allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago asserted his blamelessness in the affair; that, proud and repulsive as used to be his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their acquaintance — an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much together, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways — seen any thing that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust — any thing that spoke him of irreligious or immoral habits. That among his own connections he was esteemed and valued — that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a brother, that his sister had been almost laughingly praising him, and that she had lately heard him speak so warmly of Mr. Bingley and Jane, so affectionately of his sister, and – she admitted with a blush – even to herself, as to prove him capable of some amiable feeling. That had his actions been what Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of everything right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and that friendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man as Mr. Bingley, was incomprehensible.
The sound of the door opening startled her, but she released a relieved sigh on beholding her father. His first words and his soothing tone surprised her nonetheless.
"Lizzy, you’re still here. Mr. Darcy told me I may be able to find you in my library when I was – not so discreetly it seems – looking for you. He also told me you would be upset, are you?"
Her silence seemed corroboration enough and he felt anger and fear coming over him. Unable to hide it, he urgently asked her to tell him what had happened, what Mr. Darcy had done to her, how he had managed to upset her so. These words, at last, stirred her out of her daze. She assured him that he had done nothing but tell her his version of his past dealing with Mr. Wickham.
"But pray, Lizzy, tell me how it was enough to upset you so. What dreadful events could he have to relate to you? Has Mr. Darcy shown his malicious nature and confirmed he had behaved in so cruel a way as poor Wickham has told us?" he asked, trying to put lightness in his tone but partly failing.
Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of Mr. Darcy’s behaviour to her former favourite; and therefore gave him to understand, in as guarded a manner as she could, that by his account, his actions were capable of a very different construction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor Wickham's so amiable, as they were considered in Hertfordshire.
"I’m astonished at the turn in your opinion. Have you not always hated the man? Has Wickham not always been your favourite? What makes you suddenly so certain of the goodness of a man who has only snubbed us?" her father asked – although he could not say that the gentleman’s behaviour, this night, had been in accordance with his past stern manners.
"You may have drawn correct conclusions from what you’ve been seeing, Papa; but have you thought about all that you have not? Indeed, Mr. Wickham used to have my high regard, but his conduct regarding Miss King has made me concerned. Indeed Mr. Darcy has snubbed some of us, but, more than once, I was myself apalled by the way my relatives behaved." She didn’t let him comment on this painful subject – since her dear father himself was one of them; instead, in confirmation of Wickham’s dubious past, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary transactions in which they had been connected, even though it was not the most appalling part. But every particular relative to Mr. Darcy’s sister was meant to be kept to herself, and she would not betray his confidence.
Mr. Bennet was surprised; he surmised that his daughter wasn’t telling him all because there were more delicate things to hide. Had his daughters been heiresses, he would have also been concerned. As it was, he resolved on keeping an eye on Wickham around his daughters – the two youngest especially, and he thought for a while about informing Miss King’s guardian. Yet, exerting himself to such an extent, when he had just set on being more of a father than he had been for more than ten years, was too tiring a thought; he, therefore, forgot entirely the idea.
"My dear Lizzy, I will make sure that your sisters are safe from him. Now, let’s go back to the drawing-room or your absence will be noticed."
When Mr. Bingley called alone the following morning, Elizabeth’s spirits, which had been dreadfully low since Mr. Darcy’s confession, sank even lower. The previous evening, after coming back with her father, she had stayed in the drawing-room as little as she could. The headache she had fought had won nonetheless and being in the same room as Mr. Darcy had felt awkward. She had grown absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham had she been able to think without feeling that she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd – even though she owed to Jane the satisfaction of having lately softened her views. This morning, she had awoken to the same thoughts and meditations which had at length closed her eyes, thoughts and meditations she had not been willing to share with her sister; the previous day had been Jane’s, spoiling it would have only increased her shame. She had, at least, resolved upon showing Mr. Darcy his painful effort had been rewarded, and that, at last, she had understood who had the goodness and who had the appearance of it.
After greeting his betrothed and her family, and upon Mrs. Bennet’s inquiry, Charles explained his solitude. "Indeed, Madam, you find me quite alone. My sisters were not yet up when I left but Darcy would have joined me, had he been able."
Elizabeth looked intently at him, "Oh, and he was not?"
Charles smiled regretfully at her, "No Miss Elizabeth. An express was waiting for him at Netherfield yesterday evening. The business matter that was supposed to be dealt with happens not to be, and, furthermore, to be more complicated and with more dreadful possible consequences than expected. He left for Pemberley at first light this morning. I can only hope he will be able to come back before the wedding but he was not very confident. He sent his regards," and leaning towards Lizzy, he finished, "and told me to wish you well. He seemed very unhappy and regretful at leaving Hertfordshire."
Jane saw her sister’s complexion turn a deadly white. While her mother was commenting on how sad the news was, her tone belying her words, she ushered Lizzy to her room and made her lie on her bed. It was several days before she managed to extricate the reasons of her sudden illness from her sister: how would she be able to live without seeing him for a month?
Sow Potatoes, See What you Shall Reap, Chapter 26 - R rated
Sow Potatoes, See What you Shall Reap, Chapter 26 - PG13