At the end of the game, Elizabeth stood and made her way to the settee pushed against the one wall. Maria Lucas—with batted eyelids—entreated Mr. Wickham to join the next game she was playing as there was an opening at the table. Much to Maria’s and the Long sisters’ disappointment, Mr. Wickham informed her that he did not intend to play any other card game that evening.
This allowed Mr. Wickham to seat himself near Miss Elizabeth. In order to see her better, he had turned slightly towards her and away from the space next to the settee on the end where he was seated. Bennet unobtrusively seated himself in the armchair placed in that space.
Wickham felt they could talk at leisure, and she seemed very willing to hear him. He knew he needed to tell her a version of the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy, one which would explain what she had seen the previous day.
Elizabeth had no need to raise the subject. It seemed the Lieutenant was more than willing to do so as he began the subject of his relationship with Mr. Darcy unprompted. “How far is Netherfield Park from Meryton?” he enquired. He had been informed the estate was where the prig was residing in the area.
“The estate is about two miles west of Meryton, Sir,” Elizabeth responded.
“H-how long has Mr. Darcy been staying there?” he queried hesitatingly.
“A few weeks,” said Elizabeth; and then added, “He is, I understand, a man of very large property in Derbyshire.”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Wickham, “his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself, for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy.”
Elizabeth feigned a look of surprise. ‘Let us see what you are willing to tell about this subject,’ she told herself silently while she looked past the officer. There sat her father giving her the confidence to maintain the charade of interest in what she was being told.
“Miss Bennet, you may well be surprised at such an assertion after seeing, as you probably did, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?”
“As much as I ever wish to be,” cried Elizabeth very warmly. “I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I thought him very disagreeable.” Her father nodded his approval. She was sure it was exactly what Mr. Wickham wanted to hear. She was proved correct as he launched into his version of the tale of his connection with Mr. Darcy.
“I have no right to givemyopinion,” said Wickham, “as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible formeto be impartial.”
“On his first arriving here he was not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Everybody was disgusted with his pride. You would not have found him favourably spoken of by anyone.” Elizabeth told the truth; it was how he was thought of then. She felt no need to mention her improved opinions of the man, or for that matter, those of the rest of the neighbourhood.
“I cannot pretend to be sorry,” said Wickham—either not hearing, or ignoring the past tense in the young lady’s statement, “that he or any man should not be esteemed beyond their desserts; but withhimI believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen.”
“I thought him at first meeting to be an ill-tempered man.”
Wickham only shook his head. “I wonder,” said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, “whether he is likely to be in this country much longer.”
“I do not know, but Iheardnothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield Park nor have I since. I hope your plans in favour of the Derbyshire Militia will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.”
“Oh no! It is not formeto be driven away by Mr. Darcy. Ifhewishes to avoid seeingme, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him. I have no reason for avoidinghimbut what I might proclaim before all the world, a sense of very great ill-usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had. I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour towards me has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father.”
Elizabeth found her interest of the subject increasing and listened carefully as was her father, unbeknownst to Mr. Wickham. She had no need to prompt the man further as he freely spoke now.
“It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,” he added, “which was my chief inducement to enter the Derbyshire Militia. I knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me further by his account of their present quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent acquaintances Meryton had procured them.
“Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits will not bear solitude. Imusthave employment and society. A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made it eligible. The churchoughtto have been my profession—I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now.”
“Indeed!” Elizabeth shook her head in put on sympathy. ‘If you took your orders, what are you doing in the militia?’
“Yes. The late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the living became available, it was given elsewhere.”
“Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth; “but how couldthatbe? How could his will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal redress?” Something did not ring true. Elizabeth saw the scepticism written on her father’s face as well.
Wickham had to think fast. He was not expecting to be questioned. “There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it—or to treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence—in short anything or nothing. Certain it is that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it. That it was given to another man is no less certain. I cannot accuse myself of having really done anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may have spoken my opinionofhim, andtohim, too freely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is we are very different sort of men, and that he hates me.”
‘Do you know nothing of the law. You said it was a bequest, which meant it had to be in late Mr. Darcy’s will. As soon as I suggested legal redress you blanched and then it became informal.’ For effect, aloud she said, “This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.”
“Some time or other hewillbe—but it shall not be byme. Til I can forget his father, I can never defy or exposehim.”
Elizabeth had to fight to school her features, as she saw her father doing. Did the man not realise he was doing the exact thing he claimed he would not do? What was his aim if not to blacken Mr. Darcy’s name; so much for caring for his late godfather.
“But what,” said she, after a pause, “can have been his motive? What can have occurred to induce him to behave so cruelly?” To herself she silently said, ‘Let us see what you weave to explain his motivations. This should be very brown.’
“A thorough, determined dislike of me—a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better, but his father’s uncommon attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood—the sort of preference which was often given me.”
