MINERVA

d recover himself enough to speak, she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia’s situation, hastily exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment on business that cannot be delayed; I have not an instant to lose.” “Good God! what is the matter?” cried he, with more feeling than politeness; then recollecting himself, “I will not detain you a minute; but let me, or let the servant, go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are not well enough; you cannot go yourself.” Elizabeth hesitated; but her knees trembled under her, and she felt how little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and mistress home instantly. On his quitting the room, she sat down, unable to support herself, and looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration, “Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you present relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill.” “No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. “There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well, I am only distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn.” She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say something indistinctly of his [Illustration: “I have not an instant to lose” ] concern, and observe her in compassionate silence. At length she spoke again. “I have just had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My youngest sister has left all her friends--has eloped; has thrown herself into the power of--of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. _You_ know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections, nothing that can tempt him to--she is lost for ever.” Darcy was fixed in astonishment. “When I consider,” she added, in a yet more agitated voice, “that _I_ might have prevented it! _I_ who knew what he was. Had I but explained some part of it only--some part of what I learnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not have happened. But it is all, all too late now.” “I am grieved, indeed,” cried Darcy: “grieved--shocked. But is it certain, absolutely certain?” “Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced almost to London, but not beyond: they are certainly not gone to Scotland.” “And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?” “My father has gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle’s immediate assistance, and we shall be off, I hope, in half an hour. But nothing can be done; I know very well that nothing can be done. How is such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!” Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence. “When _my_ eyes were opened to his real character, oh! had I known what I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not--I was afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!” Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking up and down the room in earnest meditation; his brow contracted, h