“She has worked very hard and I am sure, my dear Charlotte, you will be astonished to hear how she has advanced.”
Mary looked up from her cup, a blush rising in her face. She caught Charlotte’s expression as she did so, and it was suddenly very plain to her that Charlotte would take no pleasure at all in hearing her perform. She stumbled through the letters, unsettled by Charlotte’s level, appraising stare, which grew tighter with every low, excited prompt with which Mr. Collins helped Mary towards omega and the end. When she finished, it was he who alone clapped his hands.
“Well done, Miss Bennet! You are a tribute to the value of hard work and an ornament to your sex! What do you think, Mrs. Collins? Has she not done well?”
Charlotte gazed at Mary with an expression of mild curiosity, as though she was seeing her clearly for the first time.
“I see you have been making excellent use of your time in the library. I had not understood before quite how you occupied yourself there, but I see now what you have been doing. Well done, indeed.”
“We will make a scholar of you yet, Miss Bennet,” exclaimed Mr. Collins. “I am quite sure of it. But I shall hear no more from you today. Mrs. Collins, you will recall I shall not be in to dinner tonight, as I have business in Hertford. I must leave you two ladies to entertain yourselves.”
Still smiling with pleasure at the progress of his pupil, Mr. Collins rose and left the table. Once he was gone, Charlotte poured the last of the tea into her cup. She did not offer any to Mary.
“As Mr. Collins will not be here, I think I will go to bed early tonight. I do not feel like eating. I’m sure Mrs. Hill will bring something up to you if you want it.”
“I am sorry you are so tired, Charlotte. Is there anything I can do to help? I am quite at leisure for the rest of today.”
“No, thank you, I’m sure I will manage well enough on my own. But we may not see much of each other, as I expect to be very busy.”
After that, Charlotte was silent, and soon, with a rather chilly nod, she too took her leave. Alone at the table, Mary felt a growing sense of apprehension. This time there could be no mistaking Charlotte’s displeased tone—nor, Mary feared, the source of her irritation. She resented the time Mary spent in the library with Mr. Collins. The word “jealous” sought to make itself heard in Mary’s mind, but she would not allow it to do so. It was such a ridiculous idea, so foolish and so fantastical that Charlotte could not seriously entertain it. It was hard to imagine two people less likely to be guilty of any impropriety than Mr. Collins and herself. She was not the kind of woman to whom men made themselves agreeable; and he was hardly the man to attempt it.
Once her anger had subsided, Charlotte would surely see the truth of this. A little cool consideration must persuade her of the injustice of her suspicions. Mary had always thought of Charlotte as the calmest and least emotional of beings; and her feelings for her husband did not seem passionate enough to have overwhelmed her capacity for rational judgement. Her indignation could not last. Charlotte would soon be her usual self once more, dry, measured, and collected, able to laugh at an idea that was really too preposterous to imagine. Mary would say nothing about it at all. Not a hint, not a word of anything untoward had ever passed between herself and Mr. Collins. This was the truth. She would not dignify any other supposition by even attempting a denial; and indeed, resolved to think of it no further.
In search of distraction, she wandered into the library, took out pen and paper, and prepared to practise her Greek letters. She pulled out the little dictionary, and hesitated for a moment before opening its pages—what if Charlotte should see and ask her where she got it? But this was ridiculous. She had done nothing wrong and would not be made to feel a guilt she did not deserve. She leant the book against another and began to write, speaking the names of the letters very quietly under her breath.
Chapter 41
By the end of the day, Mary had covered sheet after sheet in Greek script. Her eyes ached as she took off her glasses and rubbed them. She decided to carry her work upstairs and review what she had done. It would be interesting to see if her most recent efforts showed any improvement on her early scribbles. In her bedroom, she spread the pages over her dressing table, lit two candles, and was examining them closely when Mrs. Hill came in. At first, she busied herself with a little tidying and folding; but soon she came and stood beside Mary, peering curiously at the papers.
“What is this? I haven’t seen writing like this before.”
“It is Greek, Mrs. Hill, as it was spoken in ancient times, the language of great philosophers and poets.”
“Is this what Mr. Collins is teaching you? How to speak and write Greek?”
“Yes, he has been kind enough to instruct me when he has the time.”
Mrs. Hill stood up and looked directly at Mary.
“He seems to find the time, doesn’t he? You’re in the library together most afternoons.”
“It is only for a few hours a day. It does not call him away from his other duties, and I have little enough else with which to occupy myself.”
“He sees more of you than he does of Mrs. Collins. They don’t study together, do they?”
Mary felt alarm mount in her; her mouth grew dry and her heart began to beat faster.
“That is because she has no taste for this kind of learning. It does not interest her.”
Mary sat down heavily on the bed. Mrs. Hill, seeing her distress, hurried to her side.
“I did not mean to upset you. Really, I did not.”
“Has Mrs. Collins spoken to you about this? Has she made any mention of it?”
“Lord, no! She is a close woman and gives little away. She would never speak to me on such a subject. And listen, Miss Mary, you mustn’t imagine I believe you’ve done anything wrong. I know that isn’t in your nature. But you don’t understand yet how the world works. People put two and two together and make five. Sometimes just the look of a thing can be enough to cause trouble.”
Mary sat very still, dumbstruck with shame.
“I had to warn you,” went on Mrs. Hill. “I care for you too much to keep quiet. Something had to be said.”
Mary nodded. When it was clear she did not intend to reply, Mrs. Hill left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Once she was gone, Mary buried her face in the pillows. How could she have been so stupid? Because she knew there was nothing wrong in those scholarly afternoons, she had not considered how they might look to others. She had enjoyed them so much she had allowed her pleasure to overwhelm her judgement. Had she learnt nothing at all from her experience with John Sparrow? She had sworn then she would never again allow herself to act so thoughtlessly; yet here she was, making the same mistake again. She was a fool, an ignorant, blundering fool, too heedless or too wilful to have imagined the consequences of her behaviour.
She lay back on her old bed and thought of Charlotte. If Mrs. Hill had noticed the time Mr. Collins spent in her company, and the pleasure he seemed to derive from it, Mary had no doubt his wife had seen it too. Charlotte’s anger at the dinner table was not a sudden explosion of resentment, provoked by the pride Mr. Collins had so tactlessly displayed as Mary recited the Greek alphabet. It had been simmering away for some time, stoked up by the hours Mary spent with her husband, by the satisfied expressions on their innocent, uncomprehending faces as they emerged from the library after a profitable afternoon’s study. If Mary had not thought it possible to feel jealousy over a man one did not love, she knew better now.
It took her most of the night to decide what to do. A braver woman might have gone to Charlotte and tried to explain the truth of the matter, insisting that their behaviour had been utterly misunderstood. But Mary knew she could not do this. Speaking directly of it to Charlotte gave the situation a significance it did not deserve; and Mary suspected she would not acquit herself well under Charlotte’s accusing stare. She would stumble and bluster, and in her confusion, might imply a guilt she did not deserve. Ch
arlotte would be merciless, and Mary was not equal to combatting her scorn. She was rather afraid of the person Charlotte had become and was certain such an encounter would not end well.
But something must be done; and Mary soon understood what was required. The Greek lessons must be given up, and she could spend no more time alone in Mr. Collins’s company. As she lay in the darkness, she knew this was the correct decision, the only possible choice; but when she contemplated what it would mean, it was a bitter prospect. Yet again, she was to surrender her own enjoyments in order to gratify the perceptions of others. She had obediently dismissed John Sparrow when told propriety demanded it. Now she was about to relinquish all the satisfaction her new studies had begun to afford her, in order to avoid any suggestion of an intimacy she had not encouraged, did not feel, and was certain did not in fact exist.
Dutifully, she asked herself, as she had done many times during her sleepless night, if she was deceiving herself, searching her heart for the smallest hint she hoped for anything more than friendship from Mr. Collins. As always, she found nothing, no evidence of any suppressed tender sentiments. No, the feelings that Longbourn had provoked in her were of a very different kind. When she walked through the well-tended rooms, when she watched Charlotte busy in the vegetable garden, and above all, when she saw her take young William in her arms and kiss his downy head—there was an emotion that coursed through her with such power that she thought everyone must notice it. But it was not love for Mr. Collins. It was a sense of deep, angry longing—a longing for the life that might have been hers if things had turned out otherwise, a longing to be settled, to have a home she could call her own, a secure place in the world. But she was increasingly persuaded this would never happen now, that she would always be a guest in the lives of others, compelled to shape herself to whatever was required of her by those on whom she depended.
It was, however, true that her opinion of Mr. Collins had changed during their time in the library. She had grown used to his company, and had been surprised to discover that his most irritating traits were far less in evidence when he was not seeking to impress an audience. He had been a patient instructor, and his open appreciation of her understanding had been very gratifying—no-one had ever praised her before with such unfeigned enthusiasm. Mary smiled bitterly in the dark as she considered that she felt more warmly disposed towards him now than she had ever done when she had hoped to make herself his wife. He was an altogether more sympathetic figure than he had appeared then, not least because she knew that he was unhappy, and that aroused her pity. But that was the limit of her affections. There was nothing more between them than the friendship of like-minded scholars. What must happen next therefore seemed unfair to them both, but she knew it must be done, and quickly, before her spirits failed her.
In the event, Mr. Collins was engaged with business until after tea; and it was not until late afternoon that she opened the door to the library and found him already at his desk, pen and paper in front of him.
“Come, Miss Bennet, this will not do. We have verbs to decline and cases to learn.”
She sat down, unable to meet his smile.
“I am afraid, Mr. Collins, that I do not think we can continue with the lessons. I think it is no longer fitting that we spend so much time together.”
He was so surprised that it was a moment before he spoke.
“Miss Bennet, whatever can you mean? There can be no suggestion of any wrongdoing. My character as a clergyman of the Church of England should be enough to dispel any such suspicion. And I always keep the door a little ajar, as you have seen.”
“I understand that, sir. And I am hardly the kind of woman to make a man forget what he owes to himself and his family. But I am no longer comfortable to go on as we have. We know we have nothing to reproach ourselves with, but appearances, it seems, are against us.”
His face fell.
“Has there been talk? Gossip? Has it reached … other ears?”
“No,” declared Mary, with more assurance than she felt. “These are my concerns alone.”
She hoped this would bring the conversation to an end, and began to rise to go, but to her surprise, he stood up and spoke in an unexpectedly measured tone.
“Please stay a moment, Miss Bennet. I beg you will hear me out before you go. I will not attempt to argue with you. If it is your conviction that the lessons must end, then I cannot quarrel with you. Your delicacy does you credit. I admit I see no wrong in them myself. But I am not a courageous man, and although I might say now I wish them to continue, I know myself well enough to suspect that I would not have the resolve to maintain that opinion if I found it seriously challenged.”
Mary took her seat again. There was nothing to be heard but the steady tick of her father’s clock on the mantelpiece.
“But I cannot allow our time together to end without telling you how very much I have enjoyed it. You have an excellent mind for a woman, and it has been my pleasure to instruct you.”
She tried to speak, but he held out his hand to stop her.
“More than that, your company has been enjoyable to me in every possible way. To have someone to talk to, who appears to find interest in my conversation, who does not disdain or ignore me—that has been a new sensation, one, I regret to say, which has not often been vouchsafed me.”
He walked to the window and stood staring out at the rooks in the trees.
“I have always known I did not possess a talent for making friends. My father, you know, was a bitter and disappointed man. There were many things that made him angry, but chief among them, I fear, was myself. He made it plain enough I was the worst of the many vicissitudes life had inflicted on him. He told me often enough I was worthless, and I soon learnt to take myself at his valuation. Then he died, and I thought it within my power to change my life forever.”
Mary was astonished at the unexpected turn of his conversation. She sensed these were confessions he had not volunteered to anyone before, but she did not rush away, as she had intended. He had been kind to her, and she owed him her honest attention.
“So what did you do, sir?”
“I went up to the university. I was ordained. I thought once I went into the world, I could turn myself into someone different, easy and obliging; but it did not work. Other men seemed to have the knack of it, but I could not see how it was done. I was stiff and odd and awkward. No matter how hard I tried, I always struck—and, I suspect, still continue to strike—the wrong note.”
Mary looked down, embarrassed.
“I longed to be what I saw others were, charming and always ready with a pleasing remark. For a while, I thought that I could learn what came naturally to others. I imagined that if I acquired the appearance of confidence, the reality would follow. It never did, of course. And yet I worked so hard at it! Do you remember your father asking me once at dinner if I made up in advance the compliments I then thought were so pleasing to ladies? I was such a fool that I told him the truth. Of course I did. How else would they occur to a man such as myself?”
It had begun to grow darker in the room as dusk came on. Outside, Mary heard the cattle pass down the lane to their evening milking.
“I consoled myself with imagining how different life would be when I inherited Longbourn. Then I should have a fine house and a fine wife, for I never doubted the prospect of one would produce the other. And now I have both, and I find myself no less solitary than I was when I had neither.”
He sighed but did not turn round.
“There is my William, of course. My hope is that as he grows older I may have more success with him than has been my lot with everyone else, and that he may come to like me a little. That prospect has sustained me in some of my most unhappy moments. Otherwise, I thought myself resigned. I expected nothing more.”
Suddenly, he turned away from the window and looked directly at Mary.
“But then you arrived, and we began our lessons. I did not think much of it at first. But
you were clever and eager, and I liked that. I was easy in your presence; I found myself happy when we were together.”
“Oh, sir, please don’t say any more, it makes me so sad.”
“Our minds are congenial, our tastes are similar. I began to think how different my life might have been if I had been less foolish when I first arrived here looking for a wife. I did not understand then what makes a marriage work. I did not see what was right before my eyes. If I had not been so thoughtless or so hasty, I might have chosen someone who, in time, could perhaps have learnt to love me. I might have chosen you.”
Mary could not speak. Two emotions rose up in her, with such power that she closed her eyes, waiting for them to abate a little so that she could control herself again. The first was pity. It moved her very much to see Mr. Collins expose his secret self to her, to confess his loneliness and despair. She was no stranger to such sensations, and they provoked in her the strongest response of fellow feeling. But at the same time, she found herself consumed with rage, with a fury so intense that she wanted to hammer her fists at him, to shout and scream. Why were you so blind? Why didn’t you see me, when I did all I could to make you notice? Why did you not understand that of all of them I was the only one, the only one, who might have suited you? Why didn’t you ask me? Then I would be here and settled and secure and content—and we would have lived better together than you do now, because I would have been more grateful, kinder than she is—but she took a few deep breaths and looked up, certain of what had to be said.
The Other Bennet Sister Page 23