Chapter 4 #2
Elizabeth knew there was no such danger. Jane was just tired after an eventful evening and needed to rest. She had even whispered to Elizabeth that Mr Bingley had mentioned he might call — a good enough reason for the honest, sweet Jane to use an excuse and remain at home.
Unlike her sisters, Elizabeth was in no particular disposition for entertainment — and had not been since Mr Darcy had called on her father.
The reasons for the gentleman’s involvement, his assertions about Mr Wickham, her own response to both men, and her father’s harsh scrutiny were all strong inducements for a thorough examination of her actions and feelings.
She had trusted Mr Wickham’s story the moment she had heard it, just as she had doubted Mr Darcy’s accusations against the officer.
However, she had to admit that her judgment had been based on nothing more substantial than her resentment of Mr Darcy’s pride and arrogance and her instant preference for Mr Wickham’s amiable manners.
Just like her father, she wondered why Mr Darcy had gone to the trouble of warning them if there was no danger. It was an embarrassing situation, to which she was certain he would not have exposed himself if he had not deemed it absolutely necessary.
The notion Mr Darcy could be right was disturbing; therefore, Elizabeth had taken the opportunity provided by the Lucases’ party the previous evening for keen observation and a careful search for any evidence to prove either side.
Mr Wickham had been there, together with his fellow officers as well as Colonel Forster and his wife; Mr Darcy — as expected — had been missing.
Mr Bingley had attended by himself, which had allowed him the liberty to spend most of the evening with Jane and even to dance with her.
It had been the best part of the party, Elizabeth reflected.
As for her, Mr Collins’s attention had been horribly annoying, and watching Mr Wickham had not been as rewarding as she had hoped.
The officer had been nothing but amiable towards everyone.
He had been introduced to Mr and Mrs Bennet — who had liked him instantly, as her mother had loudly declared.
While Mr Bennet had exchanged a few words with the officer, Mrs Bennet and her youngest daughter had spent quite some time talking to him.
Mr Wickham had also sought out Elizabeth’s company, engaged her in conversation, and asked her to dance.
In short, the officer had been the heart of the party, his behaviour beyond reproach.
Still, the more she had observed him talking to the men and then the women — from Lydia and Kitty to Maria Lucas, Mary King, Mrs Forster, Charlotte Lucas, and even the elderly ladies — the more troubled she had become by something she could not define.
It was a feeling so strong that it threatened to overcome her objective observations.
She had tried but failed to dismiss it and was not even certain whether it was real or induced by Mr Darcy’s allegations.
Everything around her seemed to be related to Mr Darcy.
“It is raining!” Lydia cried. “I am cold and hungry, and now I shall be wet and maybe catch a cold before the ball. I shall never go to Meryton without the carriage again!”
“Then I assume you will not go often,” Elizabeth answered calmly. “It is only a few drops of rain,” she added. “Do not worry. We shall take the shorter path and be home in a few minutes.”
They continued to walk, taking careful steps, until they noticed the silhouette of a man standing some distance away.
“Look, it is Mr Wickham!” Kitty exclaimed.
“Keep your voice down,” Elizabeth said, screwing up her eyes for a better view. “I cannot see him clearly.”
“It is definitely Mr Wickham. I would recognise him anywhere,” Lydia confirmed. “Mr Wickham! Mr Wickham!” she shouted.
After a few more steps, Elizabeth recognised the man too, though she did not see his face directly. They were all walking towards him, Lydia still calling out.
The man seemed to hear them; he turned his head, mounted in a hurry, and rode away.
“What was that?” Lydia asked. “Why did he leave? Did he not hear us?”
“That was very strange,” Mrs Bennet admitted. “Last night he was so friendly, and now he has run away. Men are peculiar indeed.”
“I wonder what he was doing there,” Lydia continued with obvious disappointment.
Elizabeth was curious too, intrigued by the man’s actions.
She walked towards the spot where he had stood, Lydia and Kitty following her.
Moments later, all three let out a cry of horror.
There was Mr Darcy, hanging from his horse with one foot caught in the stirrup.
The horse neighed and moved restlessly, and Elizabeth frowned momentarily, then hesitantly stretched out her hand to free his imprisoned appendage.
“Mr Darcy,” she called a few times, but she received no answer.
Mrs Bennet approached too and cried, “Oh, dear Lord!”
Then, to Elizabeth’s disbelief, her mother stepped in front of the horse, took hold of his bridle, and patted his neck, attempting to calm him down.
“Release his foot, Lizzy! Quickly!”
Elizabeth hurried to obey her mother, and her sisters tried to help — as clumsy as they were.
Finally, the man was freed and laid on the ground.
He was still unconscious, and Elizabeth crouched next to him, holding his head.
As soon as Mrs Bennet released her hold on the horse, it shook its head and bolted.
“Dear Lord! What on earth has happened to Mr Darcy? Is he dead?”
“No, Mama. He is breathing but unconscious. I see a wound on his temple — there is a little blood.”
Mrs Bennet bent down and touched his face and head.
“It is just a scratch. It does not look serious. But he is freezing. We must get help.”
“I shall go, Mama,” Elizabeth offered. “Can you stay here with him? We cannot leave him all alone.”
She had disliked the man from the day they met, but seeing him lying there, at the edge between life and death, was heart-wrenching.
“I cannot wait! I want to go home! I am so cold, and look — it really is raining now!” Lydia whined.
“Me too!” Kitty repeated.
“Lizzy, hurry to Longbourn and fetch help,” Mrs Bennet requested. “Take your sisters with you. I shall wait here with Mr Darcy. Bring John with the carriage.”
“Yes, Mama. And I shall send for Mr Jones too.”
“Go now!”
With her last glance, Elizabeth saw her mother seat herself on the cold, wet ground, holding Mr Darcy’s head in her lap. The image was immensely distressing considering Mr Darcy had always treated Mrs Bennet with superior disdain, and she had always resented him in return.