Mary Bennet of Meryton

by Barbara Randell

  Mary found she still had the letter in her hand. She knew she should not discuss it before Hill, but she found she did not care.

  "Your daughter Lydia Wickham is halfway to Portsmouth by this time," Mary said bluntly.

  Mrs Bennett jerked up in her chair, staring.

  "Portsmouth? What can you mean?" she demanded.

  "I mean she was kind enough to leave me a letter. Lydia has eloped - again. She has gone to Portsmouth with -- with -- my betrothed -- with Richard Hunter."

  Her voice cracked. She would have run from the room, but her shoes were filled with lead.

  "Lydia! Oh heavens, what shall we do? What will become of us?" her mother screamed and wept. Mary closed her ears. Hill must manage. She must escape that voice.

  "Mary! Do not leave me! Marrrrrrr........" That dreadful sound dragged her eyes back to her mother's face. The muscles of one cheek had locked, closing one eyelid, dragging one corner of her mouth awry. The hand she had raised in entreaty dropped limply to her lap. Her breast heaved as she fought for breath. Her eyes were filled with terror.

  The wood left Mary's limbs. She flew across the room, to support her mother.

  "Hill!" she ordered. "Send Sarah to find Dr Jones. Be quick!"

  She cradled her mother against her shoulder, soothing her with gentle touches and soft words, as the housekeeper ran from the room.

  "Mamma! Mamma! Can you hear me?" she coaxed. "Mamma, it is Mary. Don't think of Lydia, we shall do very well without her." She stroked the twisted face with gentle fingers.

  Mrs Bennett attempted to speak, but could not control her tongue. Her mouth hung half-open.

  "Don't try to speak, Mamma. Dr Jones will soon be here. We shall make you better. And I will not leave you. We shall go on, just the way we were, before Richard Hunter ever came to Netherfield."

  She caught the fluttering hand in her own, and held it warmly. Her voice was gentle, unhurried, loving, as she talked quietly, unceasingly. The fear slowly faded in her mother's eyes, and she rested heavily against Mary's shoulder. At last her eyes closed, and the laboured breathing grew slower, and slower. She was peaceful and still when, barely an hour later, Hannah Hunter hurried into the room.

  "Mary! How is your Mamma? Is she..."

  She stopped as Mary shook her head, and gently laid her mother back against the pillows. She laid the restless hands on the quiet breast. She knelt a moment longer, considering the still face, once so pretty, lined with years of fretting, now finally peaceful. Mrs Bennett would no longer suffer because of her nerves..

  Hannah stooped down and drew Mary up from her knees. Mary leaned against her shoulder, and let herself cry, tears that had been locked in her heart for many long months. Hannah silently held her, while her own tears dampened Mary's hair. At length, Mary drew away, and wiped her eyes.

  "Dear Hannah," she said, "Thank you for being here. But -- have you heard -- do you know ---?" She did not know how to continue.

  Hannah nodded grimly.

  "He left a note for Eleanor. Oh Mary, I cannot say how much this pains me! How could he do this? When he has his chance with you, to choose Lydia instead? She will ruin him!"

  Mary smiled a little ruefully.

  "I imagine he had very little to do with it," she replied. "I know Lydia well enough by now. Once she decided that Richard was rich enough to support a wife, she would have no trouble trapping him in her snares. He was too honourable to know what she was about."

  Hannah supported Mary into the parlour.

  "But how could she deal this way with her own sister?" she asked.

  "You must not judge all families by your own, dear Hannah. Lydia would always act as best suited her own selfish ends. She cares nothing for anyone else, whether inside her family or out."

  "There is just thing I admire in Lydia,"she continued sadly, "she never pretends. What she says is exactly what she feels at the moment. Now I am just the opposite - my whole life has been one long pretence!"

  "I don't understand, Mary, whatever do you mean?"

  "Before any of my sisters were married, there were five of us at home. I was not so very different from the others - perhaps a little less pretty and clever than Lizzie and Jane; certainly a little less giddy and thoughtless than Lydia and Kitty. But the only way I could be noticed was to be very different from them all. So I chose to become priggish and stern. I am sure everyone laughed to hear a young lady spouting sermons at the most inappropriate times!."

  "When the others moved away and I was left at Longbourn, I was so resentful at being overlooked. So I pretended to be silly and frivolous, like Maria Lucas. The curate, Mr Potter, almost offered to marry me then. It was very fortunate that he did not do so, for I'm sure I could not have continued the pretence for long."

  She walked away to gaze through the window.

  "Even that experience did not cure me, Hannah. I still tried to believe that every woman needs to be married, so I looked at every single man as a possible husband. I continued behaving as society expects from a woman seeking a husband. When I accepted your brother, I was still pretending that I wished to be his wife. I am grateful to Lydia for making it impossible. Well, that is over."

  She turned back to face Hannah.

  "It is such a relief, to stop pretending that I wish to marry anyone. It's like admitting that a piece of music is too difficult to play, or that a particular hill is just too steep to climb. It's such a relief to just stop trying."

  "For I'm being honest with myself at last, Hannah. All these years I have pretended to be a dutiful loving daughter, when inside I seethed with anger at being tied to my mother. I agreed to marry your brother, when truth would have had me refuse. No more. In the years ahead, I shall go on being honest with myself, however poor or uncomfortable that makes me, and whatever other people say. But I will be content, just being true to myself."

  Hannah stays with me still Mary wrote in her journal. It was she who wrote to all my sisters, to inform them of my mother's death. It was she who devised the words which informed them of the marriage of Lydia Wickham and Richard Hunter, with never a single reference to my own cancelled nuptials. It was she who stood with me and Mrs Phillips, when we laid my mother beside her husband in the snowy churchyard. And it was she who stood at my shoulder when my cousin Mr Collins came to offer his sympathy for my mother's death.

  Mr Collins and Miss Hunter had not previously met, so Mary performed the introductions. Mr Collins was bowing over Hannah's hand when he recognised the name.

  "Miss Hunter? From Netherfield?" He took a backward step. "Was it your brother who ---." He gestured to Mary, then went on "who has married Lydia Wickham?"

  Hannah nodded. Mary kept her eyes on his face, waiting. Mr Collins swung round sharply.

  "Cousin, how can you have this woman here?" he demanded. "As your spiritual adviser..." He got no further.

  "Mr Collins, you are not my spiritual adviser, and never have been. Miss Hunter is my very dear and valued friend, who stays in my house by my invitation. Our friendship holds, whatever may be the actions of my sister and her brother!"

  His face flushed. Mary found that she was clutching the arms of her chair. Hannah's hands rested on her shoulders. Consciously Mary relaxed her hands, and tried to speak calmly.

  "What business do you have with me at this time?"

  He looked sulky. "I wished to have some private speech with you," he said, glancing sourly at Hannah. She would have left the room, but Mary caught her hand.

  "I have no secrets from my friend. Whatever you wish to say to me, she may hear."

  He would not meet Mary's eye, but walked about the room.

  "I came to offer you shelter under my own roof," he said. "You are aware that it is almost six months since my dear Charlotte died . I need assistance both with the care of my children, and the housekeeping at Longbourn. Who better than yourself to fill both roles?" He swung around to face her. "And it is not acceptable for you to continue here alone!"

 
; Once again Hannah attempted to depart, but Mary held her fast.

  "You are offering me the position of housekeeper?" she asked. "What stipend do you offer?"

  Mr Collins now turned to face her. His face purpled.

  "Stipend?" he bellowed. "Housekeeper? It would not be proper for me to share the same roof with an unmarried female! I expect you to become my wife!"

  Mary closed her eyes, and sighed. Her mother dead just two weeks, herself deserted by a better man, and he offered her marriage. No doubt he expected immediate acceptance, lifelong gratitude and service as a recompense for his magnaniminity.

  "I thank you for your offer, Mr Collins, but I have no need of your name or your protection. I do not wish to be married. No doubt your proposal was kindly meant. But I must and do refuse. Miss Hunter and I have every intention of sharing this house as long as it pleases us both. Your will have to look elsewhere for a new housekeeper."

  Mr Collins did not call at the gatehouse again after that episode. Mary did not miss his company. But a few days later a message was delivered to the door. Dr Charles Watson, brother of her dear Phoebe, was visiting Meryton, and requested permission to visit Mary the following morning. Of course she sent back immediately to express her happiness to receive him. She spent the night in great anxiety. She could only suppose that he brought bad news of his sister, news that he wished to impart in person. What could it be? Mary slept little that night, worrying

  When Dr Watson called the next morning, he brought a letter from Phoebe. Despite Mary’s invitation, he would not stay.

  "Read my sister’s letter," he urged. "If you still wish to see me after that, you will find me in the church." He departed in haste.

  Greatly mystified, Mary carried Phoebe's latter into the garden. Hannah saw that she wished to be alone, and let her go. She found a seat out of the wind, and opened the letter. This is what she read.

  Dearest Mary. I begin by sending you from my heart, deepest sympathy on the death of your dear mother. I know that the pain of this must be great, and that only time can lessen it. I am also aware, from information provided by others of our friends in Meryton, that your projected marriage with Mr Hunter did not take place. My dear friend, I grieve for you. I grieve also that I have a confession to make, which must add to your pain. I can only hope and pray that it may also bring relief from some of that pain.

  “Phoebe, confess to me?” Mary demanded. What could she mean?

  I am sure that you, my dearest Mary, never suspected that your friend Phoebe stood in the way of your happiness. Yet it has been so for many years, and I am heartily ashamed of it. I can only beg on my knees that you will find the greatness of spirit to forgive my fault, and not punish me and others by turning your face from us all.

  Mary was still wholly in ignorance of her meaning.

  But I must be plain. When my brother Charles had recovered from the loss of his wife, Anne, long before we left Meryton, he developed a deep and sincere affection for you, my friend. He told me proudly of this affection, and announced his intention of approaching Mr Bennett for permission to offer marriage to you.

  Mary’s mouth opened in disbelief. She read on hurriedly.

  Dearest Mary, I must now confess my fault. I valued your friendship for myself, and encouraged my brother to enjoy your company also. But I had not recognised the signs of his growing affection. When he declared his feelings to me, expecting me to support and encourage his suit, he was sadly disappointed. I saw only that my position in his household was threatened; that another woman would take my place at the heart of his family.

  I must now explain the selfish attitude I adopted. I convinced my brother that his duty to me excluded any right to seek his own happiness and yours, my friend. I persuaded him against telling you of his feelings. Soon after this time, we left Meryton. I did not feel secure enough of his will to allow him to meet you regularly. I feared his affection for you would be stronger than his duty to me.

  In the years since we left Meryton, we have both waited anxiously for news of you; I through a sense of guilt, Charles through deep and continuing affection. When your father died, our hearts bled for you. When your marriage to Mr Hunter was announced, I was relieved, but Charles grieved for the loss of his hopes. When Mr Hunter departed, Charles began to hope again.

  So matters stood last Christmas. But then a change occurred, that makes all my scheming against you and my brother both tawdry and unnecessary. For I am to be married. By the time you read this letter, I will be joined to a dear kind friend of my brother’s. But I cannot rest easy until I have confessed all to you, my dear Mary. Can you forgive me the selfishness which prevented my brother approaching you those years ago? Can you believe that, despite my actions, Mary Bennett is still the dearest friend of her remorseful, loving Phoebe Watson?

  Mary read this letter through three times before she could begin to understand it. At last, she forced herself to concentrate on its important points. The first, that Phoebe was now married. How Mary rejoiced to know that she had at last found a partner who would appreciate her good qualities! Next, that Phoebe had for years, persuaded her brother against marrying, to protect her own position in his home. Mary could not blame her for that, indeed she had long ago assured Phoebe that they agreed on Phoebe’s right to shelter with his family.

  At length, she began to consider the points that referred to herself. She really could not believe that Charles Watson held her in affection. An affection strong enough to lead him to consider approaching Mr Bennett. But had he asked at that time, she would not have been free to marry him. Her clear duty had been to support her parents.

  She read again the postscript attached to Phoebe’s letter

  PS My brother intends to deliver this letter into your hands himself. I know what he will ask you. Please make him happy, and give me the right to call you my sister. PW.

  This was the paragraph that drove the blood in waves over her cheeks and breast. Charles Watson had still enough affection for Mary, to bring him to Meryton now, immediately on her release from Richard Hunter, and his own release through Phoebe’s marriage. Charles Watson, whom she had loved for years. She did not know when her affection had begun, but she had recognised it soon after his departure for York. And it had strengthened and deepened during all the trials she had undergone at the hands of other men ... Martin Forbes, Richard Hunter, and her own cousin, Mr Collins. She had compared their behaviour with his, and condemned them all.

  Mary had never known such joy as the knowledge of Charles Watson’s affection brought. For an hour, she did not how to express the delight in her heart. She could not decide whether to laugh or cry, and did each in turns in the privacy of the garden.

  At length, when her emotions were somewhat controlled, she returned to the house, to send the gardener to the church, to invite Charles Watson to return. She went into the parlour, where Hannah sat at the piano. She tried to concentrate on her embroidery, but her thoughts were too distracted. Hannah spoke several times before Mary heard her.

  “Mary, whatever is the matter? You sit there like one in a dream, and your face is white and red by turns. Are you ill?”

  Mary shook her head. Her heart danced in her breast, she found it hard to breathe. She could not keep from smiling.

  “What has happened?” Hannah demanded, mystified. “You have read your letter, so the news must be good.” She glanced through the window. “And here is your friend Dr Watson returned, and he looks as happy as yourself.” She stopped suddenly, and looked at Mary narrowly. Her eyes began to twinkle.

  “Ah!” she said. “Do I begin to understand? You have asked Dr Watson to return?” They heard his knock as Mary nodded, speechless. Hannah stooped and embraced Mary before she slipped from the room. On the sill, she looked back to say softly

  “Be happy, my love. God Bless you!”

  His step was at the parlor door. His voice spoke.

  “Miss Bennett.” He bowed, then approached the window, where she
stood, holding a chair back for support. Her knees trembled.

  Her eyes never left his face, drinking in all his well-remembered features. His eyes were as deep and brilliant as she remembered, although the brows above were touched with silver. His firm chin was softened with age. And his generous mouth was smiling the gentle sympathetic smile that pulled at her heart-strings as it had done in years long gone.

  She held out her hand, wordlessly. He took it in both his, as if it was the most precious gift he had ever received. Her fingers curled to grasp his. Their eyes locked, and she felt her heart begin to race. Her breath caught in her throat.

  “I am so happy to see you again,” she whispered.

  “Can you say that truly? After I left you so long ago?” he asked wonderingly. “And I know that other men have hurt you so badly since then.”

  “I know that you would never treat me so, dear friend.” Mary smiled at him tremulously, trustingly.

  It was his turn to catch his breath.

  “Miss Bennett...........Miss..........Mary!” he said hoarsely. “After all these years......friendship......is not....enough for me.” He clasped both her hands against his breast while he groped for words. Then they came in a rush.

  “Before I left Meryton, I loved you. All these years, I thought I had lost you for ever. But now we are both free. I have come back to see.....if you remember me.....if you recall our friendship.............if I can make you love me!”

  Mary smiled up into his anxious face.

  “Yoy do not have to make me love you. I love you now,” she said gently, “althought I did not know it until after you had gone.”

  Charles slipped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close until her head rested against his shoulder. Mary sighed contentedly.

  “Dear Charles.”

  “At last I have you where I have longed to hold you. Mary, we must be married soon! We cannot wait. Already we have wasted too many years!”