Lessons of Advantage Read online

  “I am loath to finish this letter, for I seem to be saying goodbye to you forever, though I hope that we shall have many days still to share together.

  “May God bless you!

  “Your loving father,

  “Henry Percival Darcy”

  Chapter Two

  Mr Darcy’s feelings, upon first reading this letter, had been of the most painful. To the ill opinion he had long entertained of Wickham, was now added disgust at their connection. He had gone immediately to the Long Gallery, to gaze indignantly upon the portrait of his grandfather, double-chinned, disdainful, and imposing. Darcy could not help fancying he saw a trick of Wickham in those superciliously arching eyebrows and the faint and weary smile. Hitherto, he had thought the portrait distinguished; now he saw only the blunted delicacy of a corrupt and vitiated mind. How little true elegance — how little elegance of mind — reposed beneath that powdered wig! But he could still take satisfaction in the honourable respectability of his father and mother. There they stood, above the mantle, Mr Henry Darcy and the Right Honourable Lady Anne Darcy, he in cocked hat with a gun under his arm, she sitting on a rustic bench. The double portrait had been taken in the chestnut avenue, with a prospect of the house in the distance, his parents’ favourite vista, and his own.

  It was some weeks after his father’s funeral that the housekeeper had come to say that Mr Wickham was arrived, and was requesting the privilege of an interview. As Wickham entered the library, Darcy thought he could detect an uneasy likeness with his ancestor, now so sunk in his estimation, in the discrepancy between an elegant exterior and a mind tainted and unfastidious. He motioned his visitor to a chair with cold civility, and seated himself at the desk; then feeling averse to so soon taking his father’s place, had risen and removed elsewhere.

  “How shocked he had been to hear the terrible news of Mr Darcy’s death,” were Wickham’s first words. And how sorry he had been not to be able to pay his respects sooner — it had been the dearest wish of his heart! But the press of business! It had proved impossible to leave town. Since then, the attorney had communicated the bequest which Mr Darcy — ever his truest friend — had made in his favour, and he had rushed to Derbyshire, overcome by a thousand tender recollections, eager to express his sense of obligation. “But it was no more than he had expected” — had then been added, with a significant smile. Mr Darcy had always promised to provide for him; had more than once mentioned the curacy at Kympton, the most valuable living in his gift. “I believe he really intended me to have it, when next it fell vacant.”

  Darcy perceived that they had come to the material point. “His father’s will made no specific arrangement about the living.” Wickham’s face fell, but quickly recovered as Darcy continued, “However, he touched upon the subject in a letter, which makes it clear that his wishes in regard to the Kympton curacy were meant as no more than a provisional recommendation. He wanted you to have the living — if you truly wished to be a clergyman. Can you say that you have a call to the profession?”

  “He thought it would suit him very well,” had been Wickham’s immediate response. He quite fancied the idea of preaching sermons.

  Darcy had regarded him coldly. “Before rashly committing himself to any course, Mr Wickham should understand that the preaching of sermons was the least of a clergyman’s obligations.” His chief duty was to be of service to his parish; to live among his parishioners, and prove himself by constant attention their well-wisher and friend. “As a clergyman, you must be a Christian in mode of life as well as in profession. You must be the advocate of the poor and the conscience of the rich, passing your time more in the cottages of your poorest parishioners, than in the homes of the wealthy. Can you say that these activities are truly to your taste?”

  “I see what you are saying, (with a rueful shake of the head). Perhaps my disposition is not best suited to a pastoral life.” Constant society, good society, was a necessity for him. To be always among distressed, unamusing people, might prove difficult to one, like himself, who required cheerfulness. In those circumstances, his resources might fail him. The law might suit him better — it was allowed to be genteel enough. Then, after a brief pause, — “There was one obstacle which might stand in his way: the interest on one thousand pounds would be but an insufficient support while he was in preparation. Was not it reasonable to expect some pecuniary advantage in lieu of the preferment?”

  “I agree with you, up to a point,” Darcy had said. He was prepared to offer the considerable sum of three thousand pounds in return for Wickham’s relinquishing all claim to the Kympton living. To this Wickham readily assented. But to the proposal that Mr Darcy’s man of business should purchase an annuity on his behalf, assuring him an independence and making future applications unnecessary, he would by no means accede. “He was excessively obliged,” had come the hasty reply, “But he should prefer to make his own arrangements.”

  Darcy doubted whether Wickham possessed the firmness to be sacrificing any momentary gratification to the interests of prudence; but he made no farther demur. The interview had ended with some extended civilities on Wickham’s part, and a restrained farewell on his own.

  Darcy had seen little of Wickham in the years that followed, and that little reserved to chance meetings in town. On these occasions, Darcy had seen little evidence that the study of law was persevering, and many indications of a level of prodigality which promised ill. Wickham was often to be seen at the theatre, dressed always with a degree of smartness which spoke more of expense than elegance. Rumours of gaming, and worse behaviour, reached Darcy’s ears — and in his shamed imagination, he had seemed to see in Wickham his grandfather come back to life.

  One morning, some three or four years after this period, Darcy was sitting in the drawing room of his London house when Wickham was announced. He was in the room immediately. “Your servant, sir,” he said, removing his hat with a flourish. “I venture to hope that all is well at Pemberley. Your sister — her health continues good? And your own?” Then followed, in sorrowful tone, “He had been shocked to hear of the recent death of Dr Stanley, the rector of Kympton. Knowing Mr Darcy to be in town, he felt he had to come, and condole on the loss. Such a worthy man.” Darcy merely nodding, Wickham had gone on, after a brief pause, with every appearance of ease. “It was on the subject of Kympton that I wished to speak with you. I thought it best to inform you without waste of time that I am now prepared to take orders, and accept the living Mr Darcy left me. I can assume my duties whenever it shall be convenient.”

  This effrontery elicited only momentary surprise in Darcy. “I fail to understand you, Sir,” he had replied coldly. “To what are you referring?”

  It had then been Wickham’s turn to look — or feign — surprise Why, to his becoming rector of Kympton — “just as your respected father wished.”

  “And what of your intention to be called to the bar?”

  Oh, (with a smile,) the law was such dreary work. Precedents and documents, common law and canon, the Court of Pleas, the Court of Appeal, vellum-bindings and calf — it was all dust and dismay. A country life was so much healthier. He could wish for nothing better than to serve his fellow-men in a rural parish, far from the madding crowd.

  “Serving your fellow-men was not always so much to your taste as it appears at present,” Darcy had replied. “When we discussed this matter at Pemberley, you were not of a mind to take orders. Indeed, you signed an undertaking, renouncing all claim to the preferment and accepting a liberal settlement in its place.”

  Ah! but he had not been of age when he had signed that undertaking. He doubted it would stand up, or whether an action might not lie — that much law he had learned!

  No great mystery lay behind this change of heart. Wickham had squandered his money and now wished to undo his bargain. “Let me be rightly understood, Mr Wickham,” Darcy had said, rising from his chair. “You may abandon your study of the law, if you choose, but you will never be rector of Kympt
on. You have no right to the place; you are not fit for it; and you shall not have it.”

  Before Wickham could reply, the lady who was governess and companion to his sister entered the room. Mrs Younge was a very genteel lady, tall and of a florid complexion, who carried herself with an air of high and conscious dignity, regularly softened by a complaisant smile. She stopt short on seeing a visitor, and begged Mr Darcy’s pardon. She had no wish to interrupt, had thought him alone, had only come in search of a volume of Fordyce.

  “Do not disturb yourself, Mrs Younge. Mr Wickham was on the point of leaving.”

  Without a word, Wickham rose, and with an insinuating smile for the still personable widow, abruptly left the room. “I believe the volume rests on the shelf behind you, Sir,” Mrs Younge continued. “It contains a sermon on the subject of female vanity, which I particularly wish Miss Georgiana to read. There she shall learn that the purpose of a bonnet is to preserve modesty and defend us from the weather, not to flatter our pretensions to personal charm,” — patting the lace of her elegant chignon.

  Darcy regarded her with sudden alertness. “Where was Miss Georgiana at that moment?”

  “She is waiting outside in the hall, Sir, and, I regret to say, sulking. Your brother will not care to see that face, Miss, I told her. If you cannot alter it for one of — ”

  But Darcy had ceased to attend. Striding to the door, he opened it quickly and beheld his sister, looking up with a radiant face at Wickham, who gazed back with a captivating affectation of softness. “George!” she said, holding out her hand to him. “George Wickham! — How wonderful to see you again!”

  Mrs Younge had followed Darcy from the room, and now stood regarding his sister with shocked disapproval. “Miss Georgiana!” she exclaimed. “What can you be thinking — to address, by his Christian name, a young man, who is not the very nearest of relations! People overhearing such an indiscretion would wonder on what terms you must stand with this gentleman, that you should treat him with such familiarity.”

  “Pray do not judge us too harshly, Mrs Younge,” Wickham then cried. Miss Darcy, as he supposed he must call her now, was merely recollecting those happy days at Pemberley when they had been ‘George’ and ‘Georgy’ to one another. No longer! “The voice of propriety (with a gentle smile at the ladylike companion) rightly denied them this privilege, and he must abandon forever all claim to that sweetest of indulgences,” bowing and kissing the hand he still held with affectionate gallantry.

  Till this, Darcy had stood almost petrified with disgust. Now —“Georgiana,” he said, striving for an accent tolerably calm. “Will you please accompany me (indicating the door to the drawing room). I wish to speak to you.”

  “Oh — ” in tones of the deepest mortification. “Cannot Geor — cannot Mr Wickham stay to dinner?”

  “We must not impose on Mr Wickham’s good nature any longer,” he had replied, coolly. He was sure Mr Wickham had many pressing engagements. Would Mrs Younge be so good as to shew the gentleman out?

  Wickham had seemed prepared to question the urgency which required his presence elsewhere. Then, appearing to change his mind, “Goodbye, Darcy,” had been said, in tolerably collected tones. And to Georgiana, who was looking from the face of one to the other in puzzled incomprehension, “Goodbye — Miss Darcy,” artfully hesitating over the name, “ — or shall I say, au revoir!” Bowing deeply over her hand, he turned and walked rapidly away down the hall.

  In the drawing room, Georgiana dropt ungraciously into a chair. Why could not George stay? — had then been immediately demanded, with a refractory pout.

  “Do not call him that! Mrs Younge is quite right to object. It is not proper.”

  Oh! proper. She was tired of Mrs Younge always telling her what was proper. (Though looking older, Georgiana was only fifteen.)

  “I believe there was a sermon she wished you to read,” Darcy said,

  striving to speak in lighter vein. “Some question of vanity. — In regard to a bonnet, was it?”

  “I merely wanted to wear the new one you gave me! I do not see why that was so vain! And Mrs Younge should not speak. She is always regarding herself in the mirror.”

  “You must not derogate Mrs Younge, Georgiana. As your governess, she requires your respect.” Again he had heard, displeased, the note of constraint in his voice. He went on with an effort at gentleness, “It is difficult at your age to accept, that there are aspects of life you have not the experience to appraise. The situation of Mr Wickham is a case in point. You must take my word for it, that Mr Wickham is not so respectable as you may think.”

  Georgiana had flushed. She could believe that Mr Wickham had been imprudent. “He always would spend his pocket money too freely.” But she could not believe there was any harm in him.

  How Darcy had wished his father alive at that moment! He must have exerted an authority more acceptable than that of a mere brother! George Wickham could not be countenanced in that house; but he could not explain his reasons, and Georgiana, in the candour of youth, must gibe at a decision so apparently severe. Darcy knew how unlikely this was to promote sisterly affection toward himself. Georgiana had left the room with lowered head and mutinous heart. As he stood at his window, thinking sadly on how ill he had performed his office, Darcy had seen Wickham taking a ceremonial leave of Mrs Younge in the porte-cochere below before stepping into his phaeton and driving off with a furious crack of his whip.

  That spring, Georgiana had suffered from frequent head ache and a throat often enflamed. — How much lowness of spirits might contribute to her disease, Darcy could only conjecture. By June, however, she had tolerably recovered herself. The house was breaking up in preparation for the annual departure for Pemberley when Mrs Younge came to him with a proposal of change. Mr Darcy must have noticed that dear Miss Georgiana was still troubled by the pulmonary complaint; and though there were no absolutely alarming symptoms, Mrs Younge feared that her throat might still be putrid. “It had therefore occurred to her that sea-bathing might be of the greatest service. Dear Mr Webb (their apothecary) strenuously recommended it. There was no lack of choice, but Mr Webb made preference for Ramsgate, where the sea was open and the air very pure.”

  Darcy listened with a frown. Of all locales, watering places were the last where he should wish to see his sister reside.

  Oh, no! — indeed. Mrs Younge was entirely of Mr Darcy’s opinion. She had quite a horror of watering places. “The noise alone a hazard to any mind not well regulated.” But when seen with a view towards health, not society — an altogether different thing. A house might be taken in a quiet situation, and Miss Georgiana should soon be her old self again.

  Darcy had consulted his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was joined with him in Georgiana’s guardianship. “I should have thought Pemberley, her native air, would do her the most good,” the Colonel said, pulling the end of his moustache dubiously.

  “She is more out of spirits, than out of health,” Darcy replied. “In that way, a respite from every thing familiar might be of benefit.” Even to his cousin he could not speak his true thought — that what Georgiana might need most was a respite from her brother.

  The Colonel was content; if Darcy thought it wise, he would say no more. “She will have an establishment, I presume?”

  “Mrs Younge will have charge over the household, and several of the servants are to accompany them, as this will be standing empty.”

  “Your Mrs Younge is quite a vivacious lady,” the Colonel had said, after a brief pause. He might be mistaken, but he thought he had seen her at Allen’s Library, the day before — in animated conversation with a gentleman.

  Darcy had felt obliged to rebut the implication. “Mrs Younge may go out on her own purposes whenever she asks leave; and Allen’s is just the sort of place where strangers might engage in conversation. Subscribers would naturally wish to discuss their selections with one another.” His cousin said no more. He had not been sure of the lady; — had only seen
the back of a bonnet; — but he was certain that the other party to the conversation had been George Wickham. Knowing Darcy’s feelings in that quarter, however, he forbore to mention it.

  Darcy had passed some weeks of quiet contentment at Pemberley, before returning to town. The business that had called him back, had been completed more expeditiously than he had expected; and one evening he had ordered his chaise to be ready the following morning. By leaving early, he might reach Ramsgate and take his sister by surprise after dinner. He hoped it would be a happy surprise, and that the sea breezes had not only cured Georgiana’s cough, but blown away all unhappy vapours as well.

  As he was giving up his hat to the footman at the door of his sister’s residence, shortly after noon the next day, a voice called out, “Who is that, John?” A moment later, Mrs Younge entered the hall. “Oh!” — stopping short, and looking almost frightened, “Mr Darcy, — I beg your pardon. We were not expecting you.”

  “Pray do not trouble yourself, Mrs Younge. I merely looked in to visit my sister.” The footman informing him that Miss Georgiana was presently in the drawing-room — “Very good.” he said. “I shall go up directly.”

  If his sudden appearance seemed to discomfit Mrs Younge, Darcy did not notice it. He was anxious, now he was come, that Georgiana should find his arrival welcome. With the practice of composure habitual to him, however, he walked up stairs, knocked on the door to the drawing-room, and heard Georgiana’s voice, tremulous from within, bid him enter. She seemed almost overcome with astonishment at seeing him. After a moment of silence — “Oh, Harry!” she cried; and rushing across the room, she threw herself into his arms, and burst into a flood of tears.

  “I am so glad you are come,” she said, between sobs. “I should not have wanted to go away without seeing you. I did so wish to tell you — and now I may — I must! I am sure that when you know everything, all misunderstanding will be cleared away, and you will love him as I do.”