Chapter 24
Wickham’s day began ill and showed little inclination to improve.
Once among the most pleasant and least suspicious towns he had ever encountered, Meryton had become little short of a prison to him.
What had once been overlooked was now observed.
What had been forgiven was now remembered.
Once welcome in every drawing room and sought after for every dance, the best regarded of the officers, he now found himself less respected than the meanest enlisted man.
Colonel Forster had once been the most amiable of commanding officers; now he watched Wickham’s every move as though he might commit a crime at any moment.
Actions that might formerly have been dismissed as carelessness were now noted down with disapproval.
Though the initial punishment had been nothing more than a brief restriction to quarters, Wickham knew he stood on uncertain ground, and that any further deviation might not be so easily overlooked.
In the town, the change was still more mortifying.
Tradesmen who had once extended him credit without hesitation now declined it.
True, they declined it civilly, but decline it they did.
Those who could not refuse him outright set limits where before there had been none, or agreed with such delay and such humiliating reluctance that Wickham could not ask where any of his fellow officers might hear.
He was received with less openness than before, and where he had once been welcomed without question, he was now regarded with a caution that was not the less offensive for being restrained.
Even the attentions that had once taken him so far in society were no longer reliable.
The shopkeepers, who had formerly been flattered by his notice, now kept a more watchful eye upon their daughters, and the young women themselves, not wholly insensible to his manners, were less disposed to trust them.
His ease of address, which had once secured him a ready reception in almost every circle, now failed to produce its former effect, and he found himself excluded from those engagements which had formerly supplied both his amusement and his advantage.
His fellow officers had all grown less accommodating.
Gaming, which had once afforded him both diversion and profit, was now conducted without him, or with such caution on their part that he could derive little benefit from it.
Those who had formerly engaged with him readily were now less inclined to do so, and he could not avoid observing that even those who had once admired him were now careful in their conduct, as if eager to prove that they had not been deceived.
Their altered manner carried with it an unspoken reproach, felt almost as sorely as the punishments of his superiors.
On its own, each of these inconveniences might have been bearable. United, they were little short of torment. As the day advanced, each hour bringing a new insult with it, Wickham felt his annoyance harden into rage.
Weeks ago, when he had first been called into Colonel Forster’s office and informed of his disgrace, Wickham thought he had merely been unlucky.
No one could roll a winning die forever.
Someone had spoken inconveniently, or some knowledge had got abroad when he had rather it had not. Such things could happen.
After a day of such frustrations, Wickham returned to his tent with a sense of indignation and injured dignity.
Some relief, at least, ought to await him there.
Imprudently, a brother officer had left a bottle of strong spirits visible in his tent.
Prudently, Wickham had secured the bottle — in his own tent, where it could be properly appreciated.
At first, the effect was as he had expected.
The sense of injury that had accompanied him throughout the day felt less oppressive, and the inconveniences he had endured lost something of their force when viewed through the bottom of a glass.
Wickham was clever, twice as clever as those who opposed him.
Perhaps his situation was not so irretrievable as it appeared.
But the impression did not endure. As the evening advanced and the level in his bottle dropped, Wickham began to think not of what might yet be, but of what he had lost, and what he was owed.
He cursed Fitzwilliam Darcy, a habit so old his rage had lost some of its savour, but another grudge was still fresh, hot, and sweet.
Wickham now knew who was to blame for his present degradation, and her name was Elizabeth Bennet.
That minx was responsible for it all. The events of the day, which had at first appeared unconnected, now arranged themselves with greater clarity, and in each he found some trace of her interference.
Her altered opinion might have been of little consequence in itself, but that it had been communicated, and with such effect, was not so easily dismissed.
He had not been accustomed to suffer from the loss of other’s good opinion, and in dwelling upon the alteration, he found that what he had first considered inconvenience might more properly be called injury.
At first, he had not been inclined to consider her an active agent in his present misfortunes, for her altered opinion would have mattered little had it remained her own.
But she had condemned him. She had stood in the open street and taken Darcy’s side against his.
She had said, as though proud of what she had done, that she had called his old enemy down on him.
Elizabeth Bennet was to blame for everything.
That she should have been the instrument of such inconvenience was not a circumstance he could easily overlook.
He had once been content to benefit from her good opinion, and though he had formed no particular design upon her, he had not scrupled to secure her regard while it served him.
That she should now oppose him with such decisiveness appeared to him not merely ungrateful, but unjust.
She had believed Darcy.
The reflection led him immediately to another, and that to a third, until the connection between them became impossible to ignore. If she had believed Darcy, it could only be because Darcy had confided in her. If he had done so to such an extent, his regard could not be slight.
Elizabeth Bennet must mean something to his old enemy. He certainly respected her, admired her. He would not have confided in her, would not have acted on her request, if he did not feel something for the minx.
And Elizabeth Bennet thought well of him. That much was made obvious when she referred to Wickham and Darcy almost in the same breath. She had made no secret of the fact that she viewed him with contempt, and Darcy with all the admiration Wickham might have wished for himself.
That Darcy should possess what he himself had lost was unendurable.
It was not merely that he had been supplanted, but that he had been supplanted by a man he had long despised, and who now appeared to enjoy both the credit he had lost and the advantage he required.
The contrast was not easily dismissed, yet even this might be turned to advantage.
The idea did not leave him. As it presented itself more clearly, it recommended itself with increasing force, until he sat for some time in silence, his attention fixed upon nothing before him while his thoughts arranged themselves with a degree of order entirely absent earlier in the day.
If Darcy valued Elizabeth, he might be made to pay for her.
Wickham was not accustomed to being treated as he had been that day, and still less to being judged by those whose opinions he had once disregarded with ease.
That they should now presume to measure his character, and do so with an air of quiet certainty, was an injury he could not easily forgive, and one which, in his present temper, he had no inclination to endure without return.
It was not that he had been treated unjustly, but that others had presumed to place themselves in a position to judge him at all.
He had only done what many others had done with equal freedom and less consequence, and if he had been less fortunate in the concealment of it, that misfortune did not, in his opinion, render him more culpable than those who had escaped notice.
That Elizabeth Bennet should have contributed to the alteration in his situation was a circumstance he found particularly difficult to forgive.
She had once distinguished him with her regard, and though he had never been disposed to value it beyond its immediate convenience, he had not expected to see it so entirely withdrawn, nor so decisively turned against him.
Yet even in this there was something that might be turned to advantage.
Elizabeth Bennet had lost her temper. In speaking freely, she had revealed more than she perhaps intended.
When she spoke of Darcy, there had been an unmistakable warmth in her manner.
Though she had endeavoured to conceal it with composure, it had not entirely escaped his observation.
That she should feel so strongly in his favour, and that Darcy should have trusted her so far as to confide in her, meant only one thing.
Darcy wanted her. He might even love her, and love was a vulnerability Wickham knew well how to exploit.
It could be done easily enough. Elizabeth Bennet’s abrupt return from Rosings could be made into a weapon.
That she had been intended to stay another fortnight was known; that she had not remained to complete her visit might easily be made to appear suspicious; and though the events themselves did not seem scandalous, their appearance might be altered to answer every purpose he required.
Lady Catherine’s actions might serve him better than any invention of his own.
It would not be necessary to adhere closely to the facts. A few whispers, a few hints, and the rumours would begin.
He might suggest that her conduct had not been entirely proper, that she had attracted notice she ought to have avoided, or that she had been observed in a situation that could not be defended without difficulty.
The particulars need not be specified, and their vagueness would render them more effective, as they would invite conjecture and ensure repetition.
He might go further still, if it suited him.
A story, once begun, did not require strict adherence to truth, and there were details that might be added with little risk and great effect.
That she had been dismissed without even the opportunity of collecting her things might be made to appear more than merely abrupt.
It might suggest disgrace. It might be hinted that something had been discovered which could not be overlooked, or that her conduct had given rise to suspicions which could not be explained away.
Whether she had been accused of impropriety, or of something less easily named, mattered little.
It was not the truth of the charge, but the existence of it, which would do the injury.
Had Elizabeth Bennet stolen something from Rosings? Had she sworn, struck a child, spoken with unforgivable disrespect to Lady Catherine? Had she allowed a gentleman to take shocking liberties? By the time the rumour mill had its way with the story, perhaps she had done any and all.
It was not necessary for any single charge to be believed.
It was enough that it should be repeated, that it should be heard in more than one place, and that it should be accompanied by circumstances which rendered it difficult to contradict without appearing defensive.
Once shattered, her reputation could not be repaired.
That she was entirely innocent would not matter.
If Darcy wished to prevent such reports from being circulated, he would be obliged to act, and to act in a manner which would secure Wickham’s silence.
Darcy’s regard for his own consequence would not permit him to disregard such a threat, and if his attachment to Elizabeth were as strong as it now appeared, he would have an additional motive to comply.
Wickham’s course was clear.
He would apply to Darcy, state his intentions plainly, and leave him to determine whether he preferred to purchase silence or to risk the consequences of refusing it.
Wickham would not have to choose between advantage and revenge. In the end, he would have both.