Pride and Prejudice and Zombies

  Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room; and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to the dining parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with anxious parade, walk up to her mother’s right hand, and hear her say to her eldest sister, “Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a married woman.”

  It was not to be supposed that time or the odor of stale piss would give Lydia that embarrassment from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Philips, the Lucases, and all their other neighbours, and to hear herself called “Mrs. Wickham” by each of them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to show her ring, and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.

  “Well, mamma,” said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast room, “and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go.”

  “Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don’t at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?”

  “Oh, Lord! Yes—there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come to the seminary and see us. We shall be at Kilkerry these next three years, and I will take care to get good husbands for them all.”

  “I should like it beyond anything!” said her mother.

  “Oh! So many young priests! And each of them in dire need of a loving, caring wife!

  I dare say I shall see each of my sisters married before winter!”

  “I thank you for my share of the favour,” said Elizabeth; “but I do not particularly desire the rest of my life spent emptying piss pots.”

  Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham had received his letter of acceptance to Kilkerry, and given his condition, the journey North would be frightfully slow.

  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, and having very frequent parties at home, so that their neighbors might congratulate Mr. Wickham, who remained by the fire during the whole of their stay.

  Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every occasion. He did every thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more zombies this season, than any body else in the country, in spite of the fact that he had no use of his arms. One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth:

  “Lizzy, I never gave you an account of my wedding. Are not you curious to hear how it was managed?”

  “No really,” replied Elizabeth; “I think there cannot be too little said on the subject.”

  “La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were married, you know, at St. Clement’s, because it had the fewest steps to carry my beloved up. 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, for there had lately been some trouble on the east wall, and everywhere one heard talk of relinquishing the neighborhood for safety. 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, or if he had soiled it like the others.”

  “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 because of the attacks, 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 powder factory. 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!”

  “If it was to be secret,” said Jane, “say not another word on the subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further.”

  “Oh! Certainly,” said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; “we will ask you no questions.”

  “Thank you,” said Lydia, “for if you did, I should certainly tell you all, and then Wickham would surely punish me with an ill-timed soiling.”

  On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her power by running away.

  But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at her sister’s wedding. What possible motive could he have had? Conjectures, rapid and wild, hurried into her brain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as placing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She could not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what Lydia had dropt.

  “You may readily comprehend,” she added, “what my curiosity must be to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively speaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such a time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it—unless it is, for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with ignorance.”

  “And my dear aunt,” she added to herself, as she finished the letter; “if you do not tell me in an honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it out.”

  CHAPTER 52

  ELIZABETH HAD THE SATISFACTION of receiving an answer to her letter as soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it than, hurrying into the dojo, where she was least likely to be interrupted, she sat down and prepared to be happy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not contain a denial.

  Section Six East, Sept. 6.

  MY DEAR NIECE,

  I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole morning to answering it, as I foresee that a little writing will not comprise what I have to tell you.

  On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up with him several hours. It was all over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so dreadfully racked as yours seems to have been. He came to tell Mr. Gardiner that he had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day after ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting for them. Mr. Darcy felt himself to blame for not making Wickham’s worthlessness more known—for if he had, no young woman of character would have dared love or confide in him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his private actions open to the world. He called it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and endeavour to remedy an evil which had been brought on by himself.

  There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago governess to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed from her charge on some cause of disapprobat
ion, though he did not say what. She then took a large house in Edward Street, and has since maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs. Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham; and he went to her for intelligence of him as soon as he got to town. But it was two or three minutes of savage beating before he could get from her what he wanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without an application of severe blows about the head and neck. At length, however, our kind friend procured the wished-for direction. They were in Hen’s Quarry Street. Mr. Darcy saw Wickham, and with no want of force, insisted on seeing Lydia. His first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade her to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her, offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But he found Lydia absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared for none of her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not hear of leaving Wickham, who, in spite of his abducting her, she claimed to love more than anything on earth. Since such were her feelings, Mr. Darcy had but one choice to restore her honour—to secure and expedite a marriage between she and Wickham. But the latter had no intentions of marrying, and as to his future situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He must go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew he should have nothing to live on.

  Mr. Darcy asked him why he did not marry your sister at once. Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would be able to do something for him, and his situation would be benefited by marriage. But he found, in reply to this question, that Wickham still cherished the hope of more effectually making his fortune by marriage into a family of greater means.

  Mr. Darcy saw an opportunity here, and met with Wickham again to propose a solution beneficial to all parties. Mr. Wickham, after a great deal of consideration, agreed.

  Every thing being settled between them, Mr. Darcy’s next step was to make your uncle acquainted with the arrangement, and he first called in Section Six East the evening before I came home, and they had a great deal of talk together.

  They met again on Sunday, and then I saw him too. It was not all settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express was sent off to Longbourn. The terms were as follows: Wickham’s debts were to be paid, amounting, I believe, to considerably more than a thousand pounds, plus another thousand per annum to sustain him. In return, he would marry Lydia, thus restoring her honour, and that of the Bennet family. Second, he would allow Mr. Darcy to render him lame, as punishment for a lifetime of vice and betrayal, and to ensure that he would never lay another hand in anger, nor leave another bastard behind. To spare what little of his reputation remained, the injuries would be attributed to a carriage accident. Finally, he would pursue the priesthood, in hopes that the teachings of Christ would improve his general character. Darcy personally saw to it that all of this was attended to with the greatest expedience. (I dare say he took particular pleasure in beating Mr. Wickham lame.)

  I fancy, Lizzy, that stubbornness is the real defect of his character, after all. He has been accused of many faults at different times, but this is the true one. He insisted on shouldering the entire burden himself; though I am sure (and I do not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it), your uncle would most readily have settled the whole.

  He and your uncle battled it together for a long time, which was more than either the gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your uncle was forced to yield, and instead of being allowed to be of use to his niece, was forced to put up with only having the probable credit of it, which went sorely against the grain; and I really believe your letter this morning gave him great pleasure, because it required an explanation that would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where it was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no farther than yourself, or Jane at most.

  The reason why all this was to be done by him alone, was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his reserve, that Wickham’s character had been so misunderstood. Perhaps there was some truth in this; though I doubt whether his reserve, or anybody’s reserve, can be answerable to anything so scandalous. But in spite of all this fine talking, my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured that your uncle would never have yielded, if we had not been convinced of Mr. Darcy’s having another interest in the affair.

  When all this was resolved on, he returned again to his friends, who were still staying at Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be in London once more when the wedding took place, and all money matters were then to receive the last finish.

  I believe I have now told you every thing. It is a relation which you tell me is to give you great surprise; I hope at least it will not afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to us; and Wickham, newly lame, was carried to the house to recover, and to be fitted for his traveling bed, which Mr. Darcy generously paid for. I would not tell you how little I was satisfied with your sister’s behaviour while she remained with us, if I had not perceived, by Jane’s letter last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home was exactly as reprehensible, and therefore what I now tell you can give you no fresh pain.

  Mr. Darcy was punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you, attended the wedding. He dined with us the next day, gave his congratulations to the new couple, and took leave. Will you be very angry with me, my dear Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying how much I like him. His behaviour to us has, in every respect, been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire. His understanding and opinions all please me; he wants nothing but a little more liveliness, and that, if he marry prudently, his wife may teach him. I thought him very sly—he hardly ever mentioned your name. But slyness seems the fashion.

  Pray forgive me if I have been very presuming, or at least do not punish me so far as to exclude me from Pemberley. I shall never be quite happy till I have been all round the park. A low phaeton, pulled by a pair of captured zombies, would be the very thing.

  But I must write no more. There is some commotion on the street, and I fear the east gate has fallen again.

  Yours, very sincerely,

  M. GARDINER.

  The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits, in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the greatest share. The vague and unsettled suspicions of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister’s match, which she had feared too great to be probable, and at the same time wished for more than anything, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true! He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on himself to defile his hands with the blood of a woman whom he surely never wished to see again, and he was reduced to meet, reason with, persuade, and finally bribe, the man whom he always most wished to avoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had done all this for Lydia—a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Brother-in-law of Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from the connection. He had, to be sure, done much. She was ashamed to think how much. Oh! How she longed to see her seven scabs opened and bleeding once more! True, Darcy had given a reason for his interference, which asked no extraordinary stretch of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel he had been wrong; and though she would not place herself as his principal inducement, she could, perhaps, believe that remaining partiality for her might assist his endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that Elizabeth and her family were under obligations to a person who could never receive a return. They owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, every thing, to him. Oh! How heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation she had ever encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed towards him. For herself she was humbled; but she was proud of him. Proud that in a cause of compassion and honour, he had been able to get the better of himself. She read over her aunt’s commendation of him again and again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even sensible of some pleasure, t
hough mixed with regret, on finding how steadfastly both she and her uncle had been persuaded that affection and confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself.

  She was roused from her reflections by some one’s approach. She scarcely had time to fold the letter and remove it from sight before a pair of servants entered the dojo carrying Mr. Wickham on his traveling bed. They set him down on the floor beside her and took their leave.

  “I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?” mumbled he through a shattered jaw.

  “You certainly do,” she replied with a smile; “but it does not follow that the interruption must be unwelcome.”

  “I should be sorry indeed, if it were. I thought the peace of the dojo a most refreshing change from my little corner of the breakfast parlor.”

  “Are the others coming out?”

  “I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our uncle and aunt, that you have actually seen Pemberley.”

  She replied in the affirmative.

  “I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much for me in my sorry state. And you saw the old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of me—to see me thus affected would be quite a shock to her. But of course she did not mention my name to you.”

  “Yes, she did.”