Page 25 of Mrs Darcy’s Dilemma

“It never can distress me to know the truth of what people do, in their folly and vanity. I used to laugh at them when young, and to say the truth, it is still my secret belief that an ounce of mirth is worth a pound of sorrow. But even when I cannot laugh, the intelligence is almost too interesting. Therefore, proceed.”

Henry related what Jeremy had told him of his visits to Bettina, of Fitzwilliam’s jealousy of all the other gentlemen who paid her attentions, and Jeremy’s pride when Bettina indicated that she might be persuaded to look upon this cousin as a more desirable lover than the other.

Jeremy’s self-love was piqued; he could not be detached from her at such a critical time; and Fitzwilliam, seeing it, was disgusted with the lady.

He did not choose to blame his cousin Jeremy, thinking his susceptibility to temptation only natural, but he had resolved the critical situation by taking himself away.

The lady was distressed and showed it prettily, the more so when the papers were full of the “grievous accident befallen the heir to the great estate of Pemberley in Derbyshire, a riding mishap that has rendered him unconscious, from which swoon he has not yet awakened; and it is feared he will not long survive.”

Bettina protested that she did not know what would become of her without her protector, and Jeremy stepped in, full of importance and pride masked as gallantry, and promised that she should not want for anything while he lived.

As his allowance was substantially less than that of the heir of Pemberley, hers must be proportionately reduced to not more than one hundred fifty pounds per annum, but she swore that it was an immense sum, vastly enough, and they had been eternally happy together for rather more than a week, when Henry arrived and found them in the midst of a pleasant domestic dispute about who would pay her hat bill.

Jeremy was not quite past being worked upon by reason; and when it was represented to him that by cutting a figure as a man about town with a mistress, he was distressing his parents dreadfully, there was a flicker of compunction, and when Henry assured him that Mr. Bingley could be counted upon to reduce his allowance in consequence of this behaviour—a reduction that would be singularly inconvenient as Jeremy had begun to realize the expensiveness of Bettina’s wants, frivolities, and debts—the flicker fanned to a stronger expression of comprehension.

A very little more talk, reminding him of the greater wealth of his rivals and the more than likelihood of Bettina’s accepting one of them, did its work, and by the time Henry had listened to a rambling account of their daily bickering, of her unreasonableness and continued demands for more money, Jeremy had been brought to as tractable a state as Henry could wish, and he agreed to accompany him on his return to the north.

He was not so lost a soul as to be entirely contemptuous of the unfailing kindness of such tender and indulgent parents as the Bingleys, and he was almost desirous of a reconciliation with them.

His only scruple was that he should leave poor Bettina broken-hearted, but Henry knew better and comforted him with promises to see to her.

To bring Bettina to reform and reason was, Henry knew, likely to be a far harder task, and one probably out of his power to achieve, but once Jeremy was safely away from her and established at the Gardiners’, preparatory to the journey home, Henry visited in Half Moon Street and made the attempt.

He was presented with a scene daunting enough to discourage even a very determined young man certain of what was right, for Miss Wickham, in her ringlets, and bare shoulders, and drooping leg-of-mutton sleeves, and lace mitts, was a fan-fluttering coquette in full flourishing sail, entertaining a roomful of dashing young eligibles and not looking as though she cared for Jeremy’s defection in the least. She showed tolerable interest in Henry, however, marking him with attentions that infuriated her other cavaliers, and when they departed, she begged Henry to remain with her alone, to talk over family business.

“I did not, you may imagine, suspect her meaning at first,” Henry told his mother, “for I considered her Jeremy’s property, so to speak, and only thought this a chance to make her listen to some grave subjects.”

“And did you succeed?”

“You shall hear. I spoke to her as a clergyman and as one of the family, but to little purpose. She lifted up her shoulders and turned away, and I could see there was no use talking to her of her immortal soul and hope of Heaven, because they were no concern of hers. I judged, therefore, that practical matters might influence her more, and I spoke to her of the future that she could expect, if she continued in such a course.”

“And did this have no effect?”

“It had an effect but quite different from what I hoped. At the suggestion that a woman who chose to be a mistress to a succession of men, rather than a wife to one, would end pitiably, she replied that we all come to bad ends, and there was no reason why she should be poor, as she might be if she had remained in her so-called proper sphere. That lovers gave her gifts, and rich and noble lovers could be counted on to give her the largest ones, and a shrewd woman might put enough aside to keep her, when her stock in trade, her beauty, had diminished.”

“Really,” cried Elizabeth, disdainfully, “it is a case of the cow’s not knowing what her tail is worth, until she has lost it. Did you not tell her what we all know—how profligacy and want always dissipate what little savings such creatures ever can accrue?”

“Of course I did, but she was different, she claimed, so sought after that she knew she should do very well, and in any event she did not mean to be at the mercy of any man’s whim for long, for she should earn her living upon the stage.”

“Worse and worse! Has she actually acted?”

“Yes, indeed she has, and in a manner most unhappily calculated to bring forward attention to her person. It is not Shakespeare that has attracted my cousin; no, her first appearance, as I understand, was in the pantomime, ‘Harlequin and Old Gammer Gurton,’ at the Drury-Lane, in which I am sorry to say, she wore the breeches.”

“You don’t mean it!”

“But to some purpose. The number of men that have been attracted by this exposure of her handsome figure has been astonishing. But this was by no means her only display.”

“Well, what else?”

“You have heard of the accident to Madame Louise Irvine at the Covent-Garden Theatre, January last?”

“No;—stay. There was something of it in the newspapers.”

“Yes, well, you must know, it was in the pantomime, ‘Harlequin and Georgy Barnwell’—very popular piece—has a flying omnibus balloon, and a rook pie containing a Jim Crow, and Heaven knows what; it is said to be like nothing ever seen on this Earth, and I well believe it. Well, Miss Irvine ascended a tight rope and was seized with an attack of giddiness twenty feet up, and—do you remember the incident now?”

“Yes; the poor creature broke her limbs, did she not?”

“Only an arm, but she was fortunate to survive, and you must know who went on as the Columbine dancer in her place.”

“Good God! No—Impossible!”

“Yes, it was Bettina; of course she could not do all Madame Louise’s tricks, but she did climb the rope and down again, and her admirers were in extacies. They are talking of it still.”

“Has the girl gone mad, then?—is she trying to destroy herself? It seems the only explanation.”

“Do not distress yourself on her behalf; the pantomime is closed. No; her latest triumph has been in a novelty piece at the Adelphi—the ‘Arab Leap’—it is all about one Osman who bears off a child and fires a pistol on the stage, and another Arab does a summersault across a moat. Bettina is said to look very well as an Arab lady, but she does no dangerous movements.”

“I collect,” said Mrs. Darcy dryly, “that my niece is not to rival Ellen Tree or Miss Kemble and that she is more likely to break her neck in reality than to succeed as a tragedy queen. Ought not someone to remonstrate, before she is killed outright?”

“It would be of no use. I saw myself that there was no discouraging her when everything was so roseate, according to her way of looking at things. Only when I spoke of her position in society, did she show any anger.”

Elizabeth was surprised. “Did she? I wonder why. I should not think she would care very much about society, when she flouts its rules so thoroughly and takes irrevocable steps to alienate herself from all decent company.”

“I will tell you what she said. ‘Mr. Henry,’ said she, ‘let us make no mistake. I know what you are talking about because I have led a virtuous life, until lately—how lately, is none of your business—but you, for your part, cannot understand me, because you know nothing of my experiences.’ I said I hoped Heaven would preserve me from ever having any so wicked, but she laughed and went on, ‘You must understand, if you can, that I have learned a very great deal since I adopted my new profession, and I am in a position to tell you things that would surprise you. I admit that when I came away with Fitz, my motives were light enough: only to have a good time, and to make him marry me if I could. When he went away, I had to think hard about my situation—and so I have.’

“‘If you thought about it,’ I said, ‘I wonder that you continued it.’