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{339}

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“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.{340}

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?”