"The History of Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham"
Friends. How can that word hold so much meaning? It expresses the unconditional brotherly love between two people through thick and thin, rain and sun, happiness and grief. I had a friend once; close as the threads in a tapestry we were. Circumstances have a tendency of causing friends to drift away from each other, but in our case, they tore us apart.
It all started a cold day in late winter. My friend and I were strolling through the market towards the river Thames. My friend, Mr. Wickham, had asked me to accompany him to a dinner he had been invited to a week or so ago.
I smoothed down my coat as we approached the door. I had never heard of this friend; by the looks of his house, he was not poorly off.
Mr. Wickham, smartly dressed in his military uniform, rapped the door knocker a couple times and turned towards me.
"Despite how wonderful the man's dinners are Darcy," he began with a smile, "It's afterwards that is truly the best part."
"And why is that?" I inquired coolly.
Wickham was about to reply, but the door opened and he was disrupted. A butler stood at the open door and we removed our hats.
"Good evening," he greeted bowing his age-stricken body. "Please do come inside."
Wickham passed the threshold first and the butler nodded a smile. When I passed by, the butler's smile slowly dimmed in confusion – do doubt attributed to the unfamiliarity of my face. He closed the door behind us.
"The dining room is this way." The butler motioned to two opened doors ahead of us.
Mr. Wickham smiled and motioned him away. "Thank you, but I've been here often enough to know my way around."
"Of course." The butler disappeared into the kitchen.
I knew nothing, nor had heard anything of this man. How did Wickham know him? "Who is this person whom you know so well?" I asked, not louder than a whisper.
"Oh, he is a good friend of mine. I come here as often as I can, for dinners much like the one tonight," he explained cheerfully.
I was not satisfied; the young Mr. Wickham had the terrible luck of meeting people less than trustworthy. "Why have you not introduced him to me?"
"Why do you think I asked you to join me tonight, Darcy? Not to liven up the party, obviously." He gave my shoulder a playful bump.
I chuckled slightly and shook my head. The matter was dropped when we walked into the dining room.
The table had all sorts of food set about on it on silver platters. Men who looked nearly identically large, rich and rather past forty-five sat talking and laughing boisterously with one another. At the head of the table was the host, I presumed. He leaned back against his chair, sipping his gin or whatever he drank, talking below the ruckus with the man at his right.
I looked at Wickham – twenty-five, thin, wearing his red uniform, a boyish smile upon his face and wondered how he had landed such a friendship.
The man at the head of the table noticed the two of us standing in the doorway.
"Wickham! So glad I am that you were able to make it!" Presently, he looked my way. "Ah, and who is the gentleman beside you?"
"Th-this is Mr. Darcy. He is in London, visiting and I convinced him to accompany a friend of his to dinner." He looked at me and smiled again.
"Splendid!" the host raised his chubby arms into the air. "Well, if you two would take your seats, we shall be able to start the dinner!" He clapped daintily and a team of three butlers emerged from the kitchen doors and took the lids off of all the food.
The table itself seemed to steam and everyone dug in like a herd of starved pigs. Flashing forks and knives abounded. I held back my hand from the platters until I was sure no one would stick it.
After everyone had eaten their fill, we adjourned to the library and men began taking seats at a cramped, round table. Wickham sat down next to the host, Mr. Hobson – I believe I learned, and Mr. Hobson began shuffling a deck of cards.
Wickham noticed I was still standing. "Darcy, old boy, won't you join us fro a round of Poker?"
"No than you," I answered as I laced my fingers behind my back. "I don't gamble."
"All right, but let me tell you, you are missing out on a great deal of fun," Mr. Hobson butted in before dealing the cards.
I reclined in a comfy chair against a dusty wall of books as the men picked up their cards. The table was silent for a minute or two as they sorted their hands. Wickham was especially concentrated; every move he made was slow and sluggish. Mr. Hobson was just the opposite. He made no movement of face or body unless it was to sharply choose a card. Finally, one man sniffed and broke the silence:
"I bet a hundred." And he slid two of his Poker chips to the center.
"I'll match, and double." The man to the left with oddly curled hair plopped four onto the pile. The next man threw four rocks to the middle of the table, and the next, and the next until it finally reached Mr. Wickham.
He remained silent and stared down at his cards. I thought he was undecided and nervous, afraid of drowning, but then he grinned.
Wickham declared, "I'll raise you," and wagered half his pile! I sat upright in my seat.
Everyone matched his contribution, Mr. Hobson knocked it up a little and it came back to Wickham. He raised it even more! My friend either knew he had an exceptionally good hand or he was hoping his bluff would scare everyone else out of the game.
This went on several more times around the table and then all the men showed their cards. As in all the card games I have observed, there were some good hands and some bad hands.
"Alright Wickham," grinned Hobson, "Let's see your hand." I could tell by the faces of everyone that his cards were awful. Hobson inhaled sharply as if in compassion for Wickham's pain. "Sorry, Chap." He slapped down four aces and a king. He drew all the chips on the table to himself and gathered everyone's cards.
I pushed up from my seat and strode to the card table behind Wickham. His hand wasn't too bad this time, but looking at all the rest, I realized that he had a slim chance of winning. The bets were placed and Wickham started slow – just two pieces…
It came to him again and he bet four more, and then six more! Mind you, he hadn't a lot left to him after the last game anyway. He nearly bet six more but as his friend, I could not stand by and watch him lose more than he was worth. I bumped him from behind.
"Should you be entirely set upon investing such a large sum?" I inquired quietly. He withdrew his pieces and dropped a few of them.
"Mr. Darcy," spoke up Hobson. I glanced up. "Do you care to join us in our little game?"
"No sir, I told you before," I answered.
"Well then," he continued with a sick cheerfulness, " please leave your friend to his business."
I straightened, walked to the chair and seated myself again to wait the gambling out.
It was midnight or later before all the players became exhausted in both money and body. Though it was so late, Wickham and I were turned out onto the street and bidden 'Good night'. At least the host was gentlemanly enough to offer the use of his carriage.
When we had shut ourselves in the carriage, I immediately spoke up.
"Why did you play even after you lost all your poker chips? I sincerely hope that it was not like the normal game where each chip costs fifty pounds!"
"It—it was," he stuttered, fiddling with his glove.
I turned towards the window. "Have you the money to pay for all that you wasted?" I asked.
"Well…um…not just at the moment, but I assure you Darcy, I will get it." Silence and then: "Darcy, I'll be honest with you; I can't pay it. I've run out and my yearly earnings aren't enough to pay it off soon enough."
I sighed. "How much did you lose?" I asked quietly.
Barely audible came the reply, "Er…five hundred pounds."
"What!" I demanded in a harsh whisper. "Mr. Wickham!"
"I know!" he ran his fingers anxiously through his thick hair. "I just lost track. Oh, my dear friend Mr. Darcy, you wouldn't turn down your friend in his time of need, would you?"
I sighed, deeply exasperated at the young fool's stupidity. I counted out a stack of bills and handed them to him. "Here. Take them." He gave me an unbelieving look but quickly took the money, folded them and slipped them into his coat pocket. "Gambling is dangerous, Wickham. I'd suggest you don't meddle with it anymore."
We arrived back at my estate. I invited Mr. Wickham to stay over until the morning and my butler unlocked and opened the door for us. My sister was sitting anxiously in the music room and she intercepted us on our way upstairs.
"Good evening," she said to me with that beautiful smile of hers. "What a dinner party it must have been! What was it like?"
I tried to contain my scorn and lessen the insulting parts, but at the same time I could not lie.
"The food was adequate, the cards and poker chips hansom, the drink was flavorful, and the lively old men that crowded the room were great fans of all four."
Mr. Wickham gave me a look as if I had said something completely vulgar. My sister could, I think, sense my disapproval, but sighed it away.
"So, Mr. Wickham," she turned to my friend cheerfully, "How did you like tonight?"
Wickham smiled at her but all the while watched me. "I thought it a wonderful gathering of close friends. It was splendid." He annunciated his last words fiercely.
I ignored it; no doubt, he was still sore about losing so much money at poker.
"Well, I don't know about the two of you, but I am ludicrously tired from such an…adventure." I nodded a bow at both. "I'll see you two in the morning." I walked upstairs.
The next morning I awoke late, ten o'clock about. After wiping the sleep out of my eyes, I dressed and went down to breakfast.
I expected to see both my sister and Wickham sitting across from each other making pleasant conversation over their cooling meals. What I saw was a little different: my sister sat alone, nibbling the eggs at the end of her fork. When she caught sight of me, she stood.
"Brother," she greeted. "I wondered when you fancied coming to breakfast."
My chair creaked as I sat in it. My sister sat as well. I uncovered my breakfast.
"Where is Mr. Wickham?" I inquired.
My sister swallowed her bite. "Oh, he left early. He said something about having business to take care of."
I felt sorry for my friend and wondered if I should have thanked him for inviting me. Nonetheless, I was able to enjoy my breakfast without too much apprehension.
We heard barely anything from Wickham for some time afterwards. He came over a fortnight or so later to collect his hat, which he had forgotten. It was then that I learned he had been going over to Mr. Hobson's house three times a week or more and had managed to build up another ugly debt. That was all I heard of him until a full month later when he came especially to see my sister.
The door was shut in my face and I had to wait in the music room. I sat at the piano and began playing the tune I had been humming lately. What could he possibly need to see my sister privately for? My question was answered when she burst into the room and, wrapping me in a surprise hug from behind, squealed, "Mr. Wickham has asked me to marry him and I've said yes!"
I nearly fell off of the piano bench. Fighting off my sister's joyful embrace, I marched out of the room to find Wickham and demand a meaning for this. If he married my sister with all these debts, they would quickly become debts on her record and I was not willing to let her be bound that easily.
When I had reached the room he proposed to her in, he had already gone. I ran outside but his carriage was pulled away.
Over the next few weeks my sister was ecstatic as she planned the wedding. I mentioned a couple times for her not to get her hopes up too high for such a union, but she was too giddy to care. I wrote many letters to our dear Mr. Wickham explaining that my sister's name would not be squandered by being placed next to his. He never replied. I tried method after method to get him to refuse my sister's hand. I explained the wrong morals, I explained that my sister's happiness and our relationship as friends were at stake, but nothing wooed him.
I came to his front door the day before the wedding, but he was not home, as his butler explained, "off on last-minute wedding arrangements."
The day of the wedding came. A beautiful spring day it was; apple blossoms coated the grass like snow; my sister matched and surpassed them all. I pitied her. She thought he loved her; she deserved a man who really did. And for the first time in too long, I saw Wickham, dressed smartly, excited to be soon married to his money.
I physically pulled him into a secluded spot. I looked him intensely in the eyes.
"How much is your debt?" I asked bluntly.
"Eight thousand pounds," he replied.
"I am prepared to pay you ten thousand pounds to call off the wedding. That is more than you'll get by marrying Miss Darcy," I explained.
He rubbed his chin skeptically, but then held out his hand. "Deal."
I produced the money right then and there and he left without another word.
When I had to witness the horrified expression of my sister when I told her that the wedding was off, it broke my heart into a hundred pieces. When she gripped me for dear life to hug her tears and pain away, it broke into a thousand. But I never regretted my decision.
We never heard from Wickham again and I hope we never will, for though I have professed forgiveness of him, a part of my heart never will.
May the reader understand this and profit by it.
Sincerely,
Darcy