As Mrs. Gardiner wished to be home, it was settled she and her children should go to London at the same time Mr. Bennet came from it. Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and her Derbyshire friend that had attended her from that part of the world. His name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece; the half-expectation she had formed of their being followed by a letter from him had ended in nothing. Elizabeth had received none since her return that could come from Pemberley.
When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had his usual philosophic composure. He said as little as ever, made no mention of the business, and it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of it. Not till the afternoon, when he joined them at tea, did Elizabeth venture to introduce the subject, and then, on her briefly expressing her sorrow, he replied, “Say nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing, and I ought to feel it.”
“You must not be too severe upon yourself,” replied Elizabeth.
“You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone to fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression. It will pass away soon enough.”
“Do you suppose them to be in London?”
“Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?”
“And Lydia used to want to go to London,” added Kitty.
“She is happy, then,” said her father, drily; “and her residence there will probably be of some duration.”
Then, after a short silence, he continued, “Lizzy, I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your advice to me last May, which, considering the event, shows some greatness of mind.”
They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her mother’s tea.
“This is a parade,” cried he, “which does one good; it gives such an elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit in my library, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble as I can, or perhaps I may defer it till Kitty runs away.”
“I am not going to run away, papa,” said Kitty, fretfully. “If I should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia.”
“You go to Brighton! I would not trust you so near it as Eastbourne for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at least learnt to be cautious, and you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter my house again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be absolutely prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters. And you are never to stir out of doors till you can prove that you have spent ten minutes of every day in a rational manner.”
Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry.
“Well, well,” said he, “do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of them.”
CHAPTER XLIX.
Two days after Mr. Bennet returned from London, Jane and Elizabeth were walking in the shrubbery when Mrs. Hill brought news of an express. They ran to the library, then across the lawn to their father in the copse. Elizabeth, panting, cried, “Oh, papa, what news?”
Mr. Bennet drew out a letter with the driest possible air. It was from Mr. Gardiner, dated Gracechurch Street, August 2nd, who had at last found tidings of Lydia and Wickham. They were not married, nor intended to be, unless Mr. Bennet performed certain engagements: he must assure Lydia her equal share of the five thousand pounds among his children and allow her one hundred pounds per annum during his life. Wickham’s circumstances were not hopeless; some money would remain after his debts to settle on Lydia. Gardiner begged full powers by return of express.
Jane cried that they were married as she had always hoped. Elizabeth read the wedding would take place from Gracechurch Street and asked whether Wickham could really be induced. Mr. Bennet confessed he had not yet answered; Elizabeth urged haste. As they walked, she asked whether the terms must be complied with. Bennet replied with something almost like spirit that he was only ashamed Wickham had asked so little. Jane was bewildered—one hundred a year during his life and fifty after—was that sufficient? Elizabeth saw it at once: “His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh, it must be my uncle’s doings!” Bennet hoped it would not be thought ill of Wickham to take her with a farthing less than ten thousand pounds. “Heaven forbid!” cried Elizabeth.
In the breakfast-room Elizabeth burst out at the strangeness of their marrying at all. Jane flattered herself they would settle into rational lives; Elizabeth answered drily that it was useless to talk of it. Their mother knew nothing. They asked their father whether to tell her; he did not lift his head from his writing. “Just as you please.” Elizabeth took the letter upstairs. Mrs. Bennet’s joy burst forth in ecstasy: she thought only of wedding clothes, fine things to say to her sister Philips, ringing for Hill, going to Meryton herself, a bowl of punch. Jane persuaded her to wait till her father was consulted about the money. Elizabeth took refuge in her own room. Poor Lydia’s situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it was no worse, she had need to be thankful.
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