Left alone in the room, Mary’s hands shook as she picked up the jar of apricots and placed it carefully back on the shelf. She did not think she had ever defied her mother so openly before. She sat down heavily. But she had achieved her object. She would see an oculist. She only hoped it would be soon.
Chapter 6
A week later, Mr. Sparrow, a large man in a snuff-coloured coat, presented himself at Longbourn. He brought with him a large portfolio containing a number of printed cards, a large, stiff leather case, and his son, John, a tall, silent boy of eighteen.
“I hope you won’t object to his presence, miss. He is learning the business, and I try to take him with me to see as much of it as he can at first hand.”
Mary looked uncertain. She had not imagined their proceedings would involve a spectator; however, young Mr. Sparrow looked polite and respectful, so she nodded a silent assent. Mrs. Hill ushered them into the chilly morning room, where no welcoming fire was lit in the grate, and stood against the wall to watch what happened next.
“If you please to sit in this chair, miss, as straight as you can, head upright and eyes ahead. Yes, that will do very well.”
He beckoned to his son, who brought the case to his father’s side and opened it with a slow, reverential gesture. Inside were row after row of spectacles, neatly labelled and in perfect order.
“Now, miss,” explained Mr. Sparrow, “each of these pairs contains a different lens. I shall ask you to put them on, one by one. John will give you a card to look at, and you will tell me what you see. Then I shall try another, and you will look again and say if the characters on the cards appear more or less clearly as a result. Thus, we will go on until we find the right spectacles for you.”
Mary’s apprehension grew as she felt the cold metal frame slide onto her nose, but Mr. Sparrow’s low, confident tones calmed her, and she began to feel a flicker of interest in his careful, practised methods. When she looked at the card through the first spectacles, she was so astonished to see how it distorted the letters, that surprise broke through her shyness and she cried out loud.
“Sir, I can’t make out anything at all! Just shapes and blurs! What does it mean?”
“It means it is not the answer we are looking for, although it points us towards where we need to go.”
He gave her another pair, and this time Mary thought the letters were a little clearer. Again and again they tried, with results that were sometimes a little better and sometimes a little worse. Despite herself, she grew so absorbed in the process that her self-consciousness melted away. She began to think of herself less as Mr. Sparrow’s patient and more as his ally, helping him as he tried to find the answer to her problem. At last, he placed a pair upon her nose that made her gasp in amazement. Suddenly every letter on the card appeared bright and sharp.
“Oh, Mr. Sparrow, I can see every character on the cards as clear as anything! Every letter, every number! I can see it all!”
“Ah, so that’s the one then,” Mr. Sparrow said with a laugh. “It is always pleasing to see so very definite a reaction. I think we may be confident that we have found the answer. This small object,” he said, leaning over and removing the lens from the frame, “when properly prepared, will, I am certain, make the most extraordinary difference to your life.”
“It really is the most remarkable thing, sir. Can you tell me how it works?”
“Perhaps I may ask John to explain to you? Then I can see how much of what I have been teaching him has taken firm root in his mind. John, if you please?”
The young man was shy and hesitant at first, but he knew his business, and gained steadily in confidence as he described the delicate curvature of the lens, its transforming impact upon an individual eye, and the care and precision with which it must be ground, if it was to correct defective sight.
“I am learning to do that myself and should be very pleased—honoured—to have a hand in making a lens for you.”
He caught her eye as he finished, then stared at his feet, as if he had said too much. His father patted his arm, proud of his boy.
“We shall do it together and make an excellent job of it. I venture to suggest, miss, that you will be extremely pleased with the result.”
Mary looked away, unused to finding herself the object of so much attention. It was, however, not unpleasing. It was impossible to be offended by these quiet, exacting men, their minds fixed so intently upon the challenges of their profession. As she handed back the little frame, she turned towards them and smiled. Mrs. Hill walked over to join them, and for a moment, they all stood together, happy with what they had achieved. Then Mary heard her mother’s footsteps in the hall, and her face fell.
“So, Mr. Sparrow,” cried Mrs. Bennet as she strode into the room, “what have you to tell me?”
The oculist attempted to explain his findings and his opinion of Mary’s sight; but Mrs. Bennet waved him away, impatient.
“That is all very well sir, but may we come to the point? Are you telling me that my daughter will have to wear spectacles?”
“Why, yes, ma’am, I believe so. I do not think she can with ease perform any close work without them. For all occupations where acute sight is needed, they will be essential.”
“But she need not wear them outside the house? They could be dispensed with in public, or in any place where people might see her?”
“That must be for the young lady herself to judge, but I am sure she would derive great benefit from being able to see properly in any situation, public or private.”
Mrs. Bennet frowned. “Thank you, Mr. Sparrow. You may write to Mr. Bennet, who will inform you of what we decide to do. Good morning to you.”
She gestured to Mrs. Hill to show the Sparrows out. Mary watched as they were ushered away, regretting she had not been able to thank them as they deserved. Once they had gone, her mother turned towards her, indignant.
“This is very disappointing news, Mary. It is not at all what I had hoped for.”
Mary said nothing. She had no wish to anger her mother further.
“We shall go and speak to your father about it directly. Let us hear what he has to say.”
They walked to the drawing room in silence. When they arrived, Mrs. Bennet threw open the door and Mary was sorry to see that the whole family were gathered there. She had hoped to avoid the embarrassment of hearing her situation discussed in front of everyone; but that was evidently impossible. With a loud sigh, Mrs. Bennet sat down. Jane and Lizzy looked up from their reading; Kitty and Lydia turned away from the gloves they were examining. Only their father did not respond, determinedly studying his newspaper. Finally, Mrs. Bennet could remain silent no longer.
“Mr. Bennet, I have something to tell you. I’m afraid it’s very provoking news. Would you like to know what it is?”
Mr. Bennet lowered his paper and looked over it evenly at his wife.
“Whatever my wishes in the matter, I am sure you intend to tell me.”
“Mary needs spectacles. The oculist says she cannot see without them. There, Mr. Bennet!”
She looked about her with the consciousness of having delivered a very significant and troubling piece of information. It was Elizabeth who spoke first.
“Surely, Mama, it is good to know what can be done to help Mary. If she needs spectacles, ought she not to have them? It must be very hard for her to struggle on without them if she cannot see as well as she should.”
Mrs. Bennet uttered a stricken little cry.
“Really, Lizzy, what can you mean? It is a dreadful misfortune for her! Spectacles are for doddering old men, not for young girls of eighteen! I refuse to believe that she really needs them. No-one in my family has ever been so afflicted before. We Gardiners all have perfect sight.”
“But, Mama,” continued Elizabeth, “you do so little close work and read so rarely that you may not know whether you need them or not.”
“How can you say such a thing! No-one enjoys a book more than I do
. ‘Read so rarely,’ indeed!”
“You are forgetting, my dear, that I myself wear glasses,” added Mr. Bennet. “I should not like to think of myself as an old man, doddering or otherwise, but I admit I should be quite incapable of study without them.”
“You are teasing me, Mr. Bennet, but you know the truth of what I say. A man may wear spectacles, I suppose, even a young man, especially if he is a lawyer or a clergyman or suchlike, and no-one will speak ill of him. For a young woman it is quite a different thing. What do you think people will say when they see Mary in them? Who will want to marry her then?”
Mr. Bennet looked thoughtful. “Perhaps one of those very men you have just described will offer for her, a wearer of spectacles himself, boldly indifferent to the scorn of all the neighbourhood. Indeed, it may be the very thing that brings them together.”
“You are pleased to make a joke of it, but it is no laughing matter. The oculist says she needs spectacles to read, but why, I might ask, does she need to read so many books?”
At this, Elizabeth tried to interrupt, but her father held up his hand.
“If Mary is not to read, what other occupations are open to her? She has no taste for drawing, and, as you have so often informed me, her sewing is a great disappointment to you. I am no expert, but it seems to me that her skills with a needle are unlikely to improve if she cannot see to thread it. I suppose she might help dig the garden when the winter cabbages come in.”
Back and forth the conversation went, over Mary’s silent head. No-one expected her to say anything. Instead, she allowed herself to concentrate on Elizabeth’s kind words. It had been a long time since she had heard Lizzy speak about her with such concern. She knew better, however, than to expect any sympathy from her youngest sister.
“I think I should rather be blind than put such ugly things onto my face,” exclaimed Lydia. “Giving up books would be a small price to pay to avoid that dreadful fate. What is there to be learnt from reading anyway?”
Mr. Bennet looked at Lydia with an expression of steady disapproval.
“It is remarks of that sort which have won you the reputation of being one of the vainest, and, I might add, one of the most foolish and empty-headed girls in the neighbourhood.”
“As long as I am not also one of the ugliest, I really do not care, Papa.”
Mrs. Hill arrived bearing a fresh pot of coffee, just in time to hear Lydia’s disobliging remark. When Lydia saw her, she held up her cup hopefully; but Mrs. Hill seemed not to notice and carried the pot as far away from her as possible, at the far end of the table, where she offered it to Mr. Bennet.
“Thank you, Lydia,” he declared, as Mrs. Hill filled his cup. “Nothing could have made clearer for me the right choice in this matter. I will not stand in the way of any member of this family who seeks to diminish the amount of stupidity in this house. Mary, if you wish to read, you shall have the wherewithal to do so. You shall have your spectacles.”
Mrs. Bennet looked as though she was about to argue, but her husband had heard enough.
“No, my dear, there’s an end to it. I will not be plagued on the subject any longer. I shall be in the library until dinner time, and I do not expect to be disturbed.”
Mary sat for a moment, trying not to let her relief and satisfaction show. She could not remember when she had felt more pleased. Her mother would not look at her as she stood up, but Mary did not mind it. There was almost a spring in her step as she walked out of the drawing room.
It was some weeks before Mr. Sparrow wrote to say that the spectacles were ready and that he would be pleased to wait upon Mrs. Bennet at her convenience. Mary’s mother, who considered she had done all in her power to prevent this great embarrassment, declined to be present and again sent Mrs. Hill in her stead, with instructions to ensure no sharp practice was attempted at the final moment. Once the little group was reassembled, and Mary was seated, straight-backed in her chair, Mr. Sparrow directed his son to open the leather bag he carried. The young man pulled from within a pair of spectacles, wrapped in a soft cloth, which he presented to Mary with a dignified flourish. Mary put them on, picked up a book from the table, opened it, and exclaimed with pleasure as the print leapt into sharp focus.
“Look, Mrs. Hill! I can read perfectly now!”
Mrs. Hill crossed her arms over her chest and stared at her assessingly.
“I’m very glad of it, but I’m not sure what your mother will say.”
In an instant, Mary’s pleasure vanished. She took off the spectacles and placed them in her lap. She had forgotten for a moment the price she must pay for her crisp, fresh vision of the world. Lydia’s scorn rang in her ears. She might see things more clearly now, but she would appear even plainer as a result.
“Oh, no, please don’t do that, miss.” She was astonished to see John Sparrow cross the room and take the spectacles from her. “Don’t allow yourself to be cast down. It’s a wonderful thing to see properly, not to have to peer about and screw up one’s face.” He polished the lenses with the little cloth, intent on his task. “And really, you look very well in them. When you smile … you look very well.” He handed them back to her with a small bob of his head before hurrying back to stand alongside his father again.
“John is quite right,” agreed Mr. Sparrow, “on both points. And once you have worn them often enough, neither you nor anyone else will take any notice of them. Of that you can be quite sure.”
Mary doubted her mother would agree, but she could not bring herself to contradict this kindly, well-meaning man.
“Thank you, Mr. Sparrow. I am sure you are right. I think they will suit me excellently, and I shall take the greatest pleasure in wearing them.”
She took the spectacles in her hand and went out into the hall. As she closed the door, it seemed as though John Sparrow’s gaze followed her across the room; but when she thought about it, she knew she must be mistaken. She stood for a moment, listening to Mrs. Hill discussing how and when the Sparrows should be paid. Then she collected her thoughts and walked quickly away. She should go and try out her spectacles on the last volume of Mrs. Macaulay.
Chapter 7
A public ball was held at the Meryton assembly rooms several times a year. Anyone with any pretensions to taste affected to despise these unpretentious entertainments—the rooms were too small, the music too loud, the refreshments scarcely to be borne—but there was never any question of not attending. The first ball of the season was anticipated with the greatest excitement, the more so because, although it always took place in the autumn, the exact date of the event was rarely decided upon until almost the very last moment. As the leaves fell from the trees and the evenings grew darker, expectation mounted, especially amongst the younger people who longed for an opportunity for dancing; but for many weeks, no definite information could be obtained of when it might be held. Inevitably, it was Lydia, on one of her dallying, gossiping trips to the village, who was the first to hear incontrovertible evidence of the day at last being fixed, which she bore back to Longbourn in triumph. Tearing into the hall, with Kitty hurrying in her wake, she ran straight to Mrs. Bennet, eager to impart her good news.
“The ball is to be held on the first Saturday of next month! I had it from Mr. Thompson himself. I was passing the rooms and there he was, so I asked him, and he told me he had just this minute contracted the musicians, so I am the very first to know.”
She perched on a chair, still wearing her hat, desperate to impart all she had discovered.
“The supper is ordered, the rooms are to be swept, and the floor newly sanded to save the dancers’ feet. The notice is to go into the paper tomorrow.”
Mrs. Bennet, almost as excited as her daughter, clapped her hands.
“Well done, Lydia, how clever of you to have found that out. Did you hear that, Mr. Bennet? The Meryton ball is settled for three weeks this Saturday.”
“Is it indeed? As I shall not be attending myself, my joy cannot be as unconfined as
your own. But I am no enemy to harmless pleasure. Shall you go, Lizzy?”
“I may do,” replied Elizabeth, “if Jane will come with me. I am not yet sure.”
Lydia looked at her with frank astonishment. “Not yet sure?” Lizzy, how can you be so annoying? I’m sure I should die if I wasn’t there. I should do away with myself from mere frustration.”
“You must endeavour to compose yourself, then,” said Mr. Bennet calmly, “for I have not yet decided if you are to go. Jane and Lizzy may attend, they have been before, and I have no fears for their good behaviour. Mary too may go if she wishes—she is old enough and steady enough to be trusted. But you and Kitty are another matter.”
Mary, who sat in the corner with her book on her knees, had never expected her name to be mentioned in the context of a ball. She could not quite believe that her father had praised her—faint praise, it was true, but she felt herself warm with pride.
Meanwhile, Kitty and Lydia set up a great wail of protest.
“You can’t mean that, Papa,” cried Lydia. “You wouldn’t really prevent me from going?”
“Really, Mr. Bennet,” declared his wife, “I am sure neither Lydia nor Kitty would do anything to make us ashamed.”
“I wish I shared your confidence,” he replied. “Neither could possibly be described as discreet or modest. And Lydia is especially headstrong.”
Lydia stood up, tears springing into her eyes. “Papa, you are very unkind. You must let me go! You must!”
Mary usually knew better than to tangle with her youngest sister when she had been denied something she wanted, but, emboldened by her father’s approving remark, she ventured to speak in his support.
“A young woman’s first venture into society cannot be attended with too much care. There are many snares and temptations to overwhelm her, if she has not the judgement or experience to resist them.”
The Other Bennet Sister Page 4
