Folly and Forgiveness

by Lizzy Brandon

  Perhaps he should write a letter to Lady Catherine, as her advice was his greatest source of comfort. He was well aware she would not be able to receive a letter or respond in the short time he had remaining, but he had found the act of writing a letter to be a comfort and often found himself imagining a response from the recipient that answered his needs. He headed at once to write to her, seeking out a small parlor he had found rarely occupied. So intent was he in mentally preparing his opening addresses to Lady Catherine, that he failed to notice the room was occupied until he had already reached the table at the far end of the room.

  “Excuse me, my dear cousin,” he said, with a jerky bow. “I did not mean to trespass upon your privacy. I was only looking for a quiet place to write a letter.”

  “Pray, do not concern yourself on my account,” Miss Mary responded. “I should be with my sisters and aunt, but I fear they desire my absence. You are certainly welcome to join me to write your letter.”

  The lady was his cousin, and with the door open, his staying in the room was hardly improper. With another quick bow, Mr. Collins sat and prepared to write his letter. As he gathered quill and inkpot he glanced over at his cousin. She had a book open on her lap that he recognized as one of the volumes of Fordyce’s Sermons, but she did not appear to be reading it. Miss Mary appeared quite melancholy as she watched the fire, and he approved her appropriate response to the distress in the household.

  The youngest Miss Bennets showed a decided lack of decorum in their grief as their wailing carried across the house or else they spoke to each other of officers and balls as if nothing amiss had occurred. The eldest Miss Bennets were busy caring for their mother and running the household, which showed an admirable attention to duty, but they failed to display the appropriate emotion, he felt. Mr. Collins was certain that Lady Catherine would agree in this assessment and thought he might point out such failings in the daughters of the household to soften the blow of his not marrying one of them.

  His eyes were again drawn to Miss Mary. Like her eldest sister, Miss Mary comported herself in a most proper fashion. She had no illusions of superiority like her sister Elizabeth. She had not the beauty of her other sisters, but he found nothing wanting in her behavior. In fact, he found her serious attention most refreshing. The others were polite, but he did not detect the same intensity of attention from them that he had from Miss Mary.

  He frowned as he saw her blink away tears. While Mr. Bennet had declined the offer of spiritual counsel, it occurred to Mr. Collins that Miss Mary may benefit from his guidance.

  “Forgive me for intruding once again, Cousin Mary, but may I offer my most sincere condolences on the state of your poor mother. I can see how heavy your sorrow and worry weigh upon you and it does you credit as a dutiful and caring daughter.” He was shocked when Miss Mary gave a bitter laugh and shook her head.

  “You mistake me Mr. Collins. I fear I am the most unfeeling of daughters and I scarcely deserve your consideration.”

  “Come now, Cousin Mary, that can hardly be true. You do yourself a great injustice in saying so.”

  “But it is true, Mr. Collins,” Miss Mary responded as she wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. “My upset comes from finding myself such a poor daughter that I cannot appropriately grieve for my own mother. Lydia and Kitty are so distraught they can hardly contain their sobbing. Jane worries endlessly and tries to comfort us all, but I’ve heard her crying at night with Lizzy when they think no one will hear them. I am saddened by my mother’s condition, but I do not find myself overpowered by the emotion as my sisters seem to be.” Mary sat up straighter as she faced Mr. Collins.

  “I have tried to offer solace,” she continued, “By pointing out that this is all part of God’s plan for us, for He has reasons beyond our understanding for all that happens to us. Lydia and Kitty just glared at me before bursting into greater sobs. Jane and Lizzy thanked me, but appeared annoyed by my words. I offered only this morning that while we will naturally mourn her, we should also rejoice in the knowledge that Mamma will soon enter the Heavenly kingdom and be free from all pain and worry. I thought that Lydia would strike me, so harsh was her expression. I find that I can offer no words that do not add to their pain, and I must conclude that I do not grieve my mother’s coming death as much they do.”

  “Grief comes in many forms and stages. The shock of an unexpected event oftentimes delays the onset. Your attempts to aid your sisters, despite your own sorrow, is most admirable. That they cannot appreciate the solace your words should bring is no fault of your own. Remember that your mother still lives, so grief is not yet necessary.”

  Miss Mary shook her head again and stared at the rug at her feet, unable to meet his gaze. “We are called upon to honor our father and mother. I thought I had always done so, yet somehow, I have no tears for my mother. I cannot keep vigil with her long because I know even if she awoke she would not want to see me. She would want Jane, Lydia, or even Kitty. She may even want Lizzy’s presence more than mine, for Mamma has always had much to complain of in her behavior. I find my own tears are bitter ones because I have never been the daughter she has wanted and now I never will be. I pray for her recovery, but I do not expect it. Surely such doubt is an even greater sin than my failure as a daughter.”

  While Mr. Collins was well prepared to discuss the relative severity of a great number of sins, he uncharacteristically restrained himself. He sat in the chair next to her and handed her a dry handkerchief.

  “You have shown great restraint in your display of emotion, which is exactly as a young lady should. To have little expectation of recovery is not a doubt of God’s ability, but an acceptance of His plan.”

  Miss Mary closed her eyes, and Mr. Collins could not help but feel she did so as if it could hide her from his sight.

  “But what of my feelings? Should I not feel more for my mother than I would some common acquaintance who was similarly stricken? Surely you felt the loss of your own parents quite deeply, despite your acceptance of God’s will.”

  Mr. Collins sat back abruptly and Miss Mary looked up in horror. “Oh, please forgive me Mr. Collins. I should not have brought up your own family. Pray, forgive my abominable rudeness.”

  “No, no. You have nothing to apologize for. I was merely shocked as I had not thought on the deaths of my parents in some time.” He felt he should give her a sermon on filial respect or the wisdom of accepting God’s plan for one’s life, he had sermons enough on those subjects from which to draw. Or certainly Lady Catherine had imparted some guidance he could share if he but thought on the matter for a moment. The sparkle of tears swimming in his cousin’s eyes forced him to reconsider. He took a deep breath and continued.

  “I felt my mother’s death most keenly. She died in childbirth when I was a boy of seven. I thought my world had ended and did not know how I would continue without her.” He looked down at his lap. “I was quite angry with God for taking her, despite my father’s sermons on the glory of her new heavenly home. I demanded that he tell God to send her back to us. My father boxed my ears for such insolence and sent me to stay in a neighbor’s barn until I could hold a civil tongue.”

  Miss Mary dropped her head and nodded sadly, apparently accepting her failure as a daughter. Mr. Collins hesitated, as such a response was not his intent, then continued. “My father’s death was a different matter entirely.”

  She looked up with questions in her eyes. Mr. Collins squirmed in his seat as he weighed continuing. He greatly disliked discussing his family and was not certain why he had started. He would so much rather quote to her from Fordyce’s Sermons, or from the wisdom Lady Catherine had so graciously shared with him, but he found he could not. Her eyes asked for more, and he felt he had to provide her the information she sought.

  “My father was not a happy man.” Mr. Collins looked over his cousin’s shoulder and out the window, not able to hold her gaze if he were to continue. “I do not believe my father had any great desire to be a c
lergyman, but as an elderly uncle was willing to pay for his education in that area, he had little choice. He had hoped to receive an inheritance from his uncle as well, and was quite disappointed to be ignored upon that gentleman’s death. My father spent most of his life feeling ill-used by everyone around him.

  “My role, in my mother’s absence, became one of attempting reconciliation between my father and whomever he had most recently given offense. His patroness became fond of me as a child when I would try to flatter her out of her distemper with my father, and I believe she was more tolerant with him for my sake. When that great lady died, she saw fit to direct funds for my own education as a clergyman once I had reached a proper age.

  “My father, being once again denied any bequest, felt I had stolen recognition that he should have received, and it became a great point of contention between us for the rest of his life. I was finishing that education when I received word that my father had died.”

  Mr. Collins sat up straighter and looked upon his cousin as he continued. “You are correct that we must honor our father and mother and must do so through our actions. You have been a dutiful daughter as I was a dutiful son. To honor a father or mother is to acknowledge the debt of obedience one must necessarily owe, and to uphold the respectability of the family by behaving beyond reproach at all times. Respect for a parent is displayed through proper behavior, such as tempering any unseemly outbursts of emotion. Public displays of heightened feeling, such as your younger sisters have shown, do no credit to your parents or upbringing. Your moderate display of grief is actually a credit to you.” Mr. Collins took a deep breath and nodded to himself in satisfaction, much more comfortable now that he had returned to sermonizing.

  Miss Mary looked up at him, misery still etched across her face, clearly not believing his words regarding herself. Mr. Collins again shifted uncomfortably in his seat, brought back to the point he had originally attempted to make.

  “That is not to say,” he stammered, as he wiped his brow, “that the feelings beneath your behavior are inappropriate. What I, perhaps, should have said . . . um, rather . . .” he looked back out the window, his hands fluttering at his side as he tried to find words that would comfort.

  Flattery had never failed him before, at least to his own knowledge, but such statements had not the desired effect upon his cousin. Why he felt such an urge to offer true comfort instead of his usual banal remarks, he could not say.

  “What I, perhaps, should have said,” he repeated as he continued to look desperately out the window for inspiration, “Is that . . . is that . . .” He gave up. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and let his shoulders drop before continuing. “Is that I felt far less grief upon the death of my father than I had upon the death of my mother.”

  He ignored Miss Mary’s stifled gasp. Correcting his posture and opening his eyes, he continued. “Some of the difference, I am certain, was due to my age at the time of each event. A man grown and able to care for himself has not the same fears for the future that a child would have. A child’s natural lack of understanding no doubt deepened my feelings at my mother’s passing.” Mr. Collins turned back to the lady, but paused as he saw obvious relief shining in her eyes.

  “While my age certainly affected my reaction to each loss, it was not the only difference,” he allowed and looked at his feet. “My relationship with my mother was one of open affection and encouragement, perhaps to an unseemly degree, though I was not bothered by such proprieties at the time. Such was not the case with my father. He and I were ever at odds and I could do nothing that pleased him, save leaving home for my education.

  “Forgive me, Cousin Mary, for what I fear has been a most indelicate revelation about my own family. I only do so to offer the thought that a person may grieve for the loss of an individual long before that individual’s actual death, leaving little remaining to be felt once that final event occurs.”

  Mr. Collins continued to look at his feet, embarrassed beyond words by his admission and now desperate to escape the conversation in which he found himself entangled, when he became aware of a hand covering his own. He looked up to his cousin and she hastily drew back her hand and blushed.

  “Thank you, Mr. Collins,” she said, averting her eyes, “Please forgive such a forward display in the face of your kindness and consideration.” With a shaky breath, she looked up and continued, “You have given me much comfort today, and I sincerely thank you.”

  Mr. Collins was momentarily shaken by the depth of gratitude in her countenance and the shimmer of unspent tears she blinked away from her dark eyes. Catching himself staring, he quickly looked away and cleared his throat.

  “Yes, well, such duties are incumbent upon me as a clergyman, so please, say nothing of it.”

  “You may be assured of my discretion,” she replied hastily, and he realized he had not quite hidden the desperation he felt from his voice.

  “Of that I have no doubt,” he responded with a smile. “Now, if you will please excuse me, I have remembered something I must do,” he said with a hasty bow as he made his exit, fearful – for perhaps the first time in his life – of being called upon to offer any further words of advice or consolation.

  CHAPTER 5

  Mrs. Bennet died early Saturday morning.

  Jane held vigil that night, sitting with her mother and quietly retelling stories of the mischief she and the girls had gotten into as children. When her mother’s breathing became labored, Jane rushed to fetch her father, fearing the end was near.

  Mr. Bennet was at his wife’s bedside moments later. He and Jane stood, one on each side of her bed holding hands with her in a ring. Both had said their private farewells many times already. For the last day, they had all known her time grew short.

  Mrs. Bennet exhaled her final breath, and was gone. Jane wept silently as her father gently kissed her mother’s head, and then drew the coverlet over her.

  As Jane recounted the story, Elizabeth tried not to be angry that her sister had not awakened her at the time, instead waiting until after Elizabeth rose for the morning before coming to tell her.

  Being angry with Jane was a waste of time and emotion. Elizabeth could see the dark circles under her sister’s eyes and knew it had been a long and painful night that Jane had wished to spare her sisters from enduring.

  Elizabeth had planned to sit with Jane through the night, but kept falling asleep in her chair until Jane insisted she go to bed and get some decent rest. Elizabeth was exhausted enough not to put up a fight, and so had slept comfortably through her mother’s final hours.

  No, she could not be angry with Jane for trying to take care of everyone. Elizabeth knew it was her own weakness that had caused her to leave Jane alone when Jane most needed someone to be with her.

  Elizabeth dressed quickly and left the house. She had stayed indoors or close to the house since the accident so that she would be available if needed. There would be no such need now, she thought, as she ventured out along a well-trod path.

  She had been walking at least a quarter hour before she realized what a coward she was to have left Jane alone to deliver the news to her sisters.

  Their father should be the one to tell his daughters, but Elizabeth knew he would be tucked away in his library, avoiding everyone. As much as her father had mocked her mother for taking to her bed whenever difficulties arose, Elizabeth knew her father was just as likely to hide away in his library for the same reason. He did not set up a dramatic fuss, but the result was the same – whenever challenges arose, Jane and Elizabeth were left to handle the practicalities in their parents’ absence.

  Elizabeth kicked a stone down the path. Now she was doing the same thing to Jane. The outdoors was her library, her place of escape. She had left the difficult work for someone else to do.

  Elizabeth stopped and turned around. She was not her mother or her father and she would not shirk her responsibilities any longer. Her aunt would be able to assist with the girls and their inevitable cr
ying fits. Mary would likely retreat to play the pianoforte. Elizabeth sighed. They each of them had their own escapes.

  By the time Elizabeth returned to Longbourn, the family had arisen. Whether Lydia was the last to rise or had awoken the rest with her wailing, she could not guess, but the noise hit her long before she entered the house.

  Unfortunately, the first person Elizabeth encountered was Mr. Collins.

  “Cousin Elizabeth,” he bowed stiffly. “You have my most profound sympathies in this time of sorrow.” Before he could say more, Charlotte joined them.

  “Mr. Collins, just the man I wished to see. I wonder if you could help me. I am certain you would have some excellent suggestions for Reverend Smith regarding the funeral. I was hoping you could write down some of your thoughts. As a member of the clergy and of the family, I think your input would be most welcome.” As she spoke, Charlotte directed him towards a parlor and discretely gestured for Elizabeth to make her escape.

  Elizabeth knocked on the library door and quickly entered when she heard her father’s response.

  She closed her eyes as she leaned back against the door, attempting to collect herself.

  “From whom are you hiding?” he asked from his chair.

  “Mr. Collins mostly, though I do not believe myself strong enough to deal with Lydia’s tears at present either.”

  “Your Aunt Gardiner is attempting to calm Lydia and Kitty. The noise level has dropped dramatically from earlier. I believe your Aunt Phillips will arrive shortly, as word was sent to her this morning.”

  “I saw Charlotte is here already, in fact she sacrificed herself to save me from a prolonged encounter with Mr. Collins.”