As her gaze moved on towards the grand and severe Mr. Darcy, Mary almost laughed at the sheer impossibility of his thinking of her in any way at all. He had not even registered the fact of her existence. She thought she saw him look sometimes in Elizabeth’s direction, but Lizzy resolutely ignored him, his use of the fatal word tolerable woundingly fresh in her memory. At the other end of the table were a noisy group of young men in uniform, rather red in the face from too much wine, flirting with Kitty and Lydia. Mary found it impossible to tell them apart. She thought they were unlikely to be as particular as Mr. Bingley or his friend; but where good looks were not to be found, they required jolliness and tearingly high spirits, and Mary had neither.
The truth was, she thought bitterly, that there was no-one in her immediate society who considered her worthy of attention; and if this was so when she was still young, why should it improve as she grew older? In all likelihood, her next ten years would be spent very much like Charlotte’s lost decade, with little to hope for and not much to make her happy. As the evening went on, Mary felt herself steadily diminished by this knowledge, imagining herself fading from view, minute by minute, hour by hour, until she felt as though she had disappeared altogether, leaving nothing behind to remind anyone that she had ever been there at all.
It was only when dinner was over and the cloth cleared that she rallied somewhat. Dancing was called for; and, seeing an opportunity to break out of her unhappiness, Mary volunteered to oblige the company at the piano. For the rest of the evening, she hammered out Scottish and Irish airs whilst her sisters and the Lucases took to the floor with the keenest of the officers. When she could play no more, she received the thanks of the dancers with mixed emotions. She was glad to have done something other than sit in silence but felt she had purchased the gratitude of the party by absenting herself from their number. She thought she heard Charlotte reminding her how unprofitable it was to be content with warming your hands at the happiness of others, and it saddened her to think this might be her destiny, enabling pleasure for those around her whilst never enjoying it herself.
Chapter 20
It came as no surprise to Mary when a letter arrived for Jane at Longbourn from Miss Bingley, begging her to come to Netherfield to join the party there. They were sadly bored and longed for company; perhaps she would drink tea with them? Could she also be persuaded to dine? Jane read the invitation to the family in her usual measured tones, but Mary saw that, beneath her shyness, she was pleased. Her mother, however, was almost beside herself with excitement.
“So much for Lady Lucas’s plans! I knew he had no interest in Charlotte, and I was right. You must go on horseback, Jane, you shan’t have the carriage. It looks as if it will rain later, and if it does, they will be compelled to offer you a bed. The longer you stay there, the better. What an opportunity for you!”
The protests of Jane and Elizabeth on this point went unheard. Jane was to ride and that was that. The risk of a soaking was well worth the chance of securing another day as Mr. Bingley’s guest. So Jane was dispatched, wearing only a cloak and light shoes. When the anticipated downpour arrived rather earlier than had been expected, there could be no doubt that Jane must have been caught in the deluge; but Mrs. Bennet was not in the least concerned.
“A little rain never hurt anyone, you know, and they will be obliged to keep her now.”
Elizabeth, however, was far from being so sanguine. She was not at all confident her sister would survive her drenching unscathed, and when news reached Longbourn the next day that Jane was confined to bed with a chill, Elizabeth was consumed with anxiety. She begged for the use of the carriage to go immediately to attend her sister; but her mother was implacable.
“I’m not at all afraid of her dying. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays there, all will be well.”
Elizabeth submitted uneasily to Mrs. Bennet’s will for most of the following day; but when no letter arrived announcing Jane’s full recovery, she could stand it no more and declared her intention to walk the few miles to Netherfield to see for herself how Jane fared. She paid no attention to her mother’s insistence that Lizzy was not wanted there, that she would merely get in the way, scuppering her carefully contrived plan. Mary listened as the arguments went back and forth, round and round. She could not see that Elizabeth’s presence was as necessary as she thought. If Jane were really ill, surely a message would have been sent to that effect from Netherfield. And if Jane was indeed so unfortunate as to be seriously unwell, Lizzy’s walking so far through muddy fields and wet roads to reach her did not make sense. She might become ill herself, and then what help could she be to Jane?
“I admire the activity of your benevolence,” she ventured quietly to Elizabeth, in as dispassionate a tone as she could muster. “But every impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and surely, exertion should always be in proportion to what is required.”
Elizabeth turned towards her, more angry than Mary could remember seeing her.
“That is a calculation I am happy I have made correctly,” she said coldly, “so you need not trouble yourself further on my behalf. And I must disagree with you on the competing claims of reason and feeling. When not warmed up by feeling, reason is a very chilly, uncomfortable discipline by which to live your life. I am surprised to hear you speak in this way, Mary. It is most unappealing. I will leave as soon as I have put on my boots. I hope to be back for dinner.”
In fact, Elizabeth’s return was by no means immediate. She found Jane in a condition which convinced her she could not be left until her recovery was more certain; and in this unintended manner, Lizzy found herself quite by chance a guest of the Netherfield house party, where she stayed for the better part of a week.
When Jane was well enough to receive them, Mr. Bingley invited Mrs. Bennet and her younger daughters to come to Netherfield and visit Jane themselves, and all but Mary eagerly accepted.
She was still smarting from Elizabeth’s rebuke and preferred to hide away at home. It had been painful enough to feel herself the object of her favourite sister’s scorn. It was worse to realise that Elizabeth had been quite right to scold her, for Jane had indeed been as ill as she feared. Lizzy’s heart had been a better guide to what was best for Jane than Mary’s cool reasoning. Mary was ashamed of what she had said, and did not feel ready yet to find herself in Lizzy’s company. Instead, she stayed behind at Longbourn, walking alone in the garden and blaming herself for having made yet another wrong judgement, for having spoken when she had far better have said nothing at all.
It was here Charlotte Lucas found her when she called to find out how Jane did.
“I hope,” she said, “that Jane has not allowed her illness to prevent her making the most of her time at Netherfield. It would be a pity if it has distracted her from achieving the main purpose of her visit.”
“I believe Miss Bingley asked her principally as company for herself and her sister. I think they felt the need of a new face at the card table.”
“That may have been how the invitation was worded,” replied Charlotte knowingly, “but depend upon it, that was not their only motive in summoning Jane to them. They would never have asked her if they were not convinced of their brother’s partiality for her. I suspect they wished to see for themselves what manner of woman she is.”
They had arrived at a little bench situated under a quince tree. Charlotte sat down and motioned for Mary to join her.
“So you believe it was Jane’s task to do all she could to win his sisters’ friendship and seek their approval?”
“Undoubtedly, that can do no harm and may indeed do a great deal of good.” Charlotte loosened the ribbon on her hat and let it rest on the back of her head. “But,” she continued, “the liking of a man’s sisters cannot compare with his own feelings on the matter. Jane has been given an extraordinary opportunity to make Mr. Bingley aware of the strength of her regard. I do hope for her sake that she has taken full advantage of it.”
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“I know your opinions in these matters,” said Mary. “But I’m not sure Jane’s attachment is strong enough to justify such bravery. I could not say what she truly feels for Mr. Bingley. If she is not yet sure that she loves him, she can hardly be expected to persuade him that is the case.”
“On the contrary, I should say that is exactly when such a declaration is most required. Delay may be fatal to her chances. It’s plain to everyone that she likes him and enjoys his company. What else can she require? She may lose him altogether if she fails to fix him now. If it’s love that she wants, well, she stands as good a chance of finding it with him as with anyone else.”
“Do you really think so little of the tender emotions, Charlotte? She hardly knows him—how can she possibly be certain he would make her happy?”
Charlotte bent down and plucked several long blades of grass.
“I sometimes wonder whether you have truly absorbed any of the ideas contained in those books you read with such enthusiasm. As I recall, most of their authors insist it is companionship that forms the basis of a truly happy marriage. Passion, they tell us, is very soon spent, and is anyway a most uncertain foundation for domestic felicity.”
She began to plait the grass together, fixing all her attention upon her task as she spoke.
“You may talk like a rational creature, but beneath that disciplined exterior hides a true romantic nature. You keep it well concealed, but it makes an appearance every now and then, before you rush to snuff it out!”
Mary blushed. “No, not at all—I merely wondered whether a marriage can be embarked upon with any real possibility of happiness if the husband and wife know so little of each other when they begin. And if one or both of them pretends to feelings they do not yet possess, then surely that cannot promise well for their future.”
“I see we will never agree, but I do assure you that happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If Jane were to be studying Mr. Bingley’s character for another year, it would make no difference. She has as good an opportunity of being happy with him as with any other man she might meet, and for that reason, I hope she has seized as fully as she can the opportunity of these last few days. I wish her success with all my heart, but if she has failed to build on her advantage, well, she has no-one to blame but herself. In her position, I would not let such a chance slip through my fingers.”
“Tell me, Charlotte, are you really so unhappy, situated as you are?”
Charlotte threw her grass plait upon the ground and stood up.
“I cannot pretend my feelings have altered since we last spoke. Come, shall we find Mrs. Hill and see if she can be persuaded to offer us tea?”
Chapter 21
It was another week until Jane was well enough to return home, and some days after that before she was allowed downstairs. Mrs. Bennet showed no remorse for what had happened, meeting Elizabeth’s reproachful looks with an indignant assertion that Jane would thank her once she was married. She was sure it could not be long before Mr. Bingley made his declaration. It was therefore not surprising that, when, one morning at breakfast, Mr. Bennet announced that he hoped she had ordered a good dinner for that night, since he expected the arrival of a guest, Mrs. Bennet’s mind leapt immediately to the possibility—the very exciting possibility—of its being Mr. Bingley; but her husband immediately corrected her.
“I am sorry to disappoint you, my dear. It is not he, but another young man who will grace us with his presence later today. I speak of my cousin Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases.”
As Mr. Bennet had intended, his words provoked general astonishment and surprise. Everyone spoke at once, deluging him with questions until he was obliged to hold up his hand and ask for quiet. Only then, and at a pace of his own choosing, did he reveal the story behind their unexpected visitor’s impending arrival. It appeared that a month earlier, Mr. Bennet had received a letter from his cousin proposing himself as a guest.
“About a fortnight ago, I answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy and that it required early attention. Should you like to hear what it says?”
He put on his glasses and with a flourish extracted the letter from a pocket of his coat. It covered many pages, and Mr. Bennet read it in a manner as slow and pompous as the language in which it was written. Mr. Collins began by regretting the breach which had for so long subsisted between Mr. Bennet and his father. However, now that his revered parent was no more, he thought it incumbent upon him, if it lay within his poor powers, to heal the hurt inflicted by this quarrel. His recent ordination had made him feel the desirability of a reconciliation even more strongly.
“He observes,” continued Mr. Bennet, “that ‘as a clergyman I feel it my duty to promote the blessings of peace in all families within my influence.’ He goes on—and I think this will be of particular interest to you, my dear—‘that on these grounds I flatter myself that my present overtures of goodwill are highly commendable, and the circumstances of my being next in the entail of the Longbourn estate will be kindly overlooked on your part, and not lead you to reject the offered olive branch.’”
Mrs. Bennet threw down her napkin, scattering breadcrumbs from her plate.
“I think it very impertinent of him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false friends.”
“I fear you are too unkind to him. He acknowledges his sin just as fully as you could wish. He says he is ‘concerned at being the means of injuring your amiable daughters’ and indeed ‘begs leave to apologise for it.’ Indeed, he professes his ‘readiness to make them every possible amends—but of this hereafter.’”
“What can he mean by that?” asked Mrs. Bennet, a little mollified now. “I shall not discourage him if he means to do something material for the girls. What more has he to say?”
“There is more—much more, as it happens, but nothing further on that point. He tells us a great deal about his good fortune in securing a valuable living in Kent, and of his indebtedness to ‘the bounty and beneficence’ of his worthy patroness, ‘the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh.’ Towards this lady, he informs us, it will always be his endeavour ‘to demean myself with grateful respect.’ Finally, you will all no doubt be relieved to understand that his visit has been made with her ladyship’s entire and wholehearted approval, since he has already engaged some other clergyman to do his duty in his absence.”
He folded up the letter and tapped it on the table.
“We may expect this peacemaking gentleman at four o’clock today. I very much look forward to making his acquaintance.”
“He must be an oddity, I think,” declared Elizabeth. “I cannot make him out. There is something very pompous in his style. What can he mean by apologising for the entail? Can he be a sensible man, sir?”
“No, my dear, I do not think he can. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his letter which promises very well. I am impatient to see him.”
Mr. Bennet looked around the table with genuine anticipation, and Mary felt a twinge of sympathy for the hapless Mr. Collins. His intentions seemed to her honourable, if perhaps not very happily conveyed.
“In point of composition,” she suggested, “his letter does not seem entirely defective. The idea of the olive branch, perhaps, is not wholly new, yet I think it is well expressed.”
Her words made no impact at all. The conversation had grown loud again, as the probable motives for Mr. Collins’s visit were enthusiastically debated, not, on the whole, much to his credit.
“He appears to mean nothing but good in coming here,” she continued, raising her voice against the hubbub. “Is it right to condemn him before we have even met him?”
No-one listened. After a while, Mary stood up, pushed her chair back neatly into place, made a respectful nod to her parents, and left the table. As she walked down the hall, she could still hear the family talking. She thought it pro
bable that no-one had even noticed her absence.
Later that afternoon, the object of all this discussion arrived, exactly on time. He was a tall, heavy-looking young man in his mid-twenties, with a solemn and stately air. His voice was rather louder and his manners stiffer and more formal than a family drawing room required. But the more he spoke, the more he pleased his hosts. Mrs. Bennet was delighted to be addressed with all the respectful consideration she felt was her due; whilst her husband was equally gratified to find their visitor in every way as ridiculous as he had hoped.
Mr. Collins’s compliments to his fair cousins—his pleasure at discovering their good looks far exceeded even the most enthusiastic reports, his conviction they must expect to be very quickly and advantageously disposed of in marriage—were not much to the taste of those to whom they were addressed. They were, however, music to their mother’s ears, though she could not resist observing it was very unfortunate they should have no proper portions to bring with them to their husbands, “things being settled so oddly.”
The Other Bennet Sister Page 11